Free Dead Soul by James D. Doss Page B

boil a thimble of water if she had a blowtorch.”
    “So she was never on the ranch with you?”
    The hardworking woman rubbed rough palms together. “Sometimes when I couldn’t get a ride out there, Wilma would drive me over to the BoxCar. Other times she’d come pick me up when my work was done. But she never stayed long.”
    “When was the last time she was at the ranch?”
    Jane Brewster studied her hands for a long time. As if she had never really seen them. When the examination was complete, she looked up at the Ute. “It was the last time I saw her. She drove out to pick me up that afternoon. It was the Thursday before Christmas.” She closed her eyes to concentrate. “That must’ve been on the twenty-first.”
    “Anything else happen that day? I mean—anything unusual.”
    Mrs. Brewster smiled without mirth. “Yeah. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was my last day at the BoxCar. And it was just three days later—on a Sunday—the senator got crippled and his driver got himself killed.” She looked through a cracked windowpane at nothing in particular. “Patch Davidson was in the hospital off and on for almost two months. I never got called back to work. Guess that rich man found out he could get along fine without me.”
    “Tell me about that day when your daughter came to pick you up.”
    A listless shrug. “Nothing special. She showed up. I finished cleaning up the kitchen. We left. Next day, she went to work at her university job. Wilma was a part-time campus police officer. Wore a spiffy uniform. Rode around on a shiny bicycle.”
    Outside, the bored dog barked at nothing. The shack was surrounded by acres and acres of nothing.
    Moon accepted a refill on his coffee.
    She watched him drink. “You have any idea where my daughter’s holed up?”
    There was no point in mentioning Rio Hondo. “She’s probably staying with some friends.”
    She anticipated his question. “If she has any friends, I don’t know who they are.”
    The tribal investigator stared at the surface of the black liquid.
    Her elbows on the table, the woman leaned forward. “You find my Wilma, you tell that girl to come see her mother.”
    It’s time to go. Moon thanked her for the coffee and conversation. At the front door, the Ute fished a thin wallet out of his hip pocket. Hesitated. The F-150 was running on fumes, and there would be six dollars left for gasoline. He gave the woman his last twenty.
    She looked at the greenback, then at the tall man. “What’s this for?”
    “Expenses.” Moon avoided the intelligent blue eyes. “If you hear anything about your daughter—or think of something I need to know—I expect you to go into town. Find a pay phone, call me.”
    The woman opened her mouth to speak, said nothing. The reddened eyes teared up.
    Embarrassed, Moon turned away. “Well, I better be getting on down the road.”
    Jane Brewster found a hoarse voice. “I don’t know. I never took nothing from nobody that I didn’t earn. I just don’t think it’s right to—”
    “Sure it’s right—think of it as a bribe.” He flashed her a smile that lit up forty acres of twilight. “And you’ll earn it. From time to time I’ll drop by and make a nuisance of myself.”
    She showed him a careworn face that had once been pretty enough to inspire foolish young men to hang around her father’s front porch. “You’re quite a sly fellow, Mr. Moon.”
    He tipped the John B. Stetson. “Call me Charlie.”
    She crumpled the bill in a fist. Watched the slender man make long strides toward his pickup.

Chapter Ten
    GHOST TOWN
    LONG WISPS OF FOG HUNG LIKE SPIDERWEBS UNDER THE SPRUCE . Unseen things rustled among the dark ferns, a demented owl who didn’t know noon from midnight hooted at the intruders. It was enough to make even a sensible man muse about ghosts and goblins and other unmentionable horrors. Neither of the police officers measured above zero on the sensible scale.
    Leaning forward, his back