Free Dead Soul by James D. Doss Page A

Well worn, but clean.
    At her direction, Moon seated himself at the kitchen table. He accepted her offer of coffee. He eyed the small sugar bowl, decided to do without the usual six teaspoons of sweetener.
    After lowering the flame under an aluminum saucepan filled with Great Northern beans, Jane Brewster turned her back on the sooty kerosene stove. She removed the apron, hung it on a nail by the back door. The woman smoothed a wispy tuft of gray hair, sat down across the table from her visitor. “This about Wilma?”
    He looked at the cup, nodded.
    “Ain’t seen her since last December.” Jane Brewster’s eyes glazed over. “First time she wasn’t home for Christmas.”
    “Heard anything from her since then?”
    “Not a word.” A half smile. “O’course I haven’t had a phone for a couple of months now.”
    He took a shot in the dark. “Anybody else seen her?”
    “Oh, sure. Every time I get out, I see somebody claims they’ve spotted my daughter.” She waved a bony arm in a gesture of hopeless frustration. “Hey, Jane—I saw Wilma up in Grand Junction at the Kentucky Fried. Over in Pueblo at a flea market. Down yonder in Salida at the post office.” She rubbed the back of her hand over a moist eye. “I don’t know why she don’t write me a letter.” Her tone and expression had turned bitter. “Maybe because I don’t have no reg’lar work—or any cash money to help pay her tuition.”
    “Was she having any problems at the university?”
    Jane Brewster shrugged under the oversized print dress. “How would I know—my daughter never told me nothing.” She stared at the Ute. “There’s something else you’ve been wanting to ask me about. It’s all right. Go ahead.”
    Thanks for making this easy. “I understand she was using prescription medication.”
    “Wilma was a sick girl. But as long as she took her pills…”
    An unpleasant picture was forming in his mind. “Mrs. Brewster, what might happen if your daughter didn’t take her medicine?”
    “Most of the time, nothing too serious. Other times, she could get a little crazy. Hear voices—see things that wasn’t there. Sometimes, she’d get pretty excited. One time, when she was still in high school, my ninety-pound daughter punched out her gym coach.” The woman smiled. “He was a pretty big guy, but she broke his nose.” Jane Brewster looked across the table at the Ute. “Where’s this going?”
    Good question. “A young woman matching your daughter’s description has spoken to my aunt. It was in Durango.”
    A faint spark of hope glimmered in the pale blue eyes. “What’d she say?”
    Another good question. “Not a lot. But it sounded like she wanted to talk to me about something.” Moon gauged his words with care. “Far as you know, could she have left town because she was afraid?”
    The woman’s eyes flashed blue fire. “Afraid of what?”
    “I don’t know. A boyfriend?”
    “Wilma didn’t tell me about any boyfriends.” She cast a wary glance at the tribal investigator. “Aside from the fact that she spoke to your aunt, why’s an Indian cop interested in my daughter?”
    “I’m working on something for the tribe. When Senator Davidson was assaulted, one of our people was killed.”
    Jane Brewster rubbed a callused finger over a stubborn crease in the blue and white oilcloth. Her rough-edged voice took on a defensive tone. “What does that have to do with my Wilma?”
    “Probably nothing. But I know you did some cooking for the senator.”
    “That’s why you’re here?”
    “That, and the possibility that the young lady my aunt spoke to might be your daughter.” Mostly, I’m just shooting in the dark. “There must be a reason this young woman wants to talk to me.” The tribal investigator slowed to a trot before jumping the next fence. “When you worked at the BoxCar, did your daughter ever drop by to visit you—maybe help with the cooking?”
    She coughed up a bitter laugh. “Wilma couldn’t