Dead Soul by James D. Doss Read Free Book Online

percentage points on the reservation. He allowed his eyes time to adjust to the night. The employee parking lot was darker than usual. Something seems different. He realized what it was. The single lightbulb that normally illuminated the graveled space was black as an eight ball. Senator Davidson leaned forward, as if this would help his vision penetrate the damp blackness. Where’s the car? Billy knows he’s supposed to turn the lights on when I come out. Maybe he’s still hanging out in that sleazy bar. Maybe drunk. Maybe I should call him on the cell phone.
    As he collected this handful of maybes, the senator’s pupils dilated just enough. He spotted an outline that resembled the big Lincoln. The barge-like automobile was parked less than ten yards away. “Well, turn on the lights, Billy-Boy.” It occurred to him that the chauffeur might not be able to see him in the darkness. He pulled the coat collar close around his neck, started across the parking space toward the black sedan, heard his footsteps in the soaked gravel. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. As he approached the automobile, he noticed that the door was open just a crack. Davidson leaned to peer through the window. “Billy?” He pulled at the door. The dome light switched on, bathed the luxury car’s interior in soft amber light. The front seat was empty. “Now where the hell is he?” Maybe he went inside looking for me. Probably stopped at the john to take a leak. That’s why I missed him. Sure.
    Senator Davidson heard footsteps, turned, expecting to see the approaching form of his good-natured Indian chauffeur.

    HIS BLADDER relieved, Oscar Sweetwater was at his Buick, fumbling in his pocket for the keys, when he heard the sound. The tribal chairman turned toward the rear of the restaurant, where Billy Smoke always picked up the senator after their late dinners. There it was again. Something between a whimper and a groan.
    Sweetwater unlocked the Buick, removed a flashlight and a very old Colt .32-caliber revolver from the glove compartment. As he walked slowly toward the sounds, he opened the cold steel cylinder and ran his finger around it, feeling the rims of brass cartridge cases, counting six. Ready for business. Rounding the corner of the cinder block building, he heard an indistinct thumping sound—a car door closing? He waited, then called out, “Who’s there?” The silence was prickly-cold. The elderly Ute switched on the flashlight. He swept the beam across a half dozen parked sedans, a rusty Chevy pickup. And the senator’s Lincoln. But no sign of a living creature, human or otherwise. The pitiful whimpering had ceased. A sea of silence washed over the graveled parking lot.
    The tribal chairman took a half dozen steps toward the Lincoln. “Hey—Patch. You there?”
    The answer was illuminated in the beam of his flashlight. The senator, easily identifiable by a shock of silvery-white hair, was stretched out on his side. The Southern Ute tribal chairman knelt by the still figure. “Patch—are you…dead?”
    There was a faint, answering whimper. Sweetwater played the flashlight beam around the lot. Barely a dozen paces away, immediately behind the Lincoln, he saw another body. Must be Billy Smoke. Right size. Right shape. Right hair color. But it was impossible to be certain if it was Billy. Much of the man’s face was caved in. Sweetwater was certain of one thing. Only one of these men would need medical attention.
    The tribal chairman grasped his friend by the shoulder. “Hold on, Patch.” The aged man managed a stiff, bowlegged gallop toward the restaurant. Oscar Sweetwater heard someone screaming for help. It was his own voice. The Ute didn’t realize he was speaking in his native tongue.

    THE CASHIER looked up in openmouthed alarm as the wild-eyed maniac burst through the restaurant door. It was an old dark-skinned man waving a flashlight in one hand, a pistol in the other. He was shouting in a choppy language she did not