Dead Soul (3 page)

Chapter Four

THE CYCLIST

TWILIGHT
’
S DIAPHANOUS MISTS HAD BEEN INHALED BY NIGHT
;
THE
sky was streaked with puffy wisps of feathery clouds. The moon had not yet made its silvery appearance, but there was sufficient starlight to keep the nocturnal wanderer from bumping into signposts, brick walls, or trunks of trees—if the night traveler knew his way around the campus.

Wilma Brewster knew her way around. Without using the ten-speed bicycle’s small headlight, the young woman slipped confidently along the back lanes and unlighted byways of the virtually deserted grounds of Rocky Mountain Polytechnic University.

The part-time campus police officer, full-time undergraduate student was in high spirits. The last of her final exams had been completed. Two As, if you please, a respectable pair of Bs, and a single C. Not bad. And rookie officer Wilma Brewster was determined to enjoy a glorious Christmas vacation.

Being delightfully young, recklessly fearless, she had no thought whatever of personal safety. The well-oiled bicycle seemed an extension of her lithe limbs. Darting across empty parking lots, flitting silently along bricked sidewalks, careening around blind curves—it was all absolutely intoxicating. The hum of thin rubber tires was the only sound in her small universe. The rider leaned, made a careening left past the domed football stadium, zipped along Moab Avenue.

A hundred yards ahead, under the branches of a maple, Wilma thought she saw something move. Jarred by this intrusion into her private world, she brought the sleek ten-speed almost to a halt, held her breath.
Is this my imagination?
Another flutter of movement.
No. There’s really something there.
Probably an animal. Stray dog, maybe. Or a coyote. It moved again. No, definitely not a canine creature. This
something
walked upright. And so in her mind, the shadowy thing became a man.
Probably just an insomniac taking a late-night stroll.
But there had been several cases of vandalism in this area. Only last week, some bonehead had broken a half-dozen windows in the new preschool.
Better call it in.
Wilma reached for the small holster on her belt. The radio transceiver wasn’t there.
Oh, dammit!
She had checked it in just before signing off duty.
So what do I do now?
The answer was obvious.
I’ll keep an eye on this guy. Find out what he’s up to.

She shifted to low gear, followed the dark figure that was now moving along the sidewalk toward the preschool. This might be the vandal, getting ready to heave a few rocks through the undamaged windows. Wilma was confident that she had not been seen, but fear rippled along her limbs. There was something oddly familiar about the way this person moved.
Could he be someone I know?

Presently, the figure paused at the campus preschool, leaned against a chain-link fence enclosing a small playground. For a spine-chilling moment, she was certain that the phantom looked back. At her.

Wilma guided the bicycle behind a bushy shrub, gripped the handle-bars, waited. Not a sound.
He didn’t see me—it was just my imagination. I hope.
Stretching her neck to look over a branch, the campus police officer thought she spotted her quarry.
So what are you going to do now?
There was no movement for almost a minute. Doubt began to gnaw at her.
Maybe I’m looking at something else. Maybe he’s gone. Or maybe he’s doubled back and he’s behind me now and
—There was a creaking sound as the dark figure opened a gate in the fence. She watched the shadow-person move onto the playground, pass by a set of miniature teeter-totters, a slide, a sheet-metal assembly resembling an enormous beetle. The amorphous form stopped under an elm. Sat down.

What on earth is he doing?
From somewhere deep in her brain stem, an urgent message surfaced. This voice of her most basic instincts was simple, imperative:
Danger. Stay away.
For a full five seconds, she heeded the stern warning. But curiosity overcame the young woman’s underdeveloped sense of self-preservation.
I need to get a closer look.
She got off the bicycle, pushed it closer to the boundary of the preschool play lot. Wilma stood behind a mulberry tree, squinted toward the spot where she had last seen movement.

The moon showed its brow over the snowy crest of a round-shouldered mountain.

Whoever it was, was still there. She could see this person more clearly now, sitting in a place where, during the daylight hours, small children played. Wilma squinted. The shadowy figure was doing something quite peculiar. Technically, it appeared to be a matter of theft. Petty theft, to be sure.
But why on earth would anyone want to steal
—This thought was interrupted when the shadowy form paused in its work. Looked up. No doubt, this time—invisible eyes stared directly at her. Wilma’s heart hammered against her ribs. The campus police officer found a voice that squeaked with fear. “Hey—what’re you doing on the playground?” She could see precisely what this strange person had been doing. The question was
why.

The figure was now erect. Moving toward the young woman. Again, there was something hauntingly familiar about the way the dark form moved.

“I’m Officer Brewster, Campus Police. This is a lawful order—stop right where you are. And identify yourself.”

The shadowy trespasser did not stop.

Even as the young woman’s joints rattled with fear, she reminded herself about duty—and standing one’s ground. As she entertained these virtuous thoughts, the urgent message from her brain stem fairly screamed,
Run! Run!

Duty was forgotten, ground surrendered. In a wild panic, Wilma mounted her bicycle, kicked off the ten-speed, pumped the pedals until her legs ached.

By the time she was half a mile away, her face burned with shame.
I’m behaving like a silly, frightened child.
The righteous thing to do was turn the bike around, return to the preschool playground, confront the trespasser. Or at least go back to the campus police headquarters and report the incident. But there would be no one at the playground by now. Best to forget the matter.
Everything will be fine when I get home.

Not so. Once inside her small apartment, she could not dismiss the peculiar incident from her troubled mind. Like a deranged serpent, the poisonous thought coiled in a tight circle, fastened teeth on tail. A hoop with no beginning, no end. Over and over and over.

It’s too late to do anything now.

I can’t report what happened—how could I explain running away?

I’ll just have to forget about it.

It’s too late to do anything now….

The young woman looked at trembling hands.
This is crazy—what is wrong with me?
And then it hit her.
Did I take my meds today?
She tried hard to remember.
I’m sure I did.
But she was not sure. She hurried to the tiny bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet, removed the brown bottle. Perphenazine.
I’m supposed to take two pills every day, whether I need them or not.
She stared at the bottle shaking in her hand.
No, I’m sure I took them this morning. I don’t want to overdose.
She put the pill bottle back in the cabinet. For the short term, something else was called for. Distraction.
I need to get out of this apartment for a while. Have some fun.
Her holiday vacation had just begun.
Maybe I should take a trip somewhere.

She brushed her teeth, enjoyed a quick shower in the rusting stall, slipped on the white dress (it went
so
well with her bright red hair), applied crimson lipstick, glanced occasionally at the television. As a final ritual, Wilma hurried around her small off-campus efficiency apartment, doing a bit of fine-tuning. Dusting off the coffee table she’d picked up at Goodwill, picking up tiny bits of fluff and stuff from the worn carpet, forcing some stray underwear into an already overstuffed drawer, checking to verify that all four burners on the gas range were turned off, and the oven.

It seemed that the brisk, mindless activity had been the right prescription. If not entirely gone, the jitters were at least suppressed.

Time for the final ritual. She slipped on the red high heels.

Glorying in this victory over what her mother called “nerves,” Wilma paused to stand before the full-length mirror on the closet door. She inspected what she considered a not unattractive freckled face, then stuck her tongue out at the image—which responded in saucy fashion. One hand on a slender hip, the willowy young woman posed seductively, frankly admiring the reflection of her trim figure. Which was several notches above “not unattractive.” This dose of narcissism was highly therapeutic. She turned to see a commercial on the television screen. A seriously cute little boy, sitting in a sandbox. The tot was shoveling sand into a blue bucket. A spaniel came, licked his ear. The child giggled.

The jitters returned.

Dammit!

She switched off the TV, fed a disk into the gaping mouth of the cheap CD player. The first of nine delicious Strauss waltzes dripped like warm honey from the cone.
There. That’s better.
She closed her eyes.
Okay. I am in control.
Deep breath.
I will put the whole thing out of my mind.
Exhale.
Out goes the bad.
Inhale.
In comes the good.
Exhale.
Replace bad thoughts with good ones.
With an admirable effort of will, she concentrated on lovely things. Deep in a dark forest, a small pond. Ripples in the sunlight, spreading. Emerald lily pads, tilting with each sigh of the waters. Creamy white cup-shaped blossoms springing up magically from an acre of velvety lily pads. And there…something moving underneath the waters. An astonishingly beautiful golden-scaled fish about to break the crystalline surface? No. It was a
person
coming up from the depths. Out of the darkness. Dripping wet, the phantom surfaced. Head. Shoulders. Torso. Legs.

The legs walked toward her. She could see the face quite clearly.

Wilma Brewster opened her eyes, absolutely certain that what she had witnessed at the preschool was not just petty theft.
Something terrible is going to happen.
She had no idea what.

High heels clicking, delicate hands clenched into fists, she began to pace around the small apartment.
What should I do?
Abruptly, she came to a decision.
I need to talk to someone I can trust.
Wilma’s hand went to her neck, grasped the jasper crucifix dangling on a gold-plated chain.
I could talk to a priest.
She smiled.
Or maybe I should find me a real kick-ass cop.

Chapter Five

A CHANCE ENCOUNTER

CHARLIE MOON WAS HELPING HIS GROANING AUNT OUT OF THE
F-150 pickup when he heard a familiar voice. He turned to see Father Delfino Raes, pastor of St. Ignatius Catholic Church. The short, slightly built Jesuit had a gaily wrapped parcel under one arm. The Ute nodded a polite greeting to the priest, who served both the reservation and the non-Indians who lived in and around Ignacio.

Daisy squinted suspiciously at the cleric. “Who’s that funny-looking little man?”

Her nephew rolled his eyes.
Here it comes.

The sly old woman clasped a large purse protectively against her chest. “The television news says there’s lots of riffraff hanging around these big parking lots—especially pickpockets and purse-snatchers.”

Father Raes forced a smile that hurt his face. “Hello, Daisy.”

“Oh, it’s
you.”
She lowered the walking stick, managed to look down her nose at the kindly man. “I guess my money’s safe—till next Sunday morning.”

“Sorry,” Moon said. “My aunt’s having one of her off days.”

“Really?”
She seems perfectly normal to me.
Father Raes tipped his black fedora at the elderly woman. “I shall look forward to seeing you at Mass.”
Forgive me, Father, for I have lied.
After exchanging a few pleasantries with Moon, he excused himself and hurried away.

Daisy watched the receding form and called out, “Next time the Pope phones to ask how you’re getting along, tell him hello for me!” Her day made, the mischievous woman cackled with delight.

Knowing that his expression of disapproval would only encourage the incorrigible old woman to new heights of wickedness, Moon held his silence.

But Daisy Perika had a darkly sweet secret that she shared with no mortal soul. In fact, the truth of it was hidden so deeply inside her heart that the woman herself did not fully fathom it. God alone knew how much the shaman loved the priest.

THE WALKING CORPSE

GRUNTING AS
she thumped her oaken staff across the parking lot, Charlie Moon’s aunt hobbled along by his side. The long-legged Ute found himself taking very short steps. It was much like going for a walk with a two-year-old.
Poor old woman. Wonder if this is how I’ll be getting around when I’m her age.
He comforted himself with the thought that it was highly unlikely he would live so long.

Daisy Perika muttered without looking up at her nephew. “I still got some Christmas stuff to buy. I’m glad you brought me here.”

Despite her rudeness to the priest, he had noticed that she was mellowing with age. Now, not less than once or twice every year, the cranky old woman would say something that sounded almost like
thank you.
“I hope you have a good time. Buy everything in sight.” He smiled at the scarfed head bobbing along at his left elbow. “We’ll fill up the pickup, haul it all home. As long as you brought plenty of cash.”

Daisy patted her flowered purse. “I got my Social Security check right here.” She slowed, squinting at the storefront. “I can’t recall what it is, but there’s something about this place I don’t like.”

It was too good to last.
Moon prepared himself for the inevitable complaint.

The Ute elder stopped in her tracks.

“What’s the matter?”

“I remember now.” She pointed her walking stick at the entrance. “This is where
he
hangs out.”

“Who?”

“You’ve seen ’im.” The tribal elder made an ugly grimace. “That nine-hundred-year-old white man.”

Her nephew frowned. “What’re you talking about?”

“Clyde,” she sneered.

“You know his name?”

“Sure—it’s sewed onto his vest. That’s so when he can’t remember who he is, all he has to do is check his label.”

“You talking about the elderly gentleman who greets the customers?”

“When that old buzzard got so feeble he couldn’t tie his shoes and started to slobber in his oatmeal, I guess his family was too lazy to dig a hole and put him in it. So they propped up Gran’pa Broomstick to frighten the children when they come in the store.”

Children come in all ages.
“That’s no way to talk about one of the greeters. Besides, you’ve got a good ten years on him.”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s a big difference between being old and being
dead.”
She snorted. “That man is a walking corpse.”

She gets worse every year.

Daisy clenched his arm in a grip surprising for one of her years. “They put those zombie white men right inside the door just to keep ’em off the street.” She shuddered. “What’s the matter—ain’t there enough
matukach
graveyards to hold ’em all?”

“Now listen—”

“It’s a wonder they didn’t put him in the carnival. Lotsa folks would pay two bits to see the old freak—Clyde the Tooth-Clicking Dead Man.”

“Are we going inside or not?”

“We’ll go, but if that old bag of bones pops his teeth at me just one time, I’ll lay his skull wide open with my stick.”

The amiable Ute looked to the heavens.
Why me, Lord?

They passed through the portal into the bright land of plastic-wrapped merchandise.

“Look out.” Daisy clenched Moon’s arm all the harder. “There he is.” She withdrew behind her nephew.

“If you keep acting like this,” he murmured, “I’m not going to take you anyplace.”

“Hush—Clyde looks like he’s about to pounce. You keep him away from me.”

The skinny man in the blue vest had indeed spotted the potential customers. He took a halting pace forward to meet and greet. His wrinkled face creased into a merry caricature of a smile, exposing a pearly set of dentures that did not quite fit his gums. The false teeth clicked as he spoke. “Hello—anything I can do for you?”

Moon smiled at the greeter. “Not right now, thank you.”
Just a few more steps and I’m home free.

Clyde Sprigg recognized the tall Ute and leaned sideways to see behind him.
Yes, there she is—that peculiar old Indian woman.
She was always good for a laugh. He tipped an imaginary hat. Clicked the porcelain teeth.

Daisy peeked around her nephew’s elbow. “Back off, Walking Dead—or you’ll find out what it feels like to get this laid across your ugly head.” She raised the oak walking stick in a menacing gesture.

The old man snickered.

“Sorry,” Moon said. “Once a month they let me take her out of the Home. I’m afraid she’s forgot how to behave in public.”

His flippancy was rewarded by a dark oath from his aunt, punctuated by a sharp rap on his ankle.

“Ouch.”

The official greeter nodded with a sad expression. “I know how it is, sonny. My poor old mother is just the same. Momma don’t get her little yellow calm-me-down pills, why she’s pure hell on wheels.” He pointed down a broad aisle, past a cluster of checkout stands. “You want to drug the old lady into a stupor, our excellent pharmacy is down that way.”

“Now there’s a notion,” the Ute said. “Or maybe I’ll go over to Pet Supplies—buy me a leash.”

“Well, she
is
cute as a spotted puppy under a little red wagon.” Clyde winked a bleary eye at the Ute elder.

Daisy ground her teeth.
These men stick together like a gob of cock-leburs.

Moon managed to separate the pair without further insult or physical threat.

Inevitably, time passed. Delightful items were purchased. Wounds were healed.

By eleven-thirty, they had strolled through Women’s Clothing, Kitchenware, Paints, Electronics, Sporting Goods, and finally the Lawn and Garden Center where Daisy selected a small bag of fertilizer, several packets of seeds.

Moon had been confident that she would be worn out by now.

But the crusty old woman was getting her second wind.

Her nephew was getting his second appetite. Since breakfast, he had not had a bite. He cast a hopeful gaze at a small cafeteria. Sniffed heavy aromas floating in the air. Read the sign over the plastic counter. There were choice delicacies at bargain prices. Meat loaf special. Polish sausage and sauerkraut. Grilled ham and cheese sandwiches. Milk shakes.
Some of that would hold me till lunch.
He leaned close to the old woman. “You ready for a snack?”

She shook her head. “I got more important things to do right now. Besides, I don’t want to spoil my appetite—you’re taking me to Bennie’s Kitchen.” In Daisy’s opinion, this was the best restaurant in Durango. Really fine peach pie.

“Right.” His stomach growled. “Guess I can hold off for another hour.”

“Oh, go ahead and stuff your big face. While you’re busy making gas, I’ll do some browsing.”

“You sure—”

She waved him off. “Go on—leave me be. I won’t get lost.”

THE PLASTIC
stool was small and hard—like sitting on a cedar fence post. Charlie Moon smiled at the plump woman behind the counter. He ordered the Frito pie. Large fries. And a chocolate milk shake, if you please.

DAISY PERIKA
was watching a highly entertaining display of rainbow-hued tropical fish dart about in glass tanks when she first noticed the redheaded woman. There were hordes of shoppers wandering among the mountains of merchandise, but this one was staring at Charlie Moon. Like she wanted to go up and say something to Daisy’s nephew, but couldn’t quite get up the nerve.

The Ute elder was about to pass by the gawker when she noticed the frustrated look on the white woman’s face. In an attempt to get her attention, the Ute elder sidled up beside the young lady, faked a wracking cough.

The pale creature took not the least notice.

Daisy put on her best manners. “What’re you staring at?”

Still no response.

Louder: “Hey, you—Carrot-Top!”

At this, the woman turned—looked Daisy straight in the eye. Her expression suggested mild surprise.

“That young man you been gawking at—that’s my nephew. Charlie Moon.”

There was the merest hint of a smile.

Maybe she’s a lunatic.
“You got some business with him?”

A nod.

“What about?”

FEELING A
tug on his sleeve, Charlie Moon turned away from the Frito pie to see his aged aunt. “Didn’t think you’d be back so soon.” He shoved a red plastic basket toward her. “Want a french fry?”

Daisy Perika shook her head. “My legs hurt.”

“You’ve been working ’em too hard.” He helped the weary woman onto a stool.

She grunted at the effort.

He concentrated on the greasy snack. “I’ll be done here in a minute. Then we’ll head for Bennie’s.”

His aunt’s face wore a worried look. “I need to tell you something.”

“No. Don’t tell me. Let me guess.” He assumed an expression of intent concentration. “Oh, yeah—I got it. You’ve spent your whole Social Security check. And you expect to tap me for a loan.”

“I just ran into somebody who wants to talk to you.”

He squeezed a plastic bottle, squirted a stream of tomato catsup over the fries. “Who?”

“A young woman. She’s been watching you.”

Young woman. Well, now.
The tribal investigator straightened his string tie, turned on the rock-hard stool. “Where is she?”