His sad duty done, Moon got into the saddle. On the way home, he told himself that there was at least one thing to be grateful for—this sad business was finally finished.
THE WINDS returned to the barren hilltop. They came to groan and sigh in the stunted trees, to hum mournful hymns in the sage, to conjure up twisting little swirls of sand. The elfin dust devils danced over the fresh grave.
Chapter Forty-Five
THE INVITATION
PETE BUSHMAN LEANED AGAINST A POST ON THE HEADQUARTERS porch, watched the approach of the Indian. The foreman noted the Remington rifle balanced on the saddle. So the boss decided to do the shooting after all. He waited for Charlie Moon to tell him about it.
The Ute nodded at his employee.
“I heard a shot. You nail that big cat?”
The rancher got off the horse, patted the amiable beast on the neck. “Not this time.”
Bushman grinned under his beard. “Ol’ Two-Toes give you the slip, eh?”
“Well, you know what they say.”
The foreman chewed contentedly on a wad of Beechwood Tobacco. “No, I don’t. What do they say?”
“Tomorrow’s another day.”
“Oh, yeah. That one.” I’ll ask him, but he’ll say no. Just like he has ever since he got silly in the head. “Dolly, she wants you to come over to our place tonight. For some supper.”
Moon looked to the north. Wisps of gray mist drifted across Pine Knob. It was time to turn a new corner. “Don’t mind if I do.”
THE MEAL
UNABLE TO conceal her satisfaction, Dolly Bushman beamed as Charlie Moon enjoyed a man-sized meal. Roast beef. Boiled potatoes. Pinto beans. Sourdough bread. Strawberry jam cake.
His supper finished, the rancher thanked the cook, returned to the Columbine headquarters.
THE CUT-IN
A MINUTE before midnight, Charlie Moon climbed the stairs, got into bed, pulled the covers to his chin. He turned off the light, waited for Sidewinder’s good night.
The old hound bayed once, twice. Three times.
Eager to trade all of the day’s troubles for a taste of sweet oblivion, the weary man descended into the deepest of bottomless sleeps.
IT WAS not possible to turn back, or even to slow his movement. Propelled along a winding path through a vast gray expanse of thirsty mesquite and wilted rabbit grass, the dreamer was pulled toward the distant timbre of discordant music. Presently, the trail ended at a destination. He found himself standing before a run-down clapboard building that had never felt the refreshing touch of paint. A thin, sallow-faced man in faded overalls was seated on the sagging front porch. He kept an eye on the visitor. An old dog lay with his muzzle touching the door. Moon approached; the gaunt man raised a hand, shook his head. Denied entry, the dreamer moved to the side of the structure. He wiped away the grime on a window patterned with spiderweb cracks. Peered through. The dance hall was illuminated by the wan flicker of a single back taper.
He knew the redhaired woman would be there.
She was, and was again. One of her was seated at a rickety piano, daintily fingering random keys. Her second self was on the dirty dance floor—swinging, swaying, laughing with a wild delight known only to the demented.
Charlie Moon knew for certain that he would never feel the terrible embrace of the dancer again. This knowledge should have brought blessed relief. But what he saw inside the twilight interior made him shudder so hard that his bones rattled.
The man from the porch appeared by his side, offered a strong hand to steady the pilgrim.
For a silent interlude, they watched together. When it pleased him to do so, the guardian of the decrepit dance hall spoke. The voice rumbled up from that deep pit where the dropped stone never hits bottom. “Ask me your questions.”
The dreamer heard himself respond. “Which of them is Wilma?”
“Neither. She has never been here—and never shall she be.”
“Then who are these women?”
“There are no women here.”
“When will this end?”
“At first light.”
The dreamer was not comforted by these words. “When will that be?”
There was no answer to this final question.
Finding himself alone at the window, Moon returned to the porch. The man was seated in a straight-backed chair, hands folded in his lap. The guardian ignored the dreamer. The scrawny dog had not moved from its position near the door.
There was something disturbingly familiar about the animal. Moon approached for a closer look. The hound turned its head. Under the left ear, a small, round hole. Worming a crooked path down the animal’s neck from the bullet wound, a long black track of congealed blood.
The creature took a long, hopeful look at Charlie Moon.
Inside the clapboard shack, the piano clinks madly.
Rotting boards creak.
Insane laughter shrieks.
The dancing woman clutches the new arrival ever so tightly.
She will hold onto him for tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. Until…
THE CALL
CHARLIE MOON sat straight up in his bed. After a moment’s reflection he got to his feet, pulled a blanket around his shoulders. The Ute paced back and forth in the near darkness, thought long and hard about it. Finally, at the striking of the clock, he stopped in midstride. There was but one thing to do—and it must be done right now. He switched on a table lamp, picked up the telephone, dialed a number he knew by heart from his years of service with the SUPD. The distant machine warbled six times before he heard the sleepy voice in his ear.
“St. Ignatius.” If this is a crank call, may God smite you.
“Father Raes?”
“No, this is my butler.” A pause. “Charlie—is that you?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh dear God—is it your aunt Daisy? Has she—”
“No, she’s okay.” Far as I know. “Sorry to wake you up.”
“I accept your perfunctory apology with remarkable grace.” The Jesuit priest yawned into the telephone. “Now what’s this about?”
“Official business.”
“Yours or mine?”
“Uh…yours. Mostly.”
“I am listening.”
The Ute hesitated. “I need you to…ahh…hear my confession.” There. I said it.
Dead silence.
“Father Raes, you there?”
“Charlie Moon, you have not come to confession since you were fourteen years old. If this middle-of-the-night call is your idea of a joke—”
“It’s no joke. I need your help.”
“Help with what?”
“Can’t discuss it over the phone.”
“Will you at least reveal the nature of the problem? If you’re in some kind of trouble, tell me where you are and I’ll leave immediately—”
“No, I’ll come to you.” Moon selected his words with care. “It’s someone else who needs your help—I’m kinda standing in for him.”
“Is this other party in danger of imminent death?”
“No.” He’s well past that.
“So. No one is dying.” There was a brief silence while the priest weighed the possibilities. “May I safely presume that this is a bona fide spiritual emergency?”
“Oh, yeah—that’s what it is, all right.”
“Charlie, may I inquire as to why this enigmatic telephone call could not have been put off until tomorrow morning?”
Moon consulted his bedside clock. “Well, technically, it’s tomorrow morning right now.”
God give me strength. There was a creaking of bed springs. “I’ll put on a pot of coffee.” Another yawn. “When shall I expect you?”
“I’ll be there when the sun comes up.”
“Very well then,” the Jesuit priest said. “I’ll expect you at first light.”
“Right.” That should do just fine.
CHARLIE MOON sat on the edge of his bed, stared through the bedroom window a
t the vast sprinkling of white-hot lights. He had read somewhere that there were countless swirling galaxies, and more stars than there are grains of sand upon the earth. Moreover, Father Raes had once shared a sweet mystery with an inquisitive youth—these sparkling gems were strewn across the cold, black void of Middle World by a Creator whose love and extravagance knows no bounds. And despite all the pain and darkness that had haunted his life, and all of the deep mysteries that were beyond understanding, Charlie Moon had always wanted to believe the priest’s comforting words.
Chapter Forty-Six
THE DOOR
TROUBLED BY THE UTE’S PECULIAR TELEPHONE CALL, FATHER RAES Delfino pulled on his wool overcoat, left the rectory, walked across a parking lot to the church. He unlocked the front entrance to St. Ignatius, pulled the heavy door shut behind him, thumbed the latch. Inside was much like outside. Still. Cold. Dark. He flicked a light switch. Nothing. Oh, balderdash! That freaky furnace motor must’ve tripped the main breaker again. I’ll have to light a candle. He fumbled in his pockets, could not find the small box of matches. Wonderful.
He waited until his eyes had adjusted to the rosy glow of moonlight filtering in through stained-glass windows, then approached the altar. The lonely man kneeled, crossed himself. He prayed for Charlie Moon. For Charlie’s anonymous friend. But even as he spoke to God, the priest’s mind was engaged by the nagging problem with the furnace. Who could he call to make the necessary repairs, and with what would he pay them? Remembering why he had come to the altar, the priest refocused his attention on his proper business. Charlie will be here with the sun. And I must be ready to offer what aid and comfort I can. But the Jesuit priest—trained as an anthropologist—knew well that he was no pastor. He was a scholar, a former professor who found it tedious to minister to these few marginal Christians who slipped in for Mass on Sunday mornings, then went about their worldly ways until the Sabbath came round again. There were notable exceptions, of course. But most came to the Lord’s table not for strength and renewal, but for comfort and pardon. And not a few behaved as if God had given Moses the Ten Suggestions. While he tasted these sour thoughts, a familiar voice whispered in his left ear: These simple people are hardly worth the bother. You should do something more important with your life.
The priest responded promptly. Begone, Satan—depart from me!
Having dismissed the Father of Lies, the man of God struggled to put away his dismal thoughts. And he did. Except for one. The crusty academic had long harbored a suspicion that the bishop had sent him to this Godforsaken outpost as punishment for some unrepented transgression. Most probably, he mused, the sin of pride. Father Raes was not a great admirer of the bishop who ruled from Pueblo, and at the moment he was not altogether happy with his Creator. He spoke aloud: “Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, I speak to you every day, every night—even in my sleep I call out to you. When will you answer me?”
Having more than a mustard seed of faith, the supplicant waited, half expecting the explicit response his earnest prayer deserved. He heard only the whisper of wind in the eaves.
But a sweet stillness came over him.
All thought ceased.
Time passed, unnoticed and unmeasured.
THE BLISSFUL experience was abruptly interrupted by the sound of a light tapping. Barely noticing the intrusion, Father Raes thought it must be the product of his imagination. He did not bother to open his eyes.
But there it was again—knuckles rapping on the door.
Annoyed, the priest pushed himself erect, marched down the aisle toward the front entrance, reached to open the door—hesitated. Something was wrong about this. It was far too early for Charlie Moon’s arrival; the sun was still well below the twin crests of the Piedra Peaks. And there was no light inside the sanctuary, not even a candle flame. How could anyone know I’m here? The answer was all too obvious. This person has been watching the church since I came inside. Which certainly qualified as suspicious behavior.
Father Raes was not a timid man, but neither was he reckless. Only last month, the aged pastor of the First Methodist Church had been brutally assaulted by a crazed drug addict who broke into his study—and that despicable crime was committed in the middle of the day! It’s a lucky thing I locked the door behind me. He thought of summoning help, but there was no telephone in the church. He held his breath, then: “You out there—what do you want?”
There was a mumbled reply. Something about being cold…hungry.
It’s a ruse—to get me to open the door. “I’m sorry—this is not a convenient time. Later on today, come to the rectory.”
Thump—thump—thump. Louder this time—urgent.
Father Raes retreated to the altar, selected a massive bronze candlestick. Heartened by the heft of this formidable weapon, he called out in a tone meant to intimidate, “Who are you?”
Now the response was crisp and clear, the words perfectly distinct.
Moreover, he recognized the voice.
The priest’s vision blurred, the cord was cut. At once, he was both here and there. Here, his knees buckled. There, an irresistible twist of vertigo pulled him in into a whirlpool of spiraling emptiness. Here, he fell sprawling before the altar, arms outstretched. There, he floated in absolute nothingness. Here, the heavy candlestick slipped from his grasp, rolled across the oak floor. There, the loosed soul said to itself, I have died.
But he was not dead. Quite the opposite.
Indeed, shortly after the sun rose, Father Raes had recovered sufficiently to hear Charlie Moon’s tale, and his confession. On his knees, the priest prayed for the souls of Billy Smoke, Wilma Brewster, Allan Pearson. He also interceded with God on behalf of Henry Buford’s tortured soul. When his earnest prayer was completed, the priest knew with absolute certainty that his supplication had been heard and acted upon. The gates of Hell had not prevailed. The dance hall had been shut down for all eternity.
This was a most remarkable event in the life of the parish priest. But as men grow old, the light of the mind dims. As the autumn years slipped by, his memory of the intercession would gradually fade.
But long after the Jesuit’s dark hair had paled to snowy white, he would perfectly recall that singular encounter with the unexpected visitor who had stood at the door—and knocked. At the moment he gave up his final breath, the priest would whisper, repeating his fearful challenge…Who are you?
I am the light of the world.
Also by James D. Doss
The Shaman Sings
The Shaman Laughs
The Shaman’s Bones
The Shaman’s Game
The Night Visitor
Grandmother Spider
White Shell Woman
Acknowledgments
The author is very grateful to James A. Baran for his helpful suggestions.
DEAD SOUL. Copyright © 2003 by James D. Doss. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Doss, James D.
Dead soul / James D. Doss.
p. cm.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-0380-6
1. Moon, Charlie (Fictitious character : Doss)—Fiction. 2. Police—Colorado—Fiction. 3. Missing persons—Fiction. 4. Legislators—Fiction. 5. Ute Indians—Fiction. 6. Colorado—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3554.O75D43 2003
813'.54—dc21
2003050624
Read on for a preview of the next installment
of the must-have Charlie Moon series
COFFIN MAN
On Sale November 2011 from Minotaur Books
Also by James D. Doss
A Dead Man’s Tale
The Widow’s Revenge
Snake Dreams
Th
ree Sisters
Stone Butterfly
Shadow Man
The Witch’s Tongue
Dead Soul
White Shell Woman
Grandmother Spider
The Night Visitor
The Shaman’s Game
The Shaman’s Bones
The Shaman Laughs
The Shaman Sings
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
COFFIN MAN. Copyright © 2011 by James D. Doss. All rights reserved. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
ISBN: 978-0-3126-1370-9
For the following nice folks in Taos County, New Mexico
Art and Susan Bachrach
Dennis and Winnie Concha
Judy Morita
John and Jeannie Norris
Rick Smith
and
Tyrone and Jennifer Tsoodle
Prologue
A Crusty Old Lady
By the gradual falling away of an increasingly frail competition, Daisy Perika has become the Southern Ute tribe’s oldest member. It might reasonably be supposed that the current holder of this title has become feeble in mind and body, but that would be an unwarranted assumption—and a risky one.
As folks used to say in bygone days, Miss Daisy is set in her ways. And very firmly so. Like senior citizens the world over, the tribal elder is intent on doing things as she sees fit, particularly when in her own home—which modest domicile is located on the sparsely populated eastern edge of the reservation, and not so far north of Colorado’s wilderness border with New Mexico. A universal proverb is: “Hard country makes hard people.” Another, more parochial maxim whispered by those locals in the know is: “Don’t Ever Cross Daisy Perika.” Good advice.
Dead Soul Page 33
