Dead Soul (37 page)

Chapter Forty-Six

THE DOOR

TROUBLED BY THE UTE
’
S PECULIAR TELEPHONE CALL
,
FATHER RAES
Delfino pulled on his wool overcoat, left the rectory, walked across a parking lot to the church. He unlocked the front entrance to St. Ignatius, pulled the heavy door shut behind him, thumbed the latch. Inside was much like outside. Still. Cold. Dark. He flicked a light switch. Nothing.
Oh, balderdash! That freaky furnace motor must’ve tripped the main breaker again. I’ll have to light a candle.
He fumbled in his pockets, could not find the small box of matches.
Wonderful.

He waited until his eyes had adjusted to the rosy glow of moonlight filtering in through stained-glass windows, then approached the altar. The lonely man kneeled, crossed himself. He prayed for Charlie Moon. For Charlie’s anonymous friend. But even as he spoke to God, the priest’s mind was engaged by the nagging problem with the furnace. Who could he call to make the necessary repairs, and with what would he pay them? Remembering why he had come to the altar, the priest refocused his attention on his proper business.
Charlie will be here with the sun. And I must be ready to offer what aid and comfort I can.
But the Jesuit priest—trained as an anthropologist—knew well that he was no pastor. He was a scholar, a former professor who found it tedious to minister to these few marginal Christians who slipped in for Mass on Sunday mornings, then went about their worldly ways until the Sabbath came round again. There were notable exceptions, of course. But most came to the Lord’s table not for strength and renewal, but for comfort and pardon. And not a few behaved as if God had given Moses the Ten Suggestions. While he tasted these sour thoughts, a familiar voice whispered in his left ear:
These simple people are hardly worth the bother. You should do something more important with your life.

The priest responded promptly.
Begone, Satan—depart from me!

Having dismissed the Father of Lies, the man of God struggled to put away his dismal thoughts. And he did. Except for one. The crusty academic had long harbored a suspicion that the bishop had sent him to this Godforsaken outpost as punishment for some unrepented transgression. Most probably, he mused, the sin of pride. Father Raes was not a great admirer of the bishop who ruled from Pueblo, and at the moment he was not altogether happy with his Creator. He spoke aloud: “Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, I speak to you every day, every night—even in my sleep I call out to you. When will you answer me?”

Having more than a mustard seed of faith, the supplicant waited, half expecting the explicit response his earnest prayer deserved. He heard only the whisper of wind in the eaves.

But a sweet stillness came over him.

All thought ceased.

Time passed, unnoticed and unmeasured.

THE BLISSFUL
experience was abruptly interrupted by the sound of a light tapping. Barely noticing the intrusion, Father Raes thought it must be the product of his imagination. He did not bother to open his eyes.

But there it was again—knuckles rapping on the door.

Annoyed, the priest pushed himself erect, marched down the aisle toward the front entrance, reached to open the door—hesitated. Something was wrong about this. It was far too early for Charlie Moon’s arrival; the sun was still well below the twin crests of the Piedra Peaks. And there was no light inside the sanctuary, not even a candle flame.
How could anyone know I’m here?
The answer was all too obvious.
This person has been watching the church since I came inside.
Which certainly qualified as suspicious behavior.

Father Raes was not a timid man, but neither was he reckless. Only last month, the aged pastor of the First Methodist Church had been brutally assaulted by a crazed drug addict who broke into his study—and that despicable crime was committed in the middle of the day!
It’s a lucky thing I locked the door behind me.
He thought of summoning help, but there was no telephone in the church. He held his breath, then: “You out there—what do you want?”

There was a mumbled reply. Something about being cold…hungry.

It’s a ruse—to get me to open the door.
“I’m sorry—this is not a convenient time. Later on today, come to the rectory.”

Thump—thump—thump. Louder this time—
urgent.

Father Raes retreated to the altar, selected a massive bronze candlestick. Heartened by the heft of this formidable weapon, he called out in a tone meant to intimidate, “Who are you?”

Now the response was crisp and clear, the words perfectly distinct.

Moreover, he recognized the voice.

The priest’s vision blurred, the cord was cut. At once, he was both here and
there. Here
, his knees buckled.
There,
an irresistible twist of vertigo pulled him in into a whirlpool of spiraling emptiness.
Here
, he fell sprawling before the altar, arms outstretched.
There
, he floated in absolute nothingness.
Here
, the heavy candlestick slipped from his grasp, rolled across the oak floor.
There
, the loosed soul said to itself,
I have died.

But he was not dead. Quite the opposite.

Indeed, shortly after the sun rose, Father Raes had recovered sufficiently to hear Charlie Moon’s tale, and his confession. On his knees, the priest prayed for the souls of Billy Smoke, Wilma Brewster, Allan Pearson. He also interceded with God on behalf of Henry Buford’s tortured soul. When his earnest prayer was completed, the priest knew with absolute certainty that his supplication had been heard and acted upon. The gates of Hell had not prevailed. The dance hall had been shut down for all eternity.

This was a most remarkable event in the life of the parish priest. But as men grow old, the light of the mind dims. As the autumn years slipped by, his memory of the intercession would gradually fade.

But long after the Jesuit’s dark hair had paled to snowy white, he would perfectly recall that singular encounter with the unexpected visitor who had stood at the door—and knocked. At the moment he gave up his final breath, the priest would whisper, repeating his fearful challenge…
Who are you?

I am the light of the world.

Also by James D. Doss

The Shaman Sings

The Shaman Laughs

The Shaman’s Bones

The Shaman’s Game

The Night Visitor

Grandmother Spider

White Shell Woman

Acknowledgments

The author is very grateful to James A. Baran for his helpful suggestions.

DEAD SOUL
. Copyright © 2003 by James D. Doss. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.minotaurbooks.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Doss, James D.

Dead soul / James D. Doss.

p. cm.

ISBN: 978-1-4299-0380-6

1. Moon, Charlie (Fictitious character : Doss)—Fiction. 2. Police—Colorado—Fiction. 3. Missing persons—Fiction. 4. Legislators—Fiction. 5. Ute Indians—Fiction. 6. Colorado—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3554.O75D43 2003

813'.54—dc21

2003050624

Read on for a preview of the next installment
of the must-have Charlie Moon series

COFFIN MAN

On Sale November 2011 from Minotaur Books

Also by James D. Doss

A Dead Man’s Tale

The Widow’s Revenge

Snake Dreams

Three Sisters

Stone Butterfly

Shadow Man

The Witch’s Tongue

Dead Soul

White Shell Woman

Grandmother Spider

The Night Visitor

The Shaman’s Game

The Shaman’s Bones

The Shaman Laughs

The Shaman Sings

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

COFFIN MAN
. Copyright © 2011 by James D. Doss. All rights reserved. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.minotaurbooks.com

ISBN: 978-0-3126-1370-9

For the following nice folks in Taos County, New Mexico

Art and Susan Bachrach
Dennis and Winnie Concha
Judy Morita
John and Jeannie Norris
Rick Smith
and
Tyrone and Jennifer Tsoodle

Prologue

A Crusty Old Lady

By the gradual falling away of an increasingly frail competition, Daisy Perika has become the Southern Ute tribe’s oldest member. It might reasonably be supposed that the current holder of this title has become feeble in mind and body, but that would be an unwarranted assumption—and a risky one.

As folks used to say in bygone days, Miss Daisy is
set in her ways
. And very firmly so. Like senior citizens the world over, the tribal elder is intent on doing things as she sees fit, particularly when in her own home—which modest domicile is located on the sparsely populated eastern edge of the reservation, and not so far north of Colorado’s wilderness border with New Mexico. A universal proverb is: “Hard country makes hard people.” Another, more parochial maxim whispered by those locals
in the know
is: “Don’t Ever Cross Daisy Perika.” Good advice.

Ask Charlie Moon, and he’ll tell you that when his aunt wakes up in one of her better moods, she is pure hell-for-breakfast. On those mornings when Daisy greets the dawn with a flinty glint of fire in her eye—look out for the baddest woolly-booger west of the Pecos! Charlie claims that irate stepped-on rattlesnakes, snarling badgers, sting-you-just-for-fun scorpions, and foaming-at-the-mouth rabid packrats—all alike tip their little cowboy hats and step aside to yield the right-of-way to the cranky old lady. And it must be true because Daisy’s Catholic nephew will swear to this testimony on an Anglican prayer book without cracking a grin, and there’s not a hairy-chested hombre in Granite Creek County who’ll call Mr. Moon a low-down, egg-sucking, yeller-dog liar or an habitual dissembler—not to Moon’s face. Not if he wants to keep his teeth betwixt lips and tongue.

If Daisy had been aware of her relative’s happy hyperbole, she would have dismissed Charlie Moon’s boasts as faint praise. The old lady doesn’t mind playing the heavy—a big, bad rep has its advantages. General nuisances and major troublemakers tend to steer clear of elderly civilians who are deemed emotionally unstable and inclined toward gratuitous violence. Especially when those potential malefactors toddle about armed with a stout oak walking stick and know how to use it and on who—and do.

On the downside, an eminent lady’s social intercourse is somewhat restricted by the other party’s expectation that a slight difference of opinion might result in an urgent visit to the nearest emergency room. As a consequence, the fractious old soul who is reputed to be the
meanest Ute woman ever to draw a breath
does not have a multitude of adoring pals who come calling for afternoon tea and crumpets. That’s okay with Daisy, who comforts herself with the conviction that the few comrades she does have are absolutely first rate.

Right at the top of the list is her skinny, seven-foot-tall nephew. The part-time tribal investigator, occasional deputy to the Granite Creek chief of police, and full-time cattle rancher is (in Daisy’s opinion) as good a man as walks the earth. But being the best of a sorry lot doesn’t make Charlie Moon all that much to brag about. To put it in the words of this woman who has buried three troublesome husbands: “If I was to meet the finest porcupine that ever chewed the bark off a mulberry tree, I wouldn’t invite him home for supper.” Which brings us to the runner-up.

Despite the fact that she is only half Ute, nineteen-year-old Sarah Frank firmly occupies the number-two spot on Daisy’s Friends’ List. The willowy lass (as they also said in olden days) “has her cap set” on Charlie Moon, whose affections for the Ute-Papago orphan are of a fatherly nature.

The third member of Daisy’s inner circle is Scott Parris—a beefy, pale-skinned, blue-eyed
matukach.
The Caucasian cop is Charlie Moon’s best friend and the aforementioned chief of police.

Of the three, only Charlie Moon is her blood kin, but Daisy Perika considers the trio to be her
family
. From time to time, closely knit clans get together to share a meal at a mutually convenient table, and for this foursome such gatherings generally take place at a favorite local restaurant, the headquarters of Mr. Moon’s Columbine Ranch, or at Daisy’s remote reservation home.

One such reunion is currently under way at that latter location.