Dead Soul (26 page)

Chapter Twenty-Nine

THE DANCE

THE AUTHORITIES HAD DEPARTED
,
TAKING WITH THEM THE
wounded and the dead. Except for a pair of night riders, the cowboys were in the bunkhouse. Charlie Moon pulled off his socks, stretched out on the oversized bed.

A lonesome wind whispered in dry cottonwood branches, moaned under the eaves.

Down at the riverside barn, a nervous mare whinnied, kicked at her stall.

The Ute waited expectantly for the good-night from his dog.

By some mysterious means, the hound was always aware of the precise moment when his favorite human being was about to fall asleep. Right on schedule, the canine musician bugled a long, melancholy howl.

Taps…now eight sweet hours till reveille.
Charlie Moon closed his eyes. Yawned.
Good night, old dog. Good night, world.

The sleepy man had a few more words to say—to The Other. Names were mentioned. Thanks given. Finally, a hopeful petition—a couple of inches of rain would be most welcome.
If you’ve got some to spare…

For some weary souls, prayer is the perfect soporific. And sleep cools troubles percolating in the mind. Thus it was for Charlie Moon. The memory of day slipped away, a thick mist of not-knowing settled over him.

Within minutes, the sleeper’s eyes began to shift under his lids. Fragments of a much-spliced film slipped over sprockets with missing teeth. Surreal scenes flashed intermittently on the grainy undersurface of his subconscious.

HIS INITIAL
dreams were troubled. The dozen bikers converging on Too Late Creek were multiplied by hundreds, all brandishing bloody swords. The sleek Harleys were transformed into black panthers, slathering mouths hungry for flesh. No matter how many he shot down, the wild savages multiplied. But like the day that had spawned it, this violent panorama also had an end.

He was standing by the placid lake, her warm hand in his. Miss James looked up. “Do you really want to know…my secret?”

He did. Very much.

She smiled. “Come closer.”

The dreamer leaned.

She whispered her name in his ear.

He could not hear.

Miss James’s smile faded. Then her face was gone. The vanishing woman took the lake with her.

He stood alone in a vast, crystalline ballroom. From an invisible ceiling, countless chandeliers were suspended on golden chains over a floor of polished rose quartz. Charlie Moon saw his image on the mirrored surface. From a brand-new black Stetson to the collar of the black tuxedo, and all the way down to the spit-shined cowboy boots, he approved of what he saw.
Yes, sir—fine-looking man.
His image smiled back at him. To achieve perfection, he adjusted the loops on the string tie.
Wish she was here with me.

From some unknown dimension, a someone entered the vast space.

The dreamer’s vision was telescopic. While the woman was still very far away, he could make out every detail. The long, clinging white gown. Curled, crimson locks. A single snow-white rose over the left ear. The hot eyes burning with a pale blue flame, the face that was paler still.

Moon watched the feminine vision glide toward him.

Within arm’s reach, she paused. The pallid coquette raised a miniature silk fan to partially conceal a narrow, freckled face.

He had been expecting someone else.
Miss Brewster?

She smiled.

So—you ready to talk to me?

Her lips moved.
I would rather dance.

The well-dressed man felt a surge of panic.
I never learned how.

I’ll show you.
She raised graceful, gloved arms, exposed the tip of a red slipper at the hem of her snowy gown.

There must be some way out.
There’s no music.

She folded the fan, pointed with it.

He turned to see a woman who was a perfect reflection of the first. Illuminated by a diffuse pillar of blue light, the look-alike was seated at a massive piano. This second redhead fussily adjusted her sheet music, then began to tease a waltz from ivory keys.

They were gliding along the ballroom floor, then above it.

You are so warm.
She laid her head on his chest.
Hold me now. Hold me close.

Moon felt the fragile form collapse in his arms. The woman’s body was not soft. Friable bones rippled under the white gown. Plucked tendons twanged a sad, sonorous hymn. And she was very, very cold.

THE SLEEPER
awoke with a start, his muscles tensed. For a long, dark minute—dreading the return of the eerie dream—Charlie Moon kept his eyes open. Stared into darkness. Finally, he got of bed, trudged downstairs, boiled a pot of strong coffee. For almost an hour, he paced around the spacious lower floor of the Columbine headquarters. Despite what Aunt Daisy believed, dreams were not to be taken seriously. They were nothing more than a lot of jumbled thoughts knocking about in a man’s mind. Troubling images coalesced into absurd stories, disturbing his sleep. Long before the first hint of a pale yellow glow broke in the east, the Ute rancher decided it was time for breakfast. He scrambled an iron skillet full of scrambled eggs and pork sausage. Charlie Moon was certain that he’d feel better after a solid meal.

He did not.

SCOTT PARRIS
was sleeping peacefully. Dreaming his own dreams. There were no shoot-outs, no phantom women in formal gowns, no waltzes over infinite ballroom floors. Only the river…and Anne, lovely Anne. His fiancée was still with him. They were walking along a shaded forest path that paralleled the rocky banks of a small stream. In the stream were arm-long trout, flashing iridescent hues of neon orange and blue. Anne had gathered a bouquet of wild lupines; he pulled a red wagon filled with small, sweet children in ruffled bonnets. A swarm of bulldog puppies skittered about his feet. It was all so very pleasant.

Suddenly, Anne stopped, turned her face to him, frowned. “Scotty, what’s that noise?”

“The telephone,” he mumbled. The chief of police groaned, rolled over in his bed.
I will not answer it. No matter how long it rings…

The infernal instrument kept right on making the rude noise.

He made a grab, knocked the telephone onto the floor, snatched the handset on a second grab. “Who the hell is calling me before daylight?”

He heard Ute’s familiar bass voice. “Testy this morning, aren’t we?”

Parris groaned, fell back on his pillow. “Dammit, Charlie—d’you have any idea what time it is?”

The tribal investigator had anticipated this question. “It’s time all good men were up and at it. Early bird gets the bug.”

“Worm. Why didn’t you call me when the biker-thugs showed up?”

“Pete did all the calling. After that, we were pretty busy.”

“Well, I’m kinda hurt not to have got a chance at those hoods.”

“Sorry. Next time we have serious trouble, your number’ll be the first one that gets dialed. Even if it’s the middle of the night.”

“So what do you want?”

“I’m going over to Rio Hondo. See if there’s any sign of Miss Brewster.”

“Knox and Slocum already checked it out.” The chief of police rubbed at his forehead. “Didn’t I tell you?”

Knox and Slocum together couldn’t find a wildcat in a rain barrel. “I’d like to have a look for myself.”

“Well, go right ahead—you don’t need my permission.”

“Thought maybe you’d want to go along with me.”

Parris groaned. “What time is it?”

Moon told him.

“Five o’clock in the morning?” The chief of police sat up on the edge of the bed, leaned to squint at the clock. “It’s four-fifty-eight.”

“So call me liar for two minutes.”

Parris stood up, felt a dull pain at the small of his back.
Hope it’s not another kidney stone.

“Hey, pardner—you still there?”

The sleepy man grunted. “When’re you heading out to Arroyo Hondo?”

“About forty-five minutes.”

Scott Parris closed his eyes, called up today’s schedule. “I got a budget meeting with the mayor at nine
A
.
M
. sharp. Sorry. I’d lots rather go on a tramp in the woods.”

“Budget meeting?” Moon laughed. “You’d rather eat a live porcupine, quills and all.”

“Right-o. But the city’s business has to get done. Some of us have to suffer so civilized society can progress.”

“Glad it’s you and not me, pardner.”

“Charlie, you find anything interesting up there, beep me.”

“Will do.”

Chapter Thirty

ARROYO HONDO

CHARLIE MOON WASHED THE BREAKFAST DISHES
,
SLIPPED INTO A
fleece-lined denim jacket, popped the battered John B. Stetson on his head, opened the front door onto the redwood-plank porch. The sun behind the house was three discs high. The rancher sniffed at the crisp morning air.
That’s better than hot coffee.

A large something nudged against his leg.

Moon looked down to see the homely hound.

Sidewinder yawned, exposing a mouthful of wicked-looking yellow teeth.

“Mornin’, pal. Want to go for a ride?”

The dog responded with something halfway between a snort and a growl.

“I thought so.”

THE ANIMAL
, having slept most of the way, suddenly lurched up from the floorboard. Sidewinder got onto the pickup seat, placed large paws on the dashboard. He stared through the sandblasted F-150 windshield, barked once. Then began whining.

Moon smiled at the beast.
How does he know where we’re going?
The Forest Road 985 exit was a hundred yards ahead. The narrow lane would wind through several miles of evergreen forest before terminating at what little remained of the long-deserted Arroyo Hondo mining settlement. The Ute slowed, made the turn onto the dirt road.

The hound’s long tongue draped over his teeth. Occasionally, Sidewinder would bark—as if to urge the Ute to drive faster.

Moon was lost in his thoughts. This was most likely a fool’s errand. But Wilma Brewster—if the redhead who’d spoken to Aunt Daisy
was
Jane Brewster’s shy daughter—had hinted that he might find her at the ghost town. He exited the thickest part of the forest, headed down the side of a slope. Moon shifted to low gear, bumped the F-150 along the rutted road. Spruce and ponderosa were gradually replaced by clumps of juniper and piñon. After passing along a sandy streambed, he encountered an uphill grade. The pickup was heading more or less northward, toward the crest of a ridge above the deep arroyo that had provided the remote silver-mining settlement with a name.

When he finally topped the basalt-strewn ridge, the yellow tide of midmorning light was washing over the high plains. The tribal investigator and his dog got out of the Ford pickup. Aside from the clicking sound of the exhaust system cooling, the silence in this remote place was complete. An intense, bone-numbing cold remained from the departed night. He pushed his fists into the fleece-lined pockets of the jacket, swept his gaze over the crumbled ghost town. Remains of rotting shacks dotted the ridge. Not one had a complete roof, but sheets of tin were scattered about like dead leaves in a windy autumn. The depths of the arroyo were honeycombed with crumbling mine shafts. A well-crafted Forest Service sign warned hikers to stay away from these death traps.

The Ute examined the dirt road for any sign of recent visitors. There were a number of tire tracks on the lane. Judging from the street-tread, the most recent were probably left by GCPD police officers Eddie Knox and Piggy Slocum.

Moon took a deep breath and called out. “Helloooo.”

An eerie echo called back, like the sound of a wolf howling. He bellowed again. “Heeey…anybody here?”

The crisp echo had a mocking tone.

Because it seemed necessary to do
something
after coming all this way, Moon inspected the wreckage of a dozen mining shacks. There was little to be seen except the pathetic artifacts left behind by those who had been dead for many decades. Broken fruit jars. A twisted boot sole. A rusting Model-T truck chassis. The tribal investigator looked into several crumbling mining shafts. He walked around the perimeter of the ghost town for any sign of a camp. Recently discarded trash. A fire pit.

For hours, he searched.

Nothing.

The truth gradually became apparent.
If Wilma Brewster has ever been in this particular Arroyo Hondo, she’s long gone.
He made a mental note to ask Scott Parris whether the New Mexico State Police had turned up anything in the Arroyo Hondo down by Taos. Maybe Wilma was holed up there with a boyfriend. He picked up a piece of basalt, sent it sailing into the deep arroyo. Like his investigation, it took a long time hitting bottom.

The tribal investigator took a last look at the long-deserted community. It was hard not to feel the fool. A man was only allotted so much time in Middle World. And time was far too precious a commodity to waste on improbable hunches that bubbled up out of dreams.
And an old woman’s tale about a redheaded gal who wants to talk to me but won’t.

The Ute was suddenly aware that he was alone.
Where’s that dog?
He called for the animal.

Sidewinder barked an answer—or was it a summons?

Sounds like he’s down in the hollow.
The saddle in the ridge was filled with scrub oak and lodgepole pine. There were a few towering ponderosas. Moon called again.

The response was a long, baying howl.

He must’ve treed something.
The Ute made his way down the grade.

Sidewinder was stretched out by a large, split ponderosa log. The ancient tree had simply lived out its time, rotted away, taken one too many lightning strikes, fallen to earth.

Moon grinned at the eccentric hound. “What is it—you too lazy to walk?”

The homely canine stared at the human with deep, mournful eyes.

“I hope you don’t expect me to carry you back to the truck.”

Sidewinder got up, raked a paw over the place where he had made a temporary bed.

The tribal investigator felt a coldness ripple along his spine. He knelt by the animal. Reached out to see what the hound had unearthed. Wisps of hair. Red hair.

AS HE
always had during hard times, Scott Parris stood beside his Ute friend.

Charlie Moon had withdrawn well away from the gaggle of police officers who gawked while Dr. Simpson’s assistants used small pointed trowels and stiff paintbrushes to uncover the human remains.

The elderly ME grunted painfully as he pushed himself upright. He paused to brush pine needles off the knees of expensive gray trousers, then walked stiffly toward the pair of lawman.

Parris asked the question. “What have we got?”

“What we have got is a decomposed body.” Walter Simpson glanced back at the small excavation. “Female Caucasian. Red hair. Slender build.”

The chief of police was annoyed at having to ask. “Any idea how she died?”

“Looks like strangulation. There’s a loop of ten-gauge copper wire around her neck.”

The Ute didn’t want to know. But he heard the words coming out of his mouth. “How long has she been here?”

The ME shrugged. “Later on, I’ll be able to tell you more precisely, but it’ll be a matter of several months.”

Scott Parris glanced at the Ute’s stony face, then spoke to Dr. Simpson. “Wilma Brewster fits the general description. She was reported missing late last December.”

The pathologist rubbed at white stubble on his chin. “The condition of the remains is consistent with that time frame.” He frowned at the tall Ute. “How’d you find her?”

“I didn’t.” Moon nodded to indicate the hound.

Sidewinder was watching the evolving excavation with considerable interest.

The curious ME pressed on. “What on earth brought you out here?”

The tribal investigator hesitated. “A tip.”

Simpson glared at the taciturn Indian. “Tip from who?”

Moon held his silence.

Scott Parris gave Simpson a look that said,
Back off.

The inquisitive ME shrugged. “Well, excuse me.” He marched off to bark orders at his assistants, who were gingerly removing a red shoe from the shallow grave.

Parris chewed on an oak twig. “So maybe it ain’t Wilma Brewster.”

Moon shook his head. “It’s her.”

“If this corpse is Miss Brewster—and she’s been dead since December—how could she have talked to your aunt less than a month ago?”

Moon’s expression made it clear that he did not care to discuss the subject.

Parris understood. “Oh—yeah.” Talking to ghosts was part and parcel of Daisy Perika’s trade. His eyes met Moon’s. “You don’t think…”

“No, I don’t. And neither do you.”

The chief of police shrugged. “It was just a thought.”

A new pair of headlights appeared at the edge of the clearing. It was a small, battered Honda. The driver, an elderly heavyset man, went around to the opposite side of the automobile to open the door for his passenger, but the woman was already getting out. She pulled a tattered woolen coat over her shoulders, lifted the yellow tape, and marched past a state police officer who reached out to stop the intruder. Scott Parris made a gesture; the officer gave way.

The chief of the Granite Creek Police Department blocked her view of the excavation, tipped his felt hat. “Hello, Mrs. Brewster.”

Jane Brewster tried to look past the broad-shouldered man. “When I heard, I had to come see for myself.”

“Look, it’s no good—”

The woman was thin-lipped with determination. “Is it my Wilma?”

Parris looked over her head. “We don’t have a positive ID yet.”

“Tell me what you do have.”

The lawman sighed. “Caucasian. Doc Simpson says it’s a woman. Probably a young woman.”

She said the words in a whisper. “What color’s her hair?”

The lawman looked at the sky. The clouds were ugly. Life was ugly. “Red. I’m sorry, Mrs. Brewster.”

She nodded to no one in particular. “I knew it’d be my Wilma.” She turned away, began to heave with great, gasping sobs. “My God. My daughter’s dead—and I’m so dirt-poor I don’t even have money to bury her proper.”

“Ma’am.”

She looked up to see the tall Ute.

He put an arm around her shoulders. “You don’t have to worry about burial.”

She dabbed at red, swollen eyes. “What do you mean?”

“There’s a fine spot on the Columbine, where you can see for miles and miles in every direction. We call it Pine Knob. If you want, we’ll put her there.”

She stared at this man she had met only once. “That would be very kind of you.” Jane Brewster reached out to touch his hand, then hurried back to the small automobile.

The policemen watched the taillights diminish into tiny red points. In less than a minute, the night had swallowed them up.

Parris rubbed at tired eyes. “It’s times like this I hate my job.”

“I got to take my dog home.” Charlie Moon headed back to the pickup. Sidewinder trotted along at his heels.

Darkness followed closely behind.