Dead Soul (20 page)

“I had a chat with that waitress at the Mountain Man. Charlene says one of those biker thugs left a threatening message for you.”

“Wasn’t exactly a threat. Just said his bunch would be in touch with me.”

“Right. And I bet they intend to give you some sort of award for knocking the teeth out of the fat guy’s head, and almost killing the other one.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Please sit down.”

Moon sat.

Parris leaned forward, tapped his finger on the Ute’s knee. “Whether we can ever prove it or not, it’s a sure thing—while you were in the Mountain Man, one of those crazy bikers put that rattlesnake in your pickup. I figure it was the fat one. Half-Ton.”

At the mention of the man who had bear-hugged him almost to death, Moon felt a sharp twinge of pain in his side. “You think he’s mad enough at me to do a mean thing like that?”

Scott Parris grinned at his best friend. “You do have a way of getting on a man’s nerves.”

With considerable attention to his bandaged ribs, the Ute eased himself up from the chair. “I got some business to attend to.”

“Charlie, I know you’d like to have another go at them bikers. But take some advice from your best friend and—”

“This isn’t about the snake. Or the bikers.” The Ute was headed for the door. “I got some work to do for the senator.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

CLEAN SWEEP

THE LONG
,
COLD NIGHT
—
HAVING OVERSTAYED ITS ALLOTTED
time—was withdrawing in a huff, dragging its dark, dusty cloak over the arid highlands. The western horizon was a smear of deep purple, rippled with streaks of greenish yellow. To the east was the promise of a new day—a halo of silver shimmered over the shark-tooth peaks of the Misery Range.

Charlie Moon was parked at the BoxCar airstrip in the Expedition, listening to the early morning
Farm and Ranch Report
on AM radio. He watched a dark speck appear over the mountains, turned the radio off.

Nine minutes later, dawn’s perfect silence was shattered by a King Air 2000’s piston engines.

The tribal investigator watched the sleek aircraft descend at a seemingly precipitous angle, glide along barely above the asphalt runway, take a slight bounce, sit down with a brief shriek of rubber. The twin-engine airplane taxied to a roaring halt near the senator’s hangar. Almost immediately the engines were cut; a hatch dropped to make a stairway. Two figures emerged down the suspended steps. They wore crisply pressed gray suits, white shirts, blue ties, polished black oxfords. They were followed by a second pair representing the same firm; these were clad in dark blue coveralls. Moving more deliberately, the workers were carrying stainless steel cases. The pilot, warm in a wool-lined bomber jacket, emerged to tie down the plane.

The tribal investigator, who had gotten out of his car, recognized one of the suits.

FBI Special Agent Stanley Newman strode forward, stuck out his hand. “Hi, Charlie. Wow, look at your mug! I heard you’ve been in a fight with a couple of badasses—want to do some bragging?”

“You don’t want to hear about it.” Moon shook the strong hand, smiled at the familiar face, which was always pinched by some nameless inner anxiety. Newman introduced the Ute to Special Agent Michael Yancey, who insisted that Moon “call me Mike.” Stiffly handsome, graying at the temples, the senior member of the FBI team was one of those hardy souls who—having invested all of his considerable confidence in himself—had not a nickel’s worth left over to squander on his fellows. Yancey gave the tall Ute a brief sizing-up.
Friendly. Wants to be helpful. Not too bright.
Having gotten Moon “calibrated,” he turned his attention to the technicians, who were opening the steel cases to inspect the equipment secured inside. “Cold,” Yancey said, rubbing his palms together. Coming from the self-assured man, this needless observation carried the weight of an oracle.

Moon looked toward the clearing sky with a rancher’s keen eye for weather. “Another couple of weeks, we’ll have considerable snow on the peaks.”

Stan Newman was blowing warm breath into his cupped hands. The wiry man—who had been raised in Newark—looked around the vast openness as if he doubted they had landed at the right airstrip. Like maybe this was one of Charlie Moon’s pranks. “So where’s the senator’s home?”

The Ute pointed to the south. “Just over that little rise.”
In the manmade oasis.

The techs, having satisfied themselves that their electronic gear was in good working order, waited several paces away from the Ute and the suits. As if not to contaminate themselves by unnecessary contact with those who paid no heed to Ohm’s Law—and had never encountered Maxwell’s elegant electromagnetic equations.

Charlie Moon nodded to indicate a Chevrolet Suburban, the designated transportation for airport visitors who arrived when the senator was not present to greet them personally. “You can drive that to the BoxCar headquarters. I’ll show you the way.” He was heading toward the Expedition when Newman hurried to fall in step beside him. “If you don’t mind, I’ll hitch a ride with you.”

“I’ll be glad for the company.” He was cranking the engine when the federal agent, cold hands jammed deep into his suit coat pockets, gave the Ute a searching look. “So where’s all the cowboys?”

“This isn’t a working ranch. Senator doesn’t need that many employees.”

“Anybody else here besides you?”

“Not a soul. For today, I’m the BoxCar’s sole caretaker.” The Ute watched the rearview mirror while the techs loaded their gear into the Suburban. “Davidson and his personal assistant boarded his Gulf-stream last night, headed for Washington. Before he left, Davidson managed to get everyone off the ranch for several days. Nephew’s off to Italy, ranch manager’s warming himself on a sandy beach in Costa Rica.”

“Lucky devils.” Newman stared at the heater button, wished Moon would switch it on. “I hope all the doors are unlocked—even with the senator’s signed request to check out his real estate for electronic listening devices, we don’t intend to pick any locks.”

Moon jangled a large ring of keys.

A sly smile cut the flat space between Stan Newman’s beak nose and square chin. “So how come Patch Davidson trusts a slippery guy like you around his silverware?”

“It’s one of life’s great mysteries, Stan—everybody trusts me.”

“Everybody except me, Chucky.”

“You were always an exceptional man.”

The Suburban, with Special Agent Mike Yancey at the wheel, was belching a stutter of gray puffs from the exhaust pipe. It made a sudden leap forward, stalled, then lurched again.

Moon pulled away from the airstrip.

Newman lost the smile. “What I don’t get is why’re you going to all this trouble for the senator? You’re a happy-go-lucky rancher now. You oughta be out on the range, singin’ songs to your cows.”

“I have cowboys in my employ who are paid sing to the animals. Besides, me and Patch are neighbors. I’m just being neighborly. And it cuts both ways. If I should come down sick, Patch’d run the combine over my wheat fields. Help raise a barn. Pluck chickens.”

“Horse hockey. I bet there’s some money in it for you.”

“I will draw a modest few dollars for my services.”

“Hah—I knew it.” The special agent’s eyes narrowed. “I hear you’re poking around in that assault on the senator.”

“More to the point, in the murder of Billy Smoke. Who happens to be an enrolled member of my tribe. If the FBI had arrested his killer, I would not have been asked to look into the matter.”

“Don’t mess with me, Charlie. I ain’t in the mood.”

“Haven’t had your breakfast?”

“Not even a cuppa coffee.”

“When we get to the big house, I’ll take care of that.”

“Don’t change the subject—how’d you get so close to Senator Davidson?”

“Hey, you’re the FBI. Given enough time and resources, you’ll figure it out.”

“Given enough time and a hammer, I’ll nail you to the barn door for some petty misdemeanor.”

“Like what?”

“Like annoying an agent of the federal government. Now tell me how you got to be the senator’s security advisor.”

Moon bounced the Expedition over a pothole. “You settle for a hint?”

“Forget hints—you tell me straight out in plain English.”

“You won’t like it.”

“Try me.”

“Okay, here goes. For reasons I cannot fathom, the senator doesn’t like you federal cops. On the other hand, he is very fond of me. I am almost like a son to him.”

The FBI agent snorted. “I don’t care if Davidson adopts you—you better not step over the line. If you do, I’ll…” His words trailed off.

“You getting cold feet?” Moon switched on the heater.

Newman stuck his shoes close to the floor vent. “Only thing worse than a former Indian traffic cop is a smart-ass Indian rancher with a state P.I. license to go snooping.”

“You forgot something.”

“Oh, yeah—the local chief of police is your best buddy.”

“Well, that too. But I also have a very influential next-door neighbor. Who is a senior member of the Senate Judiciary Committee. Which oversees the Justice Department. Which includes the FBI.”

“Please—don’t remind me.” Newman exhaled his martyr’s sigh.
Twelve more years to retirement
.

“Now I have a question for you.”

“About what?”

“It’s about who—Agent Michael Yancey.”

“What do you want to know about him?”
Like I’d tell you squat.

“What brings the chief of the FBI’s crack counterespionage team out on a routine security check?”

Stanley Newman’s jaw dropped. He stared at the driver. “How the hell did you know Yancey was…”

Moon grinned. “You just told me.”

“Charlie, that ain’t funny.” The federal agent clenched his jaw. “You shouldn’t a done that. You
know
how that pisses me off.”

“Can’t help it, Stan—it’s sort of a reflex action.” Moon pulled to a stop under the spindly branches of a Russian olive. They had arrived at the BoxCar headquarters.

Newman fumbled with the door latch. “Look—don’t try none of your nonsense on Agent Yancey. He ain’t a nice guy like me.”

The Ute watched the Suburban lurch to a stop behind his Expedition. “I’ll try to remember that.”

SPECIAL AGENT
Michael Yancey stood with arms folded across his chest. He glared at his silent audience, spitting out words like the head of a commando team about to scale the cliff and take out the long-range German naval guns that would otherwise surely sink half the Allied invasion fleet in the icy channel waters. “Okay, here’s the way it works. Me and the technicians go in and get the job done. Agent Newman, you and Mr. Moon wait outside. I should think you fellows will find something to talk about.” He shot an accusing look at Newman. “I understand you two are old buddies.”

Charlie Moon thought he would give Stan Newman an opportunity to set the man straight on the rules of the game.

Newman started to open his mouth, thought better of it.
I’ll let Charlie tell him.

The Ute told him. “I go in with you.”

“Sorry,” Yancey said crisply. “It’s against established procedure. The techniques we use in a sweep like this are highly sensitive. Even Agent Newman doesn’t have the need to know—”

“I don’t think you understand,” Moon said. “The senator was very clear about this. No one goes into his house without the designated escort—which is me.”

The senior agent stared coldly at the Ute. “That is simply unacceptable.”

Moon presented a friendly smile to the uptight fed. “If it was up to me, Agent Yancey, you folks could have free run of the place. But it’s not my call. I’ve agreed to represent the senator’s position. And his interests.”

“Look,” Newman said to his superior. “He’s right. That was the senator’s condition—Charlie has to observe what goes on inside.”

“I agreed to no such arrangement,” Yancey snapped at Newman. “Why didn’t someone tell me about this?”

Moon concealed his enjoyment of the small drama.
Look out, Mr. Yancey. Stan is getting his bulldog-about-to-bite-a-pork-chop look.

Newman’s response was delivered in a dull, dangerous monotone. “It was in the letter I faxed you last week.”
Read your mail, you obnoxious sonofabitch.

“I recall no such communication.” Yancey turned his attention to the amiable Ute. “Our work here must be done in private. Or not at all.”

“I’m sorry for the misunderstanding.” Moon nodded toward the airstrip. “Might as well head back to your airplane.”

Yancey turned toward the techs, as if to issue such an order.

Newman made a face. “I’m tired of flying.”
And I’m tired of trying to work with fashion-plate jerks who don’t know what the job is before they fly halfway across the country
. “If you don’t mind, Charlie, I’ll be your guest till I can get someone to come and pick me up.”

“No need for that. I’ll singe a couple slabs of steak and fry a half dozen eggs. After we’ve had our breakfast, I’ll be glad to run you down to Durango.”

Michael Yancey realized that he had made a gamble and lost. But as was his habit, he pushed this knowledge so far into the bottom of his unconscious as to be oblivious to the truth. He assured himself that he was a sane, reasonable man who had the misfortune to be surrounded by bumbling incompetents. This was merely a sorry situation that needed expert managing. The Indian seemed easygoing, but he was stubborn as a mule. Such rustics must be manipulated with skill and cunning. He turned to face the tall Ute. “As you said, Mr. Moon, this is merely a misunderstanding. A bureaucratic mix-up. A problem in communications.”
Now a touch of flattery.
“As fellow professionals, it is up to us to find a way to work around it. Here’s how I see it. Because you are an official member of the senator’s security staff, I propose that you escort us into the house.”

Moon responded with a thoughtful nod. “Yeah. That sounds like a workable idea.”

Newman rolled his eyes.

Agent Yancey managed not to notice this hint of insubordination. “You must realize, of course, that some of our instrumentation and investigative techniques are quite sensitive.”

“No problem,” Moon said. “I promise not to look at any of your dials and meters.”

Having regained control of a deteriorating situation, Yancey beamed a fatherly smile at the Ute. “Here’s how we’ll play it. You take us in, but address any remarks only to Special Agent Newman. Do not mention him by name—the bad guys may be listening. Talk about ranching. The weather. Baseball. Anything except what we are here for. Do you understand?”