Death Etched in Stone

by C. M. Wendelboe

  Lumpy gave Manny Homer One Feather’s address in Crazy Horse Housing, and Manny drove the two miles, thinking. Kyle Wells had not made it to Fort Thompson like he intended. And Joey was dead. Both had rap sheets for drug dealing, but low quality dope one could buy most anyplace. Certainly not worth killing over.

  Manny turned into the housing, and immediately reminded himself why he no longer worked as a tribal officer on Pine Ridge. Under a burned-out street light, a couple stood fighting in the middle of the street. The woman had just landed a lucky punch, which bloodied the man’s bulbous nose, and he lunged for her. She ran out of his reach right before he tripped over the curb and smashed his face.

  Across from the drunk couple sat a row of abandoned cars. Or cars that were trashed enough that they should have been abandoned. “Montana Mini Storages,” Chief Horn used to call them, just before he sent the wreckers out to haul them off the street. Two kids smashed windows out with a stick, giggling. Manny thought about calling it in, then thought better. Collectively, the cars weren’t worth the gas to send an officer to take a report.

  He rolled his window down and shined his light at the houses until he found Homer One Feather’s. Manny pulled to the curb in front of two more beater cars and climbed out just as a window broke somewhere down the street. He shone his light on the weed-overgrown walkway leading to Homer’s front door. A dull light showed behind faded curtains, the loneliness coming over Manny once again, and he fought it down as he knocked on the door.

  Footsteps shuffled. Someone mumbled. The door opened slowly, cautiously, held by an anemic chain. “Homer One Feather?”

  A man Reuben’s age—but gaunt, slipping quietly toward his final resting place—looked back at Manny through bone-tired eyes. “I am Homer. You the fed?”

  “Do you know me?”

  “Everyone knows you.” The door shut; the chain rattled, and Homer unlocked it. He held it open only long enough for Manny to enter before slamming it closed and re-fastening the chain. “Bad neighborhood,” Homer said. “Especially without Joey. That is why you’re here, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is. Can we visit?”

  Homer motioned to a doorway. “You sit there. I’ll go get us some instant coffee.”

  Manny wanted to tell Homer he’d already had coffee, then remembered what Reuben said: getting in touch with Manny’s Indian roots meant embracing the traditions. And one tradition was that one never went into a Lakota’s home that wakalapi wasn’t offered.

  Manny walked into the living room, made much smaller by the stacks of newspapers and magazines that took up much of the floor around the black and white television set. Manny sat in one of two musty chairs and waited for Homer. He came back and cleared a space on a small end table and set Manny’s cup there, a dark brown mug, chipped along the rim, but in better shape than the one Homer drank out of.

  They talked about how the Lady Thorpes basketball team had a good chance of taking the Lakota Nation Invitational. They talked about Senator Thune’s recent visit to the reservation. They talked about upcoming tribal elections. And after they had talked about all these things, they remained quiet. Until Homer broke that stillness. “You gonna find out who killed Joey?”

  “I’m going to do my best. What can you tell me about him?”

  Homer looked to his coffee cup as if the answer was there. “I would like to think Joey was a good boy. But the fact is, Agent Tanno, Joey went south even before he got into high school. He started hanging around with the wrong crowd. Drinking. Stealing cars.”

  “Did he ever hang around with Nathan Yellow Bull?”

  Homer’s jaw clenched. “Him and some of the other no-goods from Rosebud. They broke into some farm houses. Stole stuff. And it was Nate who got Joey involved in drugs.”

  Manny had read Joey’s rap sheet. He’d had an arrest last year for possession of marijuana and had been suspected of selling ditch weed at school before he was expelled. “Did Joey get his dope from Nate?”

  Homer sipped his coffee and set it on the floor. “Most of the time. Joey said the stuff didn’t hurt him none. He said some states were even legalizing it. Claimed it made him mellow.”

  “Did it?”

  Homer shrugged. “Up until the week before he died. Joey bought some weed he said was ‘good . . . shit.’ That is what he said. But he did not have to pay much for it. He said Nate let him have it cheap if Joey kept the rest until Nate came to pick it up.”

  “You said he was pretty mellow until a week before he was murdered?”

  Homer leaned into Manny for emphasis. “He was anything but mellow. He started to be scared of every noise he heard around here,” he chin-pointed toward the street. “And you can see how many noises there are. Joey was a nervous wreck. That is why he said he was going to see my sister in Tuba City. That night he hoofed it for the bus stop was the last time I saw my Joey.” Homer laid his hand on Manny’s knee. “He turned wild. But he sure never deserved to get murdered.”

  Manny finished his coffee and wiped his lips with his bandana, the coffee stinging recent cuts. “You said Nate let Joey have some dope cheap if he kept some for Nate.”

  “He did.”

  “Did Nate ever come to pick it up?” Manny asked.

  “Nate came by the house,” Homer said. “Joey had taken off by then, and Nate wanted me to give him the package. I said I could not. He threatened me, so I had to screw my shotgun under Nate’s nose.”

  “Nate is dead.”

  “So I heard,” Homer said, looking to the floor. “I am sorry, I do not grieve for that one.”

  Manny stood and arched his back. “May I look in Joey’s room?”

  Homer sighed deeply. “There is nothing much there. But you are welcome.”

  He led Manny down a short hallway and into a room with a mattress with no sheets on the floor and a wool blanket thrown over it. Milk crates for dressers were stacked in one corner, that still contained Joey’s underwear and tee shirts and one pair of socks. A broken boom box hung from a wire against the wall. Manny stood, hands on hips, looking for where Joey might have hidden the package Nate gave him.

  Manny ran his hand inside the milk crates but came up only with underwear. He tapped the walls, expecting one section of the knotty pine paneling to be hollowed out. Nothing.

  “I do not know where Joey would keep anything in here,” Homer said as he stood in the hallway, just outside the room. “He never had much.”

  Manny started out the door when he looked back. The dim light showed dust motes stirred up by the furnace kicking in. And the dim light showed the dusty outline where the mattress had been moved recently.

  Manny bent to the mattress and lifted it up. A tattered quilt lay beneath it, and Manny pulled it aside to reveal an off-color portion of the floor higher on one end. Manny leaned the mattress against the wall and took out his pocket knife. He pried up the floor and bent to look inside the hole in the floor.

  “Is there something there?” Homer asked.

  Manny stood and showed Homer a Ziploc: “If you call a baggie of high end dope ‘something.’”

  Chapter 34

  Manny stuffed the Ziploc bag of marijuana inside his jacket. He walked to his car and fumbled in the dark for his keys. And stopped abruptly, his senses alerted, hair on his arms standing at attention. But why?

  The eyes draw the eyes, his Uncle Marion had told Manny that first hunting season as a boy. They had been inching up on a Whitetail buck that had suddenly leapt into a ditch for no apparent reason. “If you stare at your prey, it will feel your eyes watching it. And alert that you stalk it.”

  Manny’s alert had just gone off, and he slowly scanned the area: the cars parked on the darkened street, all the houses darked-out. He studied each house surrounding Homer’s, straining to pick out something that didn’t belong. To find the eyes that watched him.

 
A dog barked across the street. At something.

  Manny eased his hand under his jacket for his gun. And cursed under his breath. He had left his gun under the seat of his car.

  He slowly turned, taking everything in as his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

  Movement. Approaching him, bent low. A growl erupted from the throat of a husky dog, and Manny groped in his pocket for the only weapon he had: his pocket knife. He opened the small three-inch blade, judging if it was even long enough to penetrate the dog’s thick coat. The dog crouched, tail flicking from side to side, matching the laid-back ears twitching, its teeth larger than they should have been.

  Manny turned sideways as he brought his arm across his chest. He’d have to sacrifice his arm, he thought, long enough to do damage with the pocket knife.

  The dog shuddered in anticipation of a fight, muscular legs gathered beneath it.

  Manny braced himself.

  The dog came off the pavement. And froze. The giant head swiveled, the eyes locked on two cars across from Homer’s house.

  The animal’s growl intensified as it started across the street, then suddenly burst into an attack.

  Someone crouching between the cars stood up and ran toward other abandoned cars on the street. In that instant, Manny realized one of the cars was Bobo’s Cavalier. And Bobo was at a dead run for it.

  Manny sprinted toward him, sprinting from the dog. Bobo reached his car and threw open the door just as the dog lunged. It sunk its teeth in his shoulder. He screamed, thrashing, fighting to get the dog off him.

  Manny ran, heaving great gulps of frigid air, pocket knife clutched tightly in his hand.

  Bobo dropped onto his back, his full weight coming on top of the husky. The dog squealed and let loose his grip. It lay panting beside Bobo’s car, the wind knocked out of it.

  Bobo leapt inside just as Manny reached the car door. He grabbed Bobo by the back of his jacket.

  Big mistake.

  Bobo pried Manny’s hand from his shirt as he turned in his seat. His hand encircled Manny’s throat, cutting off his air. Consciousness leaving him. Until he plunged the blade of his pocket knife into Bobo’s leg.

  Bobo screamed and let loose of Manny. He fell backward onto the street as Bobo started the car. He fired it up, kicking loose gravel over Manny.

  Manny shielded his face with his coat sleeve, rolled over, and gathered his legs under him—when he dropped back onto his butt, the adrenaline dump catching up with him. He sucked in air, his throat nearly constricted from Bobo’s assault, watching as Bobo disappeared away from the housing.

  The dog regained its feet, panting, swaying while it focused on Manny. “Guess we did our best to capture than son of a bitch, didn’t we, Buddy?”

  The dog—not feeling the same solidarity as Manny—crouched, teeth bared as a low growl emitted from its throat.

  Chapter 35

  When he heard his cell phone ring, Manny pulled off the road. With his driving, he couldn’t take any chances.

  “This is Brandi Apple. I finally got brave enough to go to the post office and pick up that certified letter. It wasn’t a bill from something my father ran up like I thought it might be. It was a copy of Dad’s will that Devlon Thomas drew up. It gives me mineral rights to that land he lived on.”

  “Whoa. Slow down,” Manny said. “I’m a bit confused. I thought the land was worthless, except for running a few scrub cows.”

  “I thought so, too. Until I read the report.”

  “What report?” Manny asked.

  “A seismograph report,” she said. “It was in the envelope with Dad’s will. It seems that a crew came onto the ranch last year.”

  “Della said Johnny had kicked a seismograph crew off the property last year.”

  “Looks like he didn’t kick them off the ranch, but invited them on, to do some testing. There’s methane under that ground. Neville and Tony Charging Bear might own the land, but I own the gas.”

  Manny thought of the methane boom in the northern part of Wyoming, which had made overnight millionaires of families living hand-to-mouth every day. “Neville might not be too happy when he finds out.”

  “That’s why I’m calling you.” Brandi said. “I’ve got an appointment to meet Neville in Rapid City at five o’clock. I’ll just make it from Lander. I plan to show him the will then.”

  “So you didn’t tell him why you needed to talk with him?”

  “I didn’t. I wasn’t sure how he’d take it. In case he’s really upset, I’d like a witness. Will you meet me there? Stay with me while I break the news to him?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve got to meet the Oglala tribal investigator and his chief in Pine Ridge in an hour—”

  “You’re the only one I know over there.” He could imagine her batting her large brown eyes at him. “I’m supposed to be at his office at five o’clock.”

  Manny checked his watch. He could still make it to his meeting with Willie and Lumpy and make it back in time to meet up with Brandi. “All right. I’ll meet you at Neville’s office.”

  “Thank you so much,” she sighed deeply into the phone. “You’re my hero.”

  Perhaps Reuben could offer Manny some insight into this dilemma: how to convince Clara that his agreeing to meet Brandi was purely professional. Which Manny wasn’t altogether certain he could convince himself.

  *****

  When Manny limped into the conference room, Willie glanced up absently, then did a double take, and nudged Pee Pee Pourier sitting beside him. Lumpy worked on a filled chocolate long john, frosting dangling from one corner of his lip. “Chief,” Pee Pee said.

  Lumpy brushed the frosting off with a napkin.

  “Not that.” He nodded toward Manny: “That.”

  Lumpy stopped mid-mouth with the long john and whistled. “I heard you had to get patched up at Indian Health. But I didn’t realize you were a walking wounded.”

  Manny carefully brought his hand out from his jacket pocket and tentatively laid it on the conference table as he sat. “Just tell me Bobo’s in custody.”

  “I wish.” Lumpy tossed his napkin in the garbage and eyed a donut in the box on the conference table. “As soon as you called dispatch last night, we set up a perimeter around Crazy Horse Housing. Never saw anything that matches Bobo’s beater. I’d say he had a scanner.”

  “He probably does.”

  Pee Pee slid a cup of coffee across the table, and Manny picked it up with his off hand. “Bobo do that?” Pee Pee tapped Manny’s bandaged hand and he winced.

  “No.” Manny explained his fight with Bobo. And how the dog had turned against him once Bobo sped away. “I guess I was a target of opportunity.”

  “What possessed you to approach a gnarly dog like that?” Willie asked. “And don’t give that old crap about ‘we Lakota have a way with animals,’ ’cause it always comes back to bite you in the ass. Or by the looks of it, your arm. How bad?”

  “Only gave me four stitches.”

  Lumpy checked his watch and grabbed his tie. “I got the final interview for chief with the tribal council in half an hour.”

  “Down to you and the Denver police captain?” Manny asked.

  Lumpy nodded.

  “I got money on you taking the swimsuit competition,” Manny chuckled.

  “Funny man,” Lumpy said. “Now I got just enough time for you to explain why Bobo was hanging around Crazy Horse Housing.”

  Manny withdrew the Ziploc of marijuana from his jacket and tossed it on the table. “That’s what’s left of Bobo’s stash from the night Nate and Shawna stole it. My guess is Bobo forced Nate to tell him he’d given it to Joey One Feather to hold before he snapped Nate’s neck.”

  Lumpy finished tying the knot, the tie too short, and it rested on his belly. Pee Pee motioned him over. He untied Lumpy’s mess and wrapp
ed it around his stubby neck while he went to work tying it properly. “Nate was killed two days ago. Why did Bobo wait so long to go over to Joey One Feather’s?”

  “He doesn’t know the rez,” Willie said. “Only explanation.”

  “That’s got to be it.” Manny bumped his arm against and table and winced in pain again. “Best guess is that Bobo finally found out where Joey lived, and was sitting on the house. Waiting until later at night when the neighborhood went to bed before he broke in and looked for his dope.”

  “Well, he’s got to be here on Pine Ridge.” Pee Pee expertly finished tying Lumpy’s tie and stepped back to admire his handiwork. “Available units watched the road as soon as you called dispatch.”

  “Someone should have seen him,” Manny said.

  “We’re just a little understaffed around here,” Lumpy said, popping a piece of gum in his mouth to mask his long john donut breath. “He could have gotten off the rez, no more patrolmen than we had free last night.” He smoothed his uniform shirt and checked himself in the mirror on the door before sitting back at the table. “The tribal council is going to wonder where we’re at with this floater. Are we off the hook for the investigation?”

  Manny rested his uninjured arm on the table. “Doc Gruesome compared the water samples I took from the State Bath House in Thermopolis to that in Johnny’s lungs. They matched. Johnny died in that bath house.”

  Lumpy slapped his pudgy leg. “Great! Then it’s a Wyoming State case. Which also falls under federal jurisdiction when the killer transported the body across state lines. At least it’s not our Johnny anymore.”

  “But the U.S. Attorney won’t file if he knows the State of Wyoming has a strong case.” Willie stood and paced the room. “Simple economics. They only got so many federal prosecutors.”

  “He’s right.” Pee Pee leaned back in his chair and hooked his thumbs in his belt sporting a collector’s edition Elvis buckle. He swiveled in his seat so Lumpy could get a better look. “They’ll defer to Wyoming and that’ll be it.”

  “Then it’s settled.” Lumpy’s smile turned into a scowl when he eyed the buckle. “We’ll let Wyoming worry about it.”