Dead Soul (22 page)

BoBo snorted, banged through the swinging door into the restaurant.

Charlie Moon was seated at a table, nursing a cup of heavily sugared coffee. He invited the owner of the establishment to have a seat.

BoBo dropped his butt into the wooden chair with a heavy thump. “So what’s your problem?”

The Ute pushed the cup aside. “Last time I was here, you were complaining about how bad business was.”

The greasy man grinned. “Yeah, and you said I should talk to one a them…” He fumbled for the words, couldn’t find them.

“Business consultant.”

“Yeah. One a them.” The grin cracked, broke into a sneer. “You found me one that’ll work for nothin’?”

Moon nodded. “Me.”

“You? What’n hell do
you
know about running a business?”

“I know you’ve got a big problem, Mr. Harper. But you’re too close to the business to see it.”

“No, I ain’t. It’s the bad location, and the new bypass—”

“Ever since I ate here, I been sick to my stomach.”

The white man’s mouth opened to protest this harsh criticism.

Moon raised a hand to silence him. “I’m going to have my say, then you can have yours.” He inhaled a whiff of the stale air. “I don’t generally go around bad-mouthing other people’s cooking, but the swill you serve here is a disgrace to the great state of Colorado. And your dining room is almost as dirty as your men’s room.”

“Now you wait just a damn minute—”

“I’ve got a hound dog that will eat old boots and watermelon rinds. Even chunks of coal. But he’d never set a paw in this place. So it’s no wonder you can’t draw any local customers except crazies and drunks and dope-pushers.”

The big man sucked in a breath, puffed out his chest. “I don’t much like your tone.”

“I don’t much like your chili. Your lemonade tastes like bleach. And from what I’ve heard, you can’t even fry a decent piece of beef.”

BoBo’s big hands rolled into knotty fists. “I don’t have to take this crap. You don’t like what I cook, you can eat someplace else.”

Charlie Moon shook his head. “Can’t let you off that easy.”

The big-shouldered man got up, pulled off the stained apron. “So make your move.”

The Ute got to his feet, made a nod to the waitress. “Charlene, call nine-one-one. Tell ’em you’ll be needing an ambulance.”

“Yes sir.” She picked up the telephone, punched at the buttons.

“Tell ’em to bring some splints,” Moon added. “And a couple pints of blood.”

BoBo remembered his waitress’s account of the massive bloody-faced biker picking up his teeth off the floor. “Charlene, put that damn phone down.” The owner-manager-cook smiled sourly at his disgruntled customer. “Look, fella, I don’t need no more trouble here. How about a free meal—on the house.”

“Eat
here?
” Moon eyed the man. “You must be joking.”

“Okay, then—here’s the deal. I’ll refund the money you spent on the meal that didn’t sit well.”

The Ute shook his head. Began to roll up his sleeves.

The owner of the Mountain Man groaned. “Then what the hell do you want from me?”

Charlie Moon told him.

Chapter Twenty-Six

THE INVITATION

UNDER THE GAZE OF SEVERAL ONLOOKERS
,
HENRY BUFORD LIFTED
the frail man from his motorized scooter. He placed the senator gently onto the pickup seat.

“Thank you, Henry.” Patch Davidson did a bared-teeth grimace, grunted as he pulled a braced leg into position. The proud man did not complain, but the tight-lipped expression revealed his anguish. It was a never-ending humiliation, depending upon others to accomplish what were formerly life’s most trivial tasks.

“This old pickup rides a little rough.” Charlie Moon put the folding wheelchair into the pickup bed. “But I hope seeing the Columbine will make it all worthwhile.”

“Right,” the senator mumbled.
Like I don’t have land enough of my own to look at—thirty-six thousand acres of dirt I can’t walk on.
But suspecting that he knew what this was about, the politician put on a cheerful smile. “Can’t wait to get there.”

Moon should have been getting in the truck, but he could not stop looking at Miss James. When she noticed this attention, he fumbled for words. “Dolly Bushman’s barbecued beef is the best in the state.”

“Indeed,” Davidson said. “The culinary skills of your foreman’s wife are legendary.”
The grease will probably kill me.

Henry Buford gave the Ute’s F-150 a doubtful once-over. Shaking his head at the ratty-looking vehicle, the BoxCar manager leaned to inspect the senator. “Sir, you need to fasten your belt.”

Davidson dismissed this with an impatient wave. “Dammit, Henry, I intend to have a good time today. I will not tolerate you fussing around me.”

Unfazed, Buford reached across the distinguished man, fastened the buckle on the shoulder strap. “There, that’s better.” He patted his boss on the shoulder. “Ol’ Charlie Moon slams into some big pothole, we don’t want you bumping your noggin on something.”

The powerful man uttered a dark curse under his breath. “Henry, you are beginning to grate on my nerves. Depart from me.” Davidson slammed the door.

Henry Buford looked over the top of the pickup with a worried expression. “Charlie, you drive carefully.”

The Ute rancher assured the BoxCar manager that he would take good care of his precious cargo, and noticed that Allan Pearson was standing on the porch of the BoxCar headquarters. Moon approached the front steps. “It’s not too late to change your mind—come along with us. We’ll have lots of vegetables on the table. And homemade bread.”

“I appreciate the invitation. Really I do.” Pearson’s eyes darted toward the pickup, then the black Lincoln. “But there are some matters I must attend to.”

“Well, we’ll miss you.”

The young man smiled.
I rather doubt that.

Henry Buford opened the Lincoln door for Miss James. Once his pretty passenger was securely fastened in, the broad-shouldered man slid into the driver’s seat, started the engine.

Davidson was grumbling as Moon drove the pickup away from the BoxCar headquarters. “Dammit. They all treat me like I’m some kind of…”
Invalid.

The Ute shifted down for the steep grade up the long, barren hog-back separating the lush oasis from the arid prairie. “They’re just trying to take good care of you.”

Senator Davidson fussed with his string tie. “Thankfully, my nephew never makes any fuss over me. But Miss James is constantly expressing concerns for my welfare. And Henry Buford, he’s the worst of the lot. Since the assault, he’s like an old hen with only one chick. Shadows me wherever I go, lest I should stub my toe on a stone.” He turned a crank, lowered the window. The air smelled sweetly of sage and piñon. “Last month, I was back at the Blue Light for the first time since…” His face clouded. “Since my injury. It was a small, private party. Just as dessert was being served, this big, hulking man barged into the reserved dining room. He took a look at me, put his hand in his coat pocket. Before you can say ‘pickled peppers,’ Henry launches himself out of his chair, lands a left hook that almost takes the fellow’s head off.”

“Good for Henry. Somebody needs to be looking out for you.”

“A purple pox on Henry! Turned out the man was seeking an autograph for his mother. I wish he would find someone else to protect—his concern for my physical safety sometimes borders on the absurd.”

Moon pulled on this string. “Can’t imagine why he likes you so much.”

“Obviously, Henry admires my fine personal qualities.”

The Ute grinned. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

The senator was silent for a moment. “It has to do with his brother—Henry’s identical twin, Edward.”

“The fella in the picture over his fireplace.”

“The very same. I don’t suppose you want me to tell you about it.”

“I don’t suppose I could stop you.”

“Oh, very well, if you insist.” Davidson scowled as he called up the unhappy memory. “Edward Buford was a petroleum engineer, employed by a Houston firm involved in oil exploration. This corporation had a lucrative contract with the Philippine government to perform geological surveys in a vast area of the South Pacific west of Palawan.”

“The Spratly Islands?”

“I am impressed with your knowledge of geography. There are supposedly vast quantities of petroleum in the region, so it is not surprising that several other nation-states strongly dispute the Philippine government’s assertion to mineral rights in those waters. Other claimants include China. Vietnam. Malaysia.”

This was beginning to sound familiar. Moon had read a piece in the
Rocky Mountain News.
“Did Henry’s brother die in a plane crash?”

The senator raised a bushy eyebrow. “For a rustic country lawman, you are surprisingly well informed.”

“Don’t tell anybody, Patch—I enjoy playing the stereotype.”

The senator chuckled. “But you sit up late at night, poring over fine print in obscure scholarly journals. Thinking deep thoughts.”

Moon’s stomach growled. His thoughts drifted to beef and potatoes.

“But you are correct, of course. Edward Buford was last seen boarding a company-owned instrumentation aircraft that was rigged for geomagnetic surveys. Alas, the airplane did not return. A few scraps of wreckage were recovered near a place picturesquely known as Swallow Reef. Sharky waters, so I’m told, which is probably why no bodies were recovered. All onboard were presumed dead.”

“Not a pleasant story.”

“And it should have ended there. But Henry—who was once employed by the Defense Intelligence Agency—still has contacts within that organization. He heard rumors that his brother had survived. According to this rather melodramatic version of the incident, Edward Buford was allegedly plucked from the rolling waters by a band of fellows who could most charitably be described as cutthroat pirates. These crafty entrepreneurs supposedly sold Edward to a certain party which, shall we say, had a considerable interest in the petroleum engineer.” He smiled at the Ute. “Tell me now—doesn’t that tale sound highly improbable?”

“Holding an American hostage doesn’t sound improbable, especially not in the Philippines. I imagine we’re talking about an Islamic terrorist group like Abu Sayyaf. They would’ve taken him to Basilan Island.”
And chopped off his head.

The senator put on his poker face. “I shall neither confirm nor deny your lurid imaginations. The relevant issue is this—Henry was firmly convinced that his brother was being held in captivity. He pleaded with me to use the power of my office to obtain his brother’s release. I contacted the director of the CIA, asked him to determine whether there was any possibility that Edward Buford had survived the plane crash. The DCIA approved an off-the-books investigation. Unofficial inquiries were made through the Department of State. Sadly, it all led to nothing.”

The Ute was familiar with how the federal bureaucracy worked. And didn’t work. “And that was the end of it.”

“I wish it were so. Late one afternoon, Henry came to see me. It was a rather poignant meeting—he informed me that it was too late to help Edward. His brother had died while in captivity.”

“He hear this from his buddies in the intel community?”

“You would think so. But the source of his information was even more spooky than that.” The senator smiled at the small pun. “Henry believed he had some sort of psychic connection with his twin. He told me he knew the precise moment when his brother died—that he had actually experienced Edward’s pain as he…” A pause. “Forgive me. The account is rather too morbid for repetition.”

“I’m sure he appreciated the effort you made on his brother’s behalf.”

Patch Davidson watched the scenery scroll by the pickup window. “Henry knew that I had done everything possible to help Edward. He was extremely grateful. I’ve no doubt this is why he has been excessively protective of my person—especially since the assault that left me…”Ashis voice trailed off into a whisper, the paraplegic rubbed at the wasting muscles in his thigh.

Moon was still mulling over the encounter at the Blue Light. “This enthusiastic autograph hunter Henry intercepted—you find out who he was?”

Patch Davidson frowned at the tribal investigator. “Should I have?”

“Would’ve been a good idea. Maybe he wasn’t after an autograph.”

The senator shrugged. “Such a sinister thought did not occur to me. After all, we were at the restaurant to celebrate Miss James’s birthday.”

He muttered, “So, Miss James had a birthday last month.”

“Yes she did, Charlie.” His distinguished passenger smirked. “I daresay one in twelve of the population shared that same annual experience.”

“I was just thinking that—”

“I know very well what you were thinking. Pretty little thing, isn’t she?”

The driver nodded. “And smart.”

“Indeed, she is. I can see that you are enormously attracted to her mind.” Having momentarily forgotten his troubles, Davidson chuckled at his wit.

“I like smart women.”
It’s smart-aleck old men I can do without.
Moon slowed as they approached the BoxCar gate, which had been opened for the two-vehicle caravan. He waved to the elderly cowboy standing outside the gatehouse, took a left turn onto the paved road. “Maybe you could tell me something.”

“Like what?”

“Like what’s her first name?”

The canny politician managed to look confused. “Of whom do we speak?”

“You know of whom.”

“She hasn’t told you?”

Moon held his silence.
If she had, I wouldn’t be asking.

“Then she does not want you to know. It is her way of keeping you at arm’s length, so to speak. In any case, be forewarned—I do not want you wooing my valued personal assistant. Find yourself a willing young lady in Granite Creek. Or Salida. Or Durango.”

The Ute did not respond.

The senator hesitated, glanced at the man behind the wheel. “Charlie, there is something you should know. Miss James has recently had some troubles in her life. Serious troubles.” Being a deliberate and cautious man, Davidson selected his words with care. “There was a man. Poor fellow died in a dreadful accident.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Point is, I am quite certain she is not looking for—oh, what the hell do these modern women call it—a
relationship.
At least not yet.”

“I sure do hate to hear bad news.”

“Sadly, the world is full of it.” Patch Davidson raised a hand to shade his eyes from the bright morning sun.

Moon reached across the cab to lower the visor for his passenger.

Still, the senator squinted.

“There’s a hat in the glove compartment.”

Davidson found the article of clothing. It was a billed cap sporting an Atlanta Braves patch. He pulled it down to his ears, adjusted the bill to shade his eyes. “So how do I look?”

Moon glanced at the highly respected United States senator. Tufts of gray hair stuck out over his bent-down ears. “Very distinguished.”

“No, don’t spare my feelings. Be brutally frank.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to say…ludicrous.”

“I am glad to hear it. Or not to hear it, as the case may be. So boil it down to something any half-wit could understand.” Patch Davidson’s face was split by an idiotic ear-to-ear grin.

This took some careful thought. “Okay. You look like the guy who just won a blue ribbon at the Comstock County cow chip kicking contest.”

“Perfect! Come next election, my new look should be good for four percentage points.”

“Keep the hat with my compliments.” Charlie Moon glanced in the rearview mirror. As if it were tethered to the pickup, the sleek black Lincoln remained precisely twenty yards behind. He wondered what Henry Buford and Miss James were talking about. Whether she was enjoying the ranch manager’s company. The Ute forced himself to dismiss these thoughts, concentrate on the road ahead. It was about fifteen miles to the Columbine turnoff. Another seven to the bridge over Too Late Creek, the last landmark before he could see his home. He wondered how many years were ahead before he crossed The River. Ten? Twenty? Or maybe it wouldn’t be measured in years. A man could miss a lot by working twelve hours every day. Putting off the good things until lost opportunities were bittersweet memories. The Ute’s eyes took on a faraway look.

They drove along in peaceful silence, spending miles and minutes precious beyond measure.

Finally, Moon slowed to turn at the entrance to his vast property. He eased the F-150 under the great wooden arch over the Columbine gate.
Almost home.
A billow of yellow dust puffed up behind them. He slowed to spare those following in the luxury automobile.

Senator Davidson took a deep breath. “Charlie, I have to tell you something. Right at this very moment, I feel better than I have since the night that skulking bastard busted up my legs.”

“Glad to hear it.”

He puffed out his chest, flexed wiry arms. “This little excursion was a terrific notion.”

And so on they went, traveling along the arrow of time.

Davidson found himself mesmerized by a side of the Misery Range he had not seen for ages. The mountain’s pale blue skin was wrinkled by meandering crevasses. The alpine heights were swathed in broad skirts of pine, spruce and fir; this lush fabric was streaked by glistening sashes of golden aspen. And all was sweetly illuminated by the soft light of late morning. “Strange thing. I have traveled all my life. Been everywhere. Seen everything. Even after I got crippled up, I didn’t slow down as much as you might think. But wherever I go, it’s much like the place before.”