Dead Soul by Doss James D

Author:Doss, James D. [Doss, James D.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Minotaur Books
Published: 2010-04-01T07:00:00+00:00

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

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