Dead Soul (36 page)

“No wife is perfect,” the Ute observed.

“She also stuck me with a butcher knife—and the children laughed when I bled.” He pulled up his cotton shirt to display a shiny, four-inch-long scar on his belly. “I am afraid of that woman—she is
demente.
”

“I’m sorry to hear that. But you’d better to go back to Mexico anyway. And stay south of the border till things cool down.”

“How long will that take?”

Moon thought about it. “Ten, maybe fifteen years.”

Santanna nodded sadly at the injustice of it all. Kill just one gringo and the American Federales never, never stopped looking for you. The sharpshooter squinted at the fresh corpse. “What about him?”

“Henry’s gone,” Moon muttered.
And I helped him go.

Santanna gave the
jefe
a hopeful look. “Go on home; I will put the dirt on him for you.”
After I cut off his ears.

“I’ll take care of things here.” Moon pulled the rifle from the Mexican’s hands, wiped Santanna’s prints off with a bandanna. “This should be the end of it. But if it ever comes up, you were not here. You don’t know a thing about it.” The Ute left a dozen of his own prints on the long gun—including one on the trigger.

“
Jefe
—even though you will not let me take his ears, I appreciate what you have done for me.”

The Ute blinked at the unpredictable man. “What?”

“When you did not let me shoot that motorcycle gringo, I was very angry. But now I understand that you are a fair man, and a wise one. You were saving this better one for me.” Sunlight glinted on the steel teeth. “It was a great honor to murder this
hombre
for you.”

Moon knew that he would never be able to explain the significance of what Santanna had done on the crest of this windswept hill. “When you get to the river, give your hands a good washing.”

The Mexican wondered whether this was some peculiar
Indio
cleansing ritual. “Okay,
jefe
—if it pleases you, I will clean my hands.”

The Ute stared at his own hands. Fancied he saw Buford’s blood dripping off the tips of his fingers. “And wash your face, too.”

Santanna touched fingertips to his cheek. “My face?”

“When you fire a rifle, you get more powder residue on your nose than on your trigger finger. If you get stopped by the police between here and the border, I don’t want them to find any nitrates on your hands
or
your face.”

Griego Santanna stared at the strange Indian, then raised a hand in solemn salute.
“Adios, Señor Luna.”
The man from Zacatecas State turned his face toward the river. This had been a very good day, and so he whistled as he walked. When he tired of whistling, the Mexican sang a happy song about a man who had slit the throat of his nagging mother-in-law, stole her sow pig, spotted billy goat, and seven dominiker chickens.

ONCE SANTANNA
’
S
slight form was reduced to a speck on the horizon, Charlie Moon untied a fringed Circle of Life blanket from behind his saddle. He wrapped the corpse, tied the bundle with a length of yellow nylon rope, lowered Buford’s body into the deep slit. Digging the hole six feet into the rocky ground had been work enough. Filling the inhabited grave was hard labor indeed. Each scoop of sandy soil was heavier than the one before. When the hole was filled level, the laborer tamped down loose earth with the long-handled shovel, spread the excess soil around. By the middle of next summer there would be no evidence of a second burial.

Moon stood between the graves. It seemed both eerie and fitting that Henry now slept beside Wilma. He said an earnest prayer for those two souls whose paths had met at a violent intersection. But an “amen” was not the proper way to end this. His voice was just above a whisper. “Henry, I don’t know if you can hear me. But I got something I need to say.” He took a deep breath. “You needed killing.”

A raven landed on the crest of a dead piñon. Cocked its head at the tall, dark man.

After a pause, Moon continued his melancholy speech. “I will say this—when it’s too late for talking and there’s nothing left to do but break some bones, there’s no man I’d rather have by my side. I’m glad you were with me on Too Late bridge.” His final words were the hardest to say. “Truth is, Henry—I liked you.”
And I’ll miss you
.

His sad duty done, Moon got into the saddle. On the way home, he told himself that there was at least one thing to be grateful for—this sad business was finally finished.

THE WINDS
returned to the barren hilltop. They came to groan and sigh in the stunted trees, to hum mournful hymns in the sage, to conjure up twisting little swirls of sand. The elfin dust devils danced over the fresh grave.

Chapter Forty-Five

THE INVITATION

PETE BUSHMAN LEANED AGAINST A POST ON THE HEADQUARTERS
porch, watched the approach of the Indian. The foreman noted the Remington rifle balanced on the saddle.
So the boss decided to do the shooting after all.
He waited for Charlie Moon to tell him about it.

The Ute nodded at his employee.

“I heard a shot. You nail that big cat?”

The rancher got off the horse, patted the amiable beast on the neck. “Not this time.”

Bushman grinned under his beard. “Ol’ Two-Toes give you the slip, eh?”

“Well, you know what they say.”

The foreman chewed contentedly on a wad of Beechwood Tobacco. “No, I don’t. What do they say?”

“Tomorrow’s another day.”

“Oh, yeah. That one.”
I’ll ask him, but he’ll say no. Just like he has ever since he got silly in the head.
“Dolly, she wants you to come over to our place tonight. For some supper.”

Moon looked to the north. Wisps of gray mist drifted across Pine Knob. It was time to turn a new corner. “Don’t mind if I do.”

THE MEAL

UNABLE TO
conceal her satisfaction, Dolly Bushman beamed as Charlie Moon enjoyed a man-sized meal. Roast beef. Boiled potatoes. Pinto beans. Sourdough bread. Strawberry jam cake.

His supper finished, the rancher thanked the cook, returned to the Columbine headquarters.

THE CUT-IN

A MINUTE
before midnight, Charlie Moon climbed the stairs, got into bed, pulled the covers to his chin. He turned off the light, waited for Sidewinder’s good night.

The old hound bayed once, twice. Three times.

Eager to trade all of the day’s troubles for a taste of sweet oblivion, the weary man descended into the deepest of bottomless sleeps.

IT WAS
not possible to turn back, or even to slow his movement. Propelled along a winding path through a vast gray expanse of thirsty mesquite and wilted rabbit grass, the dreamer was pulled toward the distant timbre of discordant music. Presently, the trail ended at a destination. He found himself standing before a run-down clapboard building that had never felt the refreshing touch of paint. A thin, sallow-faced man in faded overalls was seated on the sagging front porch. He kept an eye on the visitor. An old dog lay with his muzzle touching the door. Moon approached; the gaunt man raised a hand, shook his head. Denied entry, the dreamer moved to the side of the structure. He wiped away the grime on a window patterned with spiderweb cracks. Peered through. The dance hall was illuminated by the wan flicker of a single back taper.

He knew the redhaired woman would be there.

She was, and was again. One of her was seated at a rickety piano, daintily fingering random keys. Her second self was on the dirty dance floor—swinging, swaying, laughing with a wild delight known only to the demented.

Charlie Moon knew for certain that he would never feel the terrible embrace of the dancer again. This knowledge should have brought blessed relief. But what he saw inside the twilight interior made him shudder so hard that his bones rattled.

The man from the porch appeared by his side, offered a strong hand to steady the pilgrim.

For a silent interlude, they watched together. When it pleased him to do so, the guardian of the decrepit dance hall spoke. The voice rumbled up from that deep pit where the dropped stone never hits bottom. “Ask me your questions.”

The dreamer heard himself respond. “Which of them is Wilma?”

“Neither. She has never been here—and never shall she be.”

“Then who are these women?”

“There are no women here.”

“When will this end?”

“At first light.”

The dreamer was not comforted by these words. “When will that be?”

There was no answer to this final question.

Finding himself alone at the window, Moon returned to the porch. The man was seated in a straight-backed chair, hands folded in his lap. The guardian ignored the dreamer. The scrawny dog had not moved from its position near the door.

There was something disturbingly familiar about the animal. Moon approached for a closer look. The hound turned its head. Under the left ear, a small, round hole. Worming a crooked path down the animal’s neck from the bullet wound, a long black track of congealed blood.

The creature took a long, hopeful look at Charlie Moon.

Inside the clapboard shack, the piano clinks madly.

Rotting boards creak.

Insane laughter shrieks.

The dancing woman clutches the new arrival ever so tightly.

She will hold onto him for tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. Until…

THE CALL

CHARLIE MOON
sat straight up in his bed. After a moment’s reflection he got to his feet, pulled a blanket around his shoulders. The Ute paced back and forth in the near darkness, thought long and hard about it. Finally, at the striking of the clock, he stopped in midstride. There was but one thing to do—and it must be done right now. He switched on a table lamp, picked up the telephone, dialed a number he knew by heart from his years of service with the SUPD. The distant machine warbled six times before he heard the sleepy voice in his ear.

“St. Ignatius.”
If this is a crank call, may God smite you.

“Father Raes?”

“No, this is my butler.” A pause. “Charlie—is that you?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh dear God—is it your aunt Daisy? Has she—”

“No, she’s okay.”
Far as I know.
“Sorry to wake you up.”

“I accept your perfunctory apology with remarkable grace.” The Jesuit priest yawned into the telephone. “Now what’s this about?”

“Official business.”

“Yours or mine?”

“Uh…yours. Mostly.”

“I am listening.”

The Ute hesitated. “I need you to…ahh…hear my confession.”
There. I said it.

Dead silence.

“Father Raes, you there?”

“Charlie Moon, you have not come to confession since you were fourteen years old. If this middle-of-the-night call is your idea of a joke—”

“It’s no joke. I need your help.”

“Help with what?”

“Can’t discuss it over the phone.”

“Will you at least reveal the nature of the problem? If you’re in some kind of trouble, tell me where you are and I’ll leave immediately—”

“No, I’ll come to you.” Moon selected his words with care. “It’s someone else who needs your help—I’m kinda standing in for him.”

“Is this other party in danger of imminent death?”

“No.”
He’s well past that.

“So. No one is dying.” There was a brief silence while the priest weighed the possibilities. “May I safely presume that this is a bona fide spiritual emergency?”

“Oh, yeah—that’s what it is, all right.”

“Charlie, may I inquire as to why this enigmatic telephone call could not have been put off until tomorrow morning?”

Moon consulted his bedside clock. “Well, technically, it’s tomorrow morning right now.”

God give me strength.
There was a creaking of bed springs. “I’ll put on a pot of coffee.” Another yawn. “When shall I expect you?”

“I’ll be there when the sun comes up.”

“Very well then,” the Jesuit priest said. “I’ll expect you at first light.”

“Right.”
That should do just fine.

CHARLIE MOON
sat on the edge of his bed, stared through the bedroom window at the vast sprinkling of white-hot lights. He had read somewhere that there were countless swirling galaxies, and more stars than there are grains of sand upon the earth. Moreover, Father Raes had once shared a sweet mystery with an inquisitive youth—these sparkling gems were strewn across the cold, black void of Middle World by a Creator whose love and extravagance knows no bounds. And despite all the pain and darkness that had haunted his life, and all of the deep mysteries that were beyond understanding, Charlie Moon had always wanted to believe the priest’s comforting words.