Dead Soul (10 page)

Chapter Thirteen

THE BOXCAR

CHARLIE MOON
’
S PICKUP SLIPPED ALONG THE UNDULATING EBB AND
flow of the earth’s rippling crust. Underneath the F-150 tires, the road ribboned over a high, shortgrass prairie that soaked up ten inches of rain in a good year. For as far as the eye could see, the arid land was dominated by native buffalo grass, with only occasional growths of western wheatgrass and side-oats grama. To the east, fingerlike ridges reached out to pull at the skirts of the blue mountains. The Misery Range stood protectively between the senator’s remote estate and the Columbine, a broad-shouldered picket line separating the rich man’s limbo from the Ute’s paradise. This was the way Moon saw it.

His thoughts were interrupted by a roaring sound. He had just noticed a puff of dust in the rearview mirror when a cherry-red motorcycle roared by the F-150, the right handlebar almost nicking the pickup fender. “Damn!” The former SUPD officer barely had time to notice that the rider with the straw-colored hair was not wearing a helmet.

A light breeze wafted the dust away; it was as if the motorcyclist had never been.

As the road dipped through a shallow valley, Moon saw a rambling log house in a cluster of cottonwoods. There were tire tracks in the driveway, but no vehicle. He pulled to a stop, checked the odometer. He had driven almost four miles from the gatehouse, so this clearly was not the senator’s home. More likely, it was a house used by one of his employees. A floppy-eared bluetick hound appeared from under the porch, shook off some dust, croaked a single bark.

The Ute smiled at the dog, pulled away.

The ranch lane curled around isolated clumps of juniper, took him up a long, steep grade.

Can’t be far now
.

Finally, the F-150 topped the ridge. And there it was, in all its glory.

Barely aware of what he was doing, Moon pulled the pickup to a halt. He got out, completely absorbed by the panorama of a darkly lush emerald valley. It was like a magic lantern’s projection cast on a sandy screen of barren land. Island groves of aspen and spruce floated in an undulating sea of wind-rippled grass. In the foreground, an anachronistic windmill turned, topping off a five-acre pond that would surely be stocked with flashing rainbow trout. Emerging from a dark cleft in the mountains, a long necklace of snow melt made a plunging loop into the bosom of the estate, liquid facets reflecting golden sunlight. Set as a gaudy jewel on this glistening chain was the wealthy man’s home. Like the verdant valley, the sprawling structure seemed to have been transplanted from someplace far away. Someplace where farmers got sixty inches of rain in a drought year.

But Moon reminded himself that there was no magic here. The senator’s oasis was fertilized with wagonloads of greenbacks—and precious water, sucked from far beneath the dry hills.

AS CHARLIE
Moon approached the BoxCar headquarters, details of the magnificent structure gradually came into focus. The politician’s two-story palace was constructed of blood-red Wyoming sandstone, crowned with a pitched roof of burnt orange Spanish tile. Counting the windows, he estimated that the place must have at least thirty rooms. A long, open porch swept around the west end of mansion and across the south, ending at the entrance to a massive garage that interrupted the first floor.

The candy-apple red motorcycle was leaning against a whitewashed hitching post.

THE STRAW BOSS

A PAIR
of expectant eyes watched from between parted curtains.
He’s here!

MOON MOUNTED
the porch, stood before a massive door. Hewn of a single slab of pine, it was varnished a pale yellow tint. Centered on the door was a polished iron horseshoe mounted on a brass rod. He reached for the knocker.

“Hey—you.”

Moon turned.

The broad-shouldered man standing in the yard was tall, a good six-four. The chin was square, the jaw set, booted feet firmly planted on the watered grass. The eyes were shaded under the brim of a felt hat, but Moon could feel the hard stare.

The Ute descended the porch steps.

“Who’re you?”

“Name’s Moon.”

In a movement almost too casual to be noticed, the man’s right hand brushed against his unbuttoned denim jacket, parting it just enough to expose a black canvas holster on his hip. It was home to an ebony-handled automatic.

The tribal investigator pegged it as a 9mm Glock. Not your typical cowboy’s choice for a sidearm.

The mouth under the hat brim spoke again. “What’s your business on the BoxCar?”

“I’m here to see the senator.”

“You expected?”

“I expect so.”

There was a look of disbelief, then a mutter. “Nobody told me about you.” The unseen eyes glowered. “You got some ID?”

The Ute reached under his jacket to a shirt pocket. He flipped open a small wallet, displayed his Southern Ute picture identity card. The gold-plated shield flashed sunlight in the man’s eyes.

Broad Shoulders leaned to scowl at the color photograph on the plastic card, glanced at the Ute’s face for a comparison. “Indian cop, huh.” He looked suspiciously at Moon’s suit coat. “You packin’?”

The Ute pulled his jacket back.

The shaded eyes did a quick search. “I’ll have to make a call.” He pulled a cell phone from his jacket pocket, punched callused fingers at the small buttons. He watched the suspect visitor until someone answered. “This is Henry. I got a Mr. Moon here at the big house. He on today’s visitor list?” A pause. “Uh-huh. Well, somebody shoulda told me.” He pointed the instrument at the guest. “Looks like you’re okay.”

Hard-bitten cowboys tended to be direct to the point of rudeness and Moon was not easily offended. But this was a little less than one expected of western hospitality. He returned the ID wallet to his shirt pocket, then leaned sideways to peer behind the man.

“What’re you lookin’ for?”

“Thought maybe you was pulling the Welcome Wagon.”

The hard mouth relaxed into a grin. “Didn’t mean to seem unfriendly. But it’s my job to look after things around here. Since the boss got assaulted—well, I guess I’m more’n a little touchy about strangers.” He pushed the hat back on his head.

Now Moon could see all of the man’s leathery face. The hard eyes were narrowed by years of squinting into the sun. The Ute stared at the slits.

Realization dawned on the man’s face. “Wait a damn minute—you that Indian fella who owns the Columbine?”

“Same one.”

“Well I’m extra sorry for the cool reception. Before the boss got all busted up, I didn’t behave like this. Now, every stranger looks like an outlaw.” He stuck out his hand.

The Ute accepted it. Like the rest of the man, it was hard and knobby.

“No harm done, Mr. Buford.”

“Sounds like you already know who I am.” He gave the Ute’s hand another hearty shake. “But call me Henry.”

“Okay, Henry.”

“Tell you what—on your way out, you stop off at my place. If you’re hungry, I’ll heat up some stew. If you’re thirsty, we’ll toss down a drink.”

“Your place must be the one under the cottonwoods. With the bluetick hound.”

Buford grinned. “That’s where I rest my bones.”

“Thanks for the invite.” Moon nodded toward the senator’s massive, blood-red house. “Anybody at home here?”

“Only way to find out is bang on the door.” Henry Buford turned on his heel and marched away in the rhythmic, purposeful stride of a man who knew where he was going, and why—and how to get the job done when he got there.

The Ute watched him go.
Former Marine, maybe. Or Infantry.

THE NEPHEW

BEFORE CHARLIE
Moon could rap the horseshoe against the varnished pine slab, the door opened. A face appeared.

It belonged to the straw-haired motorcyclist, who was lean and lanky. Dressed in dirty khaki shorts, a dirtier white linen shirt, and oxblood leather sandals, the young man smelled like he hadn’t bathed in a month. The sandals and short pants were right for the mild weather. But the motorcycle daredevil wore long sleeves. And, though he had been inside the house for several minutes—dark glasses. The tribal investigator imagined enlarged pupils under the opaque lenses. Needle tracks hidden under the linen sleeves.

The man spoke in a thin voice that managed to be condescending without sounding unfriendly. “You must be Mr. Charles Moon.”

“That’s me.”

“I am Allan Pearson.”

“The senator’s nephew. And the guy on the red Suzuki who passed me a couple of miles back.”
Like a bat outta hell
.

“You are both well informed and observant.” A mocking smile. “But then I suppose that is to be expected—considering your profession.”

“I’m a stockman.”

“I am quite aware that you raise Hereford cattle. I also know that you are a Native American—”

“Southern Ute.”

“—who, in a former life, was a tribal police officer. You are currently licensed as a private investigator.”

“You are also pretty well informed.”

“I know everything that goes on for miles around.” This did not have the tone of an idle boast. Alan Pearson stepped aside and made a slightly exaggerated gesture with the sweep of a pale hand. “Do come in.”

The Ute followed the senator’s nephew across a sunlit parlor covered with ankle-deep carpet, then down a red-tiled hallway.

The guide spoke over his shoulder. “My celebrated uncle is with Miss James, his personal assistant. They are in the secure meeting room, on the telephone with villains of such exalted rank that one fairly shudders—who can even imagine what evil deeds are being planned?” Allan Pearson’s sandals flopped comically as he padded along the ceramic tiles. “I dare say my uncle does not give a diddledy-damn whether you live or die, but Miss James asked me to express his deepest regrets that he is unable to greet you personally. And so there you have it.”

Moon smiled at the back of the young man’s head.

Pearson turned a corner, passed by an acrylic painting of a massive Hereford bull. The work of art was illuminated by a fluorescent lamp.

The Ute rancher stopped to admire the image of the magnificent beast.
Man alive. What I could do for my herd with an animal like this
.

Pearson paused, beamed an amused smile at the Indian. “You are, I take it, an ardent admirer of highly inbred bovines?”

Having barely heard the remark, Moon nodded dumbly at the Hereford facsimile.
Wonder what something like that would set me back
.

“Personally, I detest the very thought of putting the slaughtered flesh of innocent animals inside my body.”

The rancher, mesmerized by the bull’s image, nodded amiably.

His agitated host was rocking heel to toe. “When you have had your fill of this sad little piece of poster art, please come with me.”

Moon tore himself away from the painting, followed Allan Pearson into a large room. After the dimly lighted hallway, it was like walking into a greenhouse under the noonday sun.

“This is the senator’s library.”

Charlie Moon looked around. Did not see any books.

Allan smiled at the guest, exposing a pearly set of teeth. “Would you like a cup of tea? I’d be glad to brew up some of my special blend.”

I bet you would
. “Thanks, but no.”

“Coffee, then?”

Moon thought about it. “Wouldn’t want to trouble you.”

Pearson’s fingers played with a copper bracelet on his left wrist. “I assume you would not mind informing me as to the purpose of your visit.” The young man offered a mocking smile. “Unless you are here on highly confidential business.”

So. Your uncle didn’t tell you
. “Tribal chairman has asked me to look into the Billy Smoke homicide.”

“Really?” The eyes went flat. Allan Pearson turned to look out the east-facing window. “The Southern Ute tribe’s interest in the murder of one of its members is quite understandable. But unless I am mistaken, the federal authorities have exclusive charge of the investigation.”

“It’s a shared jurisdiction. FBI is collaborating with Granite Creek PD.”