by Ron Levitsky
Cantrell stared at Jack. His mouth twitched. “You sure about them cops?”
“Well find out soon enough. Now get your things, and be quick about it.”
“You’re sure you . . .?”
“I’ll be fine. I am the one holding the gun.”
As the engineer hurried into the hallway, Jack wrapped his arm around Grace. She tried to twist away, but he was too strong.
Nuzzling her cheek, he said, “This would’ve made a nice wedding picture. You know, I was actually looking forward to getting married. It might’ve been fun.”
“Till you got rid of her,” Tom said.
Jack gave a short, hard laugh. “You make me into some kind of Bluebeard. I’m just a businessman, like thousands of others.”
Rosen shook his head. “You murdered Will True Sky.”
“Technically, no. You were right about Cantrell eliminating Will. But young True Sky was himself a murderer and had no qualms about letting his father take the blame. I think he would’ve let the old man fry, don’t you?”
Grace felt her body shaking, and hot tears rolled down her cheeks. She was crying for her dead brother, and because Jack was right about Will, and because she’d been such a fool. Now, to have risked Tom’s life as well.
Rosen said, “You were behind all of this, going back to last summer.”
“Not Albert Gates’s murder. That was all Will’s doing.”
“But you used even that to your advantage. You planned to make yourself a hero to Grace by helping her father with the condemnation hearing. When you won, you figured the town would be much more generous in making a deal, rather than risk an appeal. You had Cantrell hire Gil McCracken to kill Saul. When that failed, you took the next opportunity—Will’s arrest. Had Saul died along with Will last night, all you would’ve needed to do was marry Grace and offer the land to the town for some gambling licenses.”
“Very good, Nate. I really wish you played tennis.”
“That’s what you like—gentlemen’s games like tennis and backgammon. Cantrell did all the dirty work. Hiring McCracken, gambling with Roy Huggins, courting the widowed mayor, even putting that poor idiot Elroy Baker on the take. He did the legwork, but everything was your idea. The spider patiently spinning its web.”
“Why, Nate, you flatter me. Easy, darling.” He pulled Grace back against him.
“You even used the F.B.I. investigation of Cantrell to your advantage. You ran your own exposé. The crusading editor—you might even have been elected mayor.”
“I would have. But . . .” He shrugged.
Cantrell lumbered into the room, his gun tucked in his belt. He held a leather overnight bag in one hand, while the other dragged an overstuffed green suitcase the size of a giant turtle.
Dropping the bags, Cantrell pulled out his gun. “You sure there ain’t nobody outside?”
Keeshin said, “I told you—no.”
“It’s just that I don’t like killing a cop. They look a lot harder for you.”
“We have no choice. Besides, I’ve been more than generous.”
“Bad enough taking care of Cross Dog and the lawyer. Doing a woman’s about as bad as a cop.”
Grace rubbed her eyes with her palms, the way her grandmother used to do. At least this time, she’d show her Lakota blood. Jack’s breath was warm against her cheek. Staring into his eyes, she spit in his face.
Not breaking the stare, he wiped his face with his gun hand and said, “Chick, let’s get on with it.”
“All right, just let me see for myself if there’re any cops outside.”
As Cantrell passed Rosen, who stood beside the sofa, the lawyer suddenly tripped him. He fell hard against the coffee table, his head shattering the glass top.
“Hold it!” Jack shouted, when Rosen knelt on the floor. Cantrell’s gun lay only a few feet away. Jack glanced from Rosen to Tom, then back to the lawyer.
Gently Rosen moved Cantrell’s head; blood had filled the crevices of broken glass. “He’s hurt pretty bad.”
“Keep your hand away from the gun. Unfortunately, Chick will just have to stay behind with you two.”
Jack’s breathing had quickened. Grace saw his finger tighten on the trigger.
Rosen moved his hand an inch or two closer to the gun. “You needed Cantrell to kill us. You never do the dirty work yourself. So what now?”
Tom took a step closer.
Jack aimed at Tom. “It has to be done.”
Clenching his fists, Tom shook his head slowly. “You shoulda killed me out on the road. Did you really think I’d let you hurt her?”
Rosen lunged for the gun on the floor. When Jack hesitated, Grace tore herself from his grip and Tom ran toward him. Jack’s gun discharged and Tom jerked back, paused for an instant, then hurled himself forward. Arms flailing helplessly against the big man’s iron grip, Jack stumbled backward. The gun fired once more into the ceiling, before both men crashed through the window, falling together into the cold black abyss.
“Tom!” Grace screamed. Staggering toward the window, she almost followed them into the darkness.
Rosen pulled her back. Huddling against the lawyer, she called Tom’s name again, half blinded by her own tears. Through the jagged glass the wind’s whispering sounded like the grandfathers of her people telling her something she couldn’t understand. Not because she was a woman, but because she had turned her back on them long ago.
Chapter Twenty-Two – THURSDAY MORNING
The furniture had been pushed back to the walls of Saul’s living room. In the center of the room, Will’s coffin, a simple wooden box, lay open on a long table. Rosen stood in line with Andi, behind five or six others waiting to pay their respects. He’d unzipped his coat but kept it on. He couldn’t stay long.
The house was crowded with townspeople. In one corner a few Indian men, dressed in dark suits and white shirts, had congregated around Saul. Ike did most of the talking, while the others nodded solemnly. Rosen had already spoken to Saul, whose face remained smooth as a stone, revealing nothing—especially the pain. Because they’d probably never see each other again. Rosen had wanted him to smile, as friends do before saying goodbye. Of course, that couldn’t happen, not with Will lying in his coffin a few feet away.
Wearing long print dresses, women kept going in and out of the kitchen, and soon Rosen smelled the rich aroma of turkey toasting in the oven. Belle Gates moved through the crowd, whispering condolences while shaking her head sadly. Wendy, the dispatcher, kept wiping her eyes, as did a number of other young women. Pearl Whistler was missing, but she and her husband had left town on an extended vacation. “Yeah,” Andi had said earlier, “I bet she convinced him it was a second honeymoon.”
Neither Grace nor Stevie was in the living room. She might be in the kitchen, and perhaps the boy was upstairs in his room, but Rosen had an idea where they both were, and the thought made him smile.
Ahead of him, an elderly Indian woman shuffled to the coffin. Her gray hair, thick as wire, was twisted into two long braids. From her purse she took a beautifully embroidered headband of red and green beads.
Looking into the casket, she said, “You were always good to us old ones. I remember how you brought my family groceries when John was home with a broken leg. And you’d take him to the doctor in your pickup and wait to bring him back. Here.”
She placed the headband inside the casket and walked away.
Rosen approached the coffin with Andi. Will was dressed in an expensive blue suit and wore shiny black shoes that looked new. Despite his waxy pallor, he looked as handsome as he’d been in life. Only his forehead was marred, where the mortician had carefully stitched the wounds closed. Dozens of small gifts covered his body—beadwork like the headband, trinkets, even currency and coins.
From a manila envelope, Andi took an eight-by-ten photograph. It was a recent shot of Will, in a torn sweatshirt, sitting on the hood of his pickup. He had the cocky smile of a young Paul Newman.
She
lay the photograph on Will’s chest. “I had a good time whenever you took me out. We always had lots of fun, like the carnival up in Deadwood or the Corvette rallies out in Sturgis. Never really any hard feelings when we broke up, ’cause I knew you never meant any harm. You were just out for a good time. God bless you, Will.”
Swallowing hard, she walked back to the hallway, where she’d left her camera bag.
It was Rosen’s turn. Andi had told him that, at a Lakota wake, everyone was to give an offering and speak well of the dead. He placed a five-dollar bill beside the photograph and looked into the dead man’s face.
What could be said about someone who’d allow his father to be wrongly accused of murder? Although estranged from his own father, Rosen could never have done that. Of all the commandments, the fifth was branded into his heart. “Honor thy father and thy mother.” Yet, hadn’t he dishonored his father? Before the Lord, wasn’t he as guilty as Will? There was one difference between them, and because of that difference, Rosen knew what to say.
“You were a lucky man. You made mistakes, like we all do, but you were forgiven. You killed Belle Gates’s husband, yet she’s here. You let your father take the blame for you, yet he’s here too. There couldn’t be so many tears, so much forgiveness, without love.”
Then he quietly recited the Kaddish, the Jewish prayer for the dead.
Rosen stepped aside and watched Wendy place a silver crucifix in the casket. She started to say something, then sobbed loudly. As she tried again, Rosen hurried away, hearing only the word “love.” He walked over to Andi, who was adjusting her camera.
Checking the flash, she said, “Saul’s letting me take pictures of the wake. They can’t raise their dead up on scaffolds, like the old days, but they carry on their tradition the best they can.”
“And you want to preserve it.”
She nodded. “Besides, it’s kind of a nice feeling with everybody together and the women cooking in the kitchen.” She blinked hard. “God, that sounds terrible. Will’s body lying there and me saying how nice things are.”
“No, it’s not terrible. It’s a good home, filled with friendship and love. That’s what you’re supposed to feel.”
“Guess you’re right. Look, I’m going to take a few pictures, then we can go. Okay?”
“Sure.”
Rosen heard a car coming up the road. Through the window, he saw Grace’s Toyota pull up a few feet from the front-porch steps.
“I’ll wait outside,” he said, zipping up his coat.
Walking onto the porch, he blinked from the sunlight and inhaled the clean, cold air. The temperature, in the upper teens, seemed almost springlike compared to the blizzard a few days before.
As she stepped from the car, Grace nodded a greeting, then hurried around to the passenger side, her boots crunching in the snow. Stevie moved as quickly from the back seat. They both opened the door and helped Tom from the car.
The policeman struggled from his seat, then leaned against the car while retrieving his cane. His left arm, broken in the fall, rested snugly in a sling under his coat. Shaking off Grace and Stevie, who hovered on either side of him, he lumbered awkwardly like a trained bear up the porch steps.
“Hello, Tom,” Rosen said. “I didn’t expect you to be up and around so soon.”
“It ain’t so bad. Doctor said everything will heal up eventually. I sure look a lot better than Ike’s van over there. If it was a horse, I’d have it shot.”
Rosen glanced down the line of vehicles. Ike’s van did indeed look like an old swayback, its roof caved in where Tom and Keeshin had crashed after falling from the second-story window.
“Now, Gracie,” Tom groused, “gimme some room. I ain’t a cripple.”
She stayed beside him. “Why don’t you tell Mr. Rosen what else the doctor said, that you should stay in bed a few more days.”
“I said I’m all right.”
“You promised to take it easy.”
“You gonna chew my food for me too?”
“If I have to. Why you always have to be so stubborn, when all I’m trying to do is—”
“I ain’t stubborn. It’s just that I’m the police chief. What are folks gonna think?”
She looked at him and smiled softly. “They’re gonna think how lucky they are. Ain’t that right, Mr. Rosen?”
Before Rosen could answer, Tom cleared his throat and shifted against his cane. “I hear you’re leaving today.”
Rosen nodded. “As soon as Andi finishes taking some pictures inside. I’m driving with her as far as Chicago, then flying the rest of the way back to Washington.”
Grace said, “She always wanted a job in some big city. We’re all happy about it, but . . . the town won’t be the same without her. It’s nice you’re keeping her company part of the way.”
“After what happened to Tom and me Tuesday night, I was a bit apprehensive about that car of hers breaking down on the highway. But she showed me a written statement from her mechanic that the car’s tuned up and in perfect condition.”
“Hmm,” Tom said, “hope it wasn’t Oscar Two Hoops who worked on the car. He used to be Ike’s drinking buddy. I remember once he poured four quarts of windshield wash where the oil shoulda gone. Drank the fifth quart himself.”
The two men stared at each other, until the policeman broke out laughing.
Grace clicked her tongue. “Don’t pay him no mind, Mr. Rosen. He’s just teasing you. At least he’s feeling better. Well, I better get inside. I just want to thank you again for everything you done. Clearing my father and all.”
“I just wish I could’ve done more.”
“What happened to Will was his fault. His and mine. If I hadn’t been so blind . . .” Her eyes fixed on a point far in the distance, in the direction of town.
“Gracie,” Tom said softly.
She roused herself. “I’d better get inside. Coming, Stevie?”
“In a couple minutes, Mom.”
“You want to spend some time with the men.” She smiled, tousling his hair. “All right, but come in before you get too cold.”
She walked inside, closing the front door quickly, but not before Rosen again heard the quiet murmuring and smelled the roast turkey. He almost changed his mind about leaving.
“Too bad you’re going,” Tom said. “I’d kind of like you to see the town once it goes back to normal. Bear Coat’s not a bad place to live. It was just all that crazy talk about the big money gambling would bring in. You know what talk like that can do to people.”
“I know. That’s why I wonder if it really is over. Has the town decided not to appeal Judge O’Hara’s decision about Saul’s land?”
“Roy Huggins wants to plow ahead, come hell or high water. But others, like Belle Gates, are sick over what happened. They’d rather take their chances with the way things are. ‘Better the devil you know.’ And we looked into the devil’s own eyes, didn’t we? I almost rode him straight down to hell.”
“Stevie,” Rosen asked, “would you please get my briefcase? It’s in Andi’s car, down there behind the green and white pickup. You may have to dig through a few boxes in the backseat.”
Stevie ran toward the old Mercury.
“I shouldn’t have mentioned Keeshin in front of the boy,” Tom said. “They were pretty close for a while.”
“He was an evil man.”
“Maybe Stevie don’t see it that way.”
“If he doesn’t now, he will once Keeshin’s trial begins. I’m assuming Keeshin will live to stand trial with Chick Cantrell.”
“Oh, he will, though I doubt he’ll ever play tennis again—he may not even walk. From what the sheriff in Deadwood tells me, Keeshin and Cantrell are falling over each other trying to cut a deal, each begging to testify against the other and his mob connections. Whoever doesn’t fry is gonna spend a long time in jail. I just wish that was enough to make up for all the bad they did here.”
Rosen glanced back at the house. “Lawyers like me
talk a lot about the efficacy of justice, but justice goes only so far. What really matters is the healing going on inside that house. Your people are from strong stock. They’ve been put through a lot of suffering, but they’ve endured.”
“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”
“Sometimes I forget. I’ve had to bury my own dead on this trip.”
“I don’t understand. Somebody . . .?”
“Not somebody. Something within me—the marriage my ex-wife and I once had. We’ve been divorced for years, but it’s traveled along with me like a wanagi, the ghost that Saul’s talked about. The one that should’ve been put to rest long ago. I’ve learned a lot about enduring from Saul’s family and from you.”
“Me?”
Rosen nodded. “You’ve finally forgiven Saul for what he did to your uncle years ago.”
“For years Saul’s been telling me that all I needed was to fly with the spirits. Well, Tuesday night I finally flew.”
Stevie walked up the porch steps and handed the briefcase to Rosen, who opened it.
He took out the courting flute. “I understand it’s an Indian custom not to keep a gift forever, but to pass it along to somebody who admires the object or has use of it. Is that right?”
Tom nodded. “But I think Stevie’s a little young—”
“It’s not for Stevie.” He slipped the courting flute through Tom’s coat and into the arm sling. “It seems that you’ll be able to put this to good use.”
Tom stared at him hard, then his eyes slowly softened and he smiled. “Guess maybe I could.” Leaning the cane against his hip, he gripped Rosen’s hand. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. In my profession, it always helps having a policeman as your friend.”
Tom laughed. “Driving with Andi down the interstate, you’re gonna need all the police friends you can muster. Well, I’d better get inside and pay my respects. Come on, Stevie.”