Dead Soul (30 page)

“I talked to the senator’s personal assistant a few minutes ago. Miss James confirmed that one of the storage batteries was replaced on his electric scooter. This happened a coupla days ago—right before he left for D.C.”

“Is a battery replacement unusual?”

“Not if the ranch manager had done it. Henry takes care of stuff like that.”

There was a distinct tone of interest in the distant voice. “Who switched the batteries?”

“Allan Pearson. The senator is his uncle.”

“You are suggesting that the senator’s
nephew
has placed an explosive device in his electric scooter?”

“I’m not suggesting—I’m telling you straight out.”

“But what would be the nephew’s motive—”

“I don’t know. And at the moment, I don’t really give a damn.”

“Do you have any information about the nature of the explosive device?”

“Like what?”

“Type and quantity of explosive material. How will the detonator be triggered—by remote control or timer?”

“I don’t have the least notion. All I can tell you is you’d better do something
right now.
”

“Tell me precisely where you are.”

About forty-five minutes from being arrested for filing a nuisance report with the United States Secret Service.
“About forty-five miles west of Granite Creek, Colorado. I’m headed toward the BoxCar—that’s Patch Davidson’s ranch.”

“Keep the line open, Mr. Moon.”

THE TRIBAL
investigator turned onto the BoxCar lane, braked the pickup to a skidding halt by the closed gate. The gatehouse was dark inside. Moon banged on the door. Nothing. He turned the knob. Locked. The big man took a step backward, aimed the heel of his boot at a spot just below the doorknob. Drove it home. Wood splintered, fragments of the cast-iron lock mechanism went flying. He unholstered the .357 Magnum revolver, entered the shack, yelled: “Ned Rogers—you in here?”

No response. He switched on the lights. The room that served as the gatekeeper’s duty post was not occupied. Moon checked the small bedroom, and a tiny bathroom that smelled strongly of aftershave and urine. Still no Rogers. Which was not surprising. With the BoxCar effectively shut down in the senator’s absence, the gatekeeper had probably taken some time off. Moon returned to the room that served as Ned Rogers’s lookout station, staring out the north window.
Maybe I’m way off base
. He heard Agent Adam’s muffled voice calling his name. The tribal investigator pulled the live cell phone from his jacket pocket, jammed it against his ear. “I’m here.”

“Mr. Moon, have you arrived at the senator’s ranch?”

“I’m at the BoxCar gatehouse. Ranch headquarters is another six miles up the lane.” The log house where Henry Buford lived was closer to four. He really did not want to know but…“Have you guys done anything?”

There was a brief hesitation. “On the basis of your call, Mr. Moon, the Senate Chamber has been evacuated.”

God help me. If there is no bomb, I am in deep, deep trouble.
The tribal investigator inhaled a long breath. “You want me to see if I can find Pearson?”

“We do. Miss James informs us that the senator’s nephew has an apartment in the main residence on the ranch property, and also a small house in a more remote location.”

“Yeah. The line shack.”

“We have not been able to reach Mr. Pearson by telephone in the main residence, and we understand there is no telephone in his other residence.”

Moon watched the northern sky—a pale blue sea, here and there whirling swirls of pink and purple. The high country air was charged with electric premonition. Something unseen whispered in his ear, a cold finger prickled the hair on his neck. The Ute was certain that something was about to happen. Something very unpleasant.

In the background of the Ute’s consciousness, the federal agent’s voice droned on. “We would appreciate it if you would make an attempt to contact Mr. Pearson—inquire about his reason for installing a replacement battery in the senator’s electric scooter, then get back to us. And keep in mind that so far as we know, no crime has been committed. We will merely wish to interview Mr. Pearson at length.” The special agent added ominously: “And yourself, of course.”

Moon felt cold. Like dead meat. “Anything else I can do for you?”

“Not at the moment, but keep your cell phone avail—” There was a sudden, dead silence, as if the line had been disconnected.

For sixteen seconds that lasted half a lifetime, the Ute waited.

Agent Adams voice barked in his ear. “Mr. Moon?”

“I’m still here.”
Wish I was somewhere else.

“I am informed that there has been a tremendous explosion in the Senate Chamber.”

“Was anyone—”

“There were no casualties among the senators. But two of our agents and several members of the Capitol Police Bomb Squad are unaccounted for and presumed dead.” The Secret Service agent’s tone was now hard. “I understand that you are a sworn officer of the law.”

“That’s right.”

“Are you armed?”

“I am.”

“The official position of the United States Secret Service is that Mr. Pearson is presumed innocent. If you should have the opportunity, we request that you detain this individual as a material witness.” There was a pregnant silence. “But as we realize that Mr. Pearson might turn out to be extremely dangerous, you are expected to use due caution in any attempt to take him into custody. I hope you understand what I’m telling you.”

The tribal investigator understood perfectly. This was an unofficial, personal request from a furious federal cop who knew that the wealthy senator’s nephew would probably never be indicted, much less go to trial.
If the bastard resists arrest, kill him.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

FIRESTORM

IF THE V8 ENGINE HAD BEEN PROPERLY TUNED
,
HE WOULD HAVE
been flying along at eighty miles an hour. As it was, the F-150 speedometer was bouncing about the sixty-five mark. Charlie Moon was bouncing about the cab. The rational part of his brain reminded him that it was not sensible to drive so fast on the rough road. Another, more elemental part of that mysterious organ urged
hurry hurry hurry.
Praying that he wouldn’t blow a bald tire and end up in some deep arroyo with a broken neck, the tribal investigator kept the pedal on the floorboard.

He was less than a minute from Henry Buford’s home when a mushroom of coal-black smoke sprouted up, blotting out the northern horizon. An unseen hand painted a fiery smear across the turquoise sky. The Ute investigator topped the ridge over the shallow valley dotted with cottonwoods. The log house was a roaring mass of fire underneath a boiling column of acrid smoke.

If Henry had been inside, he was way past helping.

After finding no sign of life at the edge the roaring inferno, Moon continued on toward the BoxCar headquarters, where recent history was about to be repeated. As he topped the crest of the ridge overlooking the green oasis, the wealthy man’s mansion suffered an even more violent fate than Buford’s log house. The booming explosion tossed red roof tiles for a thousand yards; a rolling mixture of intensely blue fire and pitch-black smoke grew into a mile-high poisonous mushroom. After a brisk west wind cleared away some of the ground-level smoke, the Ute was surprised to see that none of the outer sandstone walls were standing. After a fruitless attempt to get near the superheated ruins, he turned east on a dirt lane, aiming the F-150 in the general direction of Dead Mule Notch—and Alan Pearson’s line shack. There were several crossroads and forks in the rough lane. He stayed with the electric power line.

Thirty bone-jarring minutes later, the road began to peter out. He followed the utility poles into a shallow canyon between a pair of sandstone mesas that extended out from the sides of the Notch. After passing through a thicket of scrub oak, the tribal investigator pulled the pickup to a jerking halt in front of a ramshackle structure. This had to be it. The sad-faced little building wore a peaked hat of rusty tin; the walls were made of vertical, creosote-soaked pine slabs. At one corner of the structure, a fifty-five-gallon oil drum was placed to catch water from a rusty downspout. A lime-green propane tank was nudged up against the west wall; the metal cylinder seemed to be doing its level best to hold the leaning structure upright. Thirty paces to the rear, there was a wooden privy with a door hanging on a single rusty hinge. He got out of the pickup, made a quick inspection of the ground in front of the cabin. A complex of tire tracks crisscrossed in the brownish-red sand, but there was no sign of Pearson’s flashy red motorcycle.

A hand-printed sign was tacked to the door.

IF YOU WERE NOT INVITED
YOU ARE NOT WELCOME
GO AWAY!

Hand resting on the butt of his holstered pistol, Moon called out. The only response was a thin echo off a cliff wall, a raspy call from an unseen raven. He knocked once on the unpainted door, then tried the knob. Locked. The lawman reminded himself that the right and proper thing would be to get a warrant before entering.

Well to hell with that.

For the second time on this singular day, he kicked a door in. Revolver in hand, the tribal investigator entered the musty building. An overpowering stench of stale food and sour beer sucked his breath away.

Moon switched on a penlight, poked bright holes in the soupy near-darkness. The shack enclosed a single rectangular room. A shiny tin fixture sprouting a trio of lightbulbs hung from the ceiling. He pulled at a dangling string to switch on this poor man’s chandelier. What he saw complemented the noxious odors. With a little cleaning up, Allan Pearson’s hangout could qualify as a pig pen. Bits of cracked brown plaster hung like scabs on the walls, rotting pine rafters were thick with sooty cobwebs. Aside from a sturdy wooden bench under the south window, a rickety pair of straight-backed chairs, and a brokendown old cupboard, there was no furniture worthy of the name. Only a scattering of wooden and cardboard boxes, a bookcase jury-rigged from pine boards set on cinder blocks. An unvented space heater squatted near the wall where the external propane tank gamely played its supporting role. In a corner, there was a small electric refrigerator, its worn compressor chugging away erratically, imitating an outboard motor with fouled spark plugs.

The senator’s nephew apparently slept on a mattress on the floor. Littered about at random were bits of dirty clothing, dirtier blankets, biker magazines with sassy-looking pinups on the covers. Stacked in a cobwebbed corner were cardboard boxes of canned goods. Corn, pinto beans, tomato soup, green peas. A large plastic trash container was half filled with empty food cans. A makeshift table—an unpainted sheet of plywood set on a pair of wooden boxes—was littered with unwashed cooking and eating utensils. Plus a scattering of hypodermic syringes and pill bottles.

Only the workbench displayed some semblance of order. On the Formica-covered surface there was a plastic toolbox, a Fluke digital voltmeter, a model 545 Tektronix oscilloscope, a soldering iron, a roll of electrician’s tape. But Moon’s attention was focused on an AusTex Beef Stew box occupying the precise center of the bench. After a careful inspection that convinced him the box was not booby-trapped, he used the blade of his pocketknife to lift the lid. Inside the cardboard container were a variety of interesting items.

Most prominent to Moon’s eye were the disassembled components of a twelve-volt storage battery. The plastic casing had been neatly sawed into upper and lower halves. Lead electrodes were carefully arranged in a glass tray.

A small pressurized tank was propped in a corner of the box. A painted label specified its contents. The liquefied gas was so dangerous that few craftsmen had used it for years, preferring more stable products. But the old-fashioned compound was readily available.

There were also two Kerr canning jars. Each was half filled with a powder, one a rusty brown color, the other silvery in appearance. From his military experience, Moon understood the significance of the contents. By themselves, the powders were harmless enough. But combined in the proper proportions, these were the basic ingredients for a highly potent incendiary. Because the composition was relatively difficult to ignite, a brick of it was safe enough to carry around in your pocket. But once the mix was lit off, it would melt holes through any known metal or alloy. And the fire
could not be extinguished
—the hellish burn continued until the material was entirely consumed. Very, very ugly stuff.

The assassin had left behind a clear account of his malignant method. Surround a pound of the powder composition with a half-gallon of the liquefied gas, conceal the package in a hollowed-out storage battery, ignite the assembly—the result was an extremely impressive explosion and fire. Enough to destroy an unoccupied airport terminal building—or a House Chamber filled with human beings. Allan Pearson was determined to make certain that he received full credit for his nefarious activities.

Moon replaced the lid on the box, went to the open door for a breath of clean air. As his eyes scanned the top of the mesa, the Ute wondered where the senator’s nephew had gone to ground. Wherever it was, the quirky young criminal would be a very long way from the BoxCar.