by Kris Lackey
“Hannah Bond would not be a person I’d say is in need of luck,” Maytubby said softly. “The thug who killed Majesty Tate—that fellow with the really fast motorcycle and the thousand-dollar pistol? The one Hannah shot on the fly? That guy was in need of luck. He must’ve had some, though, or she would’ve shot his balls off.”
Magaw spat at a fencepost. “Scrooby, you and the tribal policeman can talk to Mr. Stoddard. No use in a crowd.”
Scrooby and Maytubby walked slowly up the shingled drive. At the end, they found a blonde-brick ranch with forest-green cast-iron porch posts. The matching trim had recently been painted. Three holly shrubs, poodle-trimmed, grew on each side of the porch. The Lexus was parked next to the house.
Scrooby rang the doorbell, which played “Für Elise.” Scrooby looked at Maytubby. “Beethoven,” Maytubby said.
A middle-aged woman with a silver bob opened the door. She was wearing a magenta wool suit and black pumps. A gust of camphor spilled onto the small concrete porch. Behind her, they could see a blue satin couch with crocheted doilies on the arms. And a pistol lying on an end table. The woman frowned severely. “Yes?”
Scrooby held out his badge and identified himself and Maytubby. “We would like to speak with Solomon Stoddard.”
She grew erect and said loudly, “And what is the nature of your request to speak with Mr. Stoddard?”
“We need to speak with him in private, ma’am.”
If it were possible, she stiffened even more. “I’m certain Mr. Stoddard has no need to answer questions from officers of the law. You are well aware that he is a champion of all law enforcement agencies and has, in his years in the state legislature, voted generous funding for them.”
“Yes ma’am, I am,” Scrooby said. “He helped me get a raise. Could you please ask him to step out here?”
The Lexus ignition was quiet but not silent. The car shot backward down the drive, slewed at a wide spot, then spun its front wheels, spinning up shingles like Frisbees. Scrooby and Maytubby gave chase. The OSBI agent was surprisingly quick. At the first curve of the driveway, they could see the Lexus’ brake lights—and Magaw’s cruiser, blocking Stoddard at the county road. Magaw was leaning against his car, legs crossed, sucking a toothpick.
Stoddard got out of the Lexus, his face red, the veins in his forehead bulging. He was wearing a buff linen suit and a red sport shirt. The shirt was darkened by perspiration. “What the hell is all this!” he sputtered.
Scrooby panted as he approached Stoddard. “We want to talk to you about the murder of Majesty Tate.”
Stoddard rolled his eyes. “Oh, yeah. Got it. I run for high office, here come the jackals. Okay. Where’s your warrant?”
Scrooby said, “At this time, we only—”
“Johnston County DA’s talking to the judge right now,” Magaw drawled. “Half hour at the most.”
“On what grounds …?”
Maytubby stepped up to him.
“An Indian cop? You’ve got to be kidding. You have no juris—”
“No sir, I don’t. Sheriff Magaw and agent Scrooby here are in charge. But I have been assisting them since the first suspect in the murder of Majesty Tate—a member of the Chickasaw Nation—was exculpated.”
“What?”
“The Indian didn’t kill her.”
“So?”
Maytubby continued quietly, “Your creature Basile Trepanier—the guy you got off with the pro bono champagne defense—knew a hired gun named Hillers who would dispose of a lovely young prostitute named Majesty Tate. She posed a threat to your campaign. Hillers forced Trepanier to find a fall guy. Trepanier, while he was guiding his flock at Sun Ray Gospel Fellowship, infiltrated a meth ring in Antlers and found an ex-con named Austin Love whom he could throw together with Majesty Tate after she had learned you were running for governor and after she had left the city.”
“Bullshit, bullshit, and bullshit!” Stoddard stamped his foot.
“Hillers waited until Love and Tate had been together; then he butchered her …”
Stoddard’s eyes flinched.
“… with a Bowie knife identical to Love’s. After he left the Pontotoc jail, Love found Trepanier and beat Hillers’ name out of him. A few hours ago, Hillers shot Love to death at Nail’s Crossing on the Blue. Sheriff Magaw’s deputy”—Maytubby nodded toward Magaw—“Hannah Bond, shot Hillers off his motorcycle. He was flown to Norman Regional. Trepanier was taken by ambulance to Mercy Hospital in Tishomingo.”
Stoddard stood as rigid as his Puritan namesake. A distant siren wailed on US 377.
“Hillers also kidnapped and assaulted my fiancée. She may not live.”
“Sol? Sol?” A quavering voice grew louder behind them. Evelyn Hunter stumbled across her shingles. She stopped when she saw the officers. Then she turned and walked away.
The cruiser bumped up Dove Road, its siren blaring and strobes pulsing. When it came to a stop, Maytubby recognized Eph.
“Turn that shit off!” Magaw said. Eph ducked back in the cruiser and did as he was told. Then he carried an envelope to Magaw. With great ceremony, the sheriff opened the envelope, pulled out its contents, and read, “Solomon Stoddard, you are under arrest for the charge of conspiracy to commit murder.” He then handcuffed Stoddard and led him to his own patrol car.
“I seen him on TV,” Eph said. “He’s a coach or somethin’.”
When the county cars had left, Scrooby turned to Maytubby. “She may not live?”
Maytubby shrugged.
Chapter 32
“I have something to tell you,” Jill said. She was lying on the couch in her garage apartment, wearing a peach knit shirt and buff boxers. Maytubby, still in his Lighthorse uniform, unwrapped chicken shawarma, hummus, and pita takeout from Mazen’s. He put them on plates on her coffee table. “That smells delicious,” she said.
“How is your nose?”
“My great-grandfather lived in this apartment when he was the chauffeur for the oilman in the big house.”
Maytubby held a dripping swatch of foil above the food.
“You told me once that his father was a freedman.”
“Not that you needed to be told.” She pointed to her face. “His son married a woman who was half Chickasaw. In those days, the nation, you know, had been adjudicated almost out of existence.”
“And the descendants of freedmen were still on shaky ground.”
“Still are, in some precincts of the so-called civilized tribes.”
Maytubby balled up the foil and threw it away. He brought forks and knives from the kitchen. “One of the reasons they were called ‘civilized’: they owned slaves.”
They ate in silence
“What did your great-grandfather drive for the oilman?”
She wiped hummus from her lips. “You man. All I can say is, it was a big car. How did you cut your foot?”
Maytubby looked at the bandage the CNHC PA had bound his foot with after suturing it. “I ain’t sayin’.”
“Choc bottle.”
“Not Choc.”
“How do you know?”
“Give me your dish. I’ll wash up.”
“Is Hillers alive?”
“Yes. He made a mess of the Norman Regional ER. Katz had to subdue him. FBI’s in charge of him now.”
“Trepanier?”
“Severe concussion. Broken clavicle. Induced coma. They’ll take him to the OU Medical Center Hospital in the next couple of days.”
“And keep him away from Hillers.”
“Yes.” Maytubby took a bag of frozen peas from Jill’s tiny freezer and laid it gently on her face, then washed the dishes and stacked them in the drainer. He looked out over the universe of sodium lamps, little galaxies at Kerr Lab and CNMC and Ahloso. Then he limped to the couch, where Jill pulled up her legs and made room for him
. She had bandages on both knees.
“Scrooby came around on old Sol pretty quick in the end.”
“I think he came around a while before he let on.”
“Think he was exasperated with himself?”
Maytubby smiled. He stared at her bruises. “You look like a coon.”
“You’re the second person today who’s told me that.”
“Think your great-great-grandmother was from the Raccoon clan?”
“I’m told she was proud, so maybe. I have something for you. Turn around and reach down to the floor.”
Maytubby flipped on the couch and groped in the shadows. He pulled up a new felt campaign hat.
“Brought to you by US Police Supply and FedEx.”
He donned it and preened. “I owe you a new pair of panty hose.”
“Yes, you do, Sergeant. But they will have the opposite effect.”
“After today, do you long for Brooklyn and the Texarkana fire-eater?”
“Not for a second. What I do long for is sleep.”
“You want to have breakfast with Hannah day after tomorrow?”
“Yes. Can you put these peas back in the freezer?”
When he returned, Jill was asleep. He turned off the lights and lay on the opposite end of the couch. He took off the hat and laid it on the floor. In seconds, he was asleep.
Sometime in the night, a motorcycle roared down Broadway. They both sat up on the couch.
“He’s in restraints,” Jill said. The sound receded.
“Yuh,” he said as they both fell back.
At nine the next morning, both their cells came alive. Again at ten and eleven. They slept until dusk.
Chapter 33
The day after that, Maytubby had officially been AWOL for a day. When Sheila buzzed him into Lighthorse HQ, he had driven from his own house, where he had enjoyed another long sleep. His cell showed twenty-six missed calls and ten messages. “How’s Jill?” she asked him.
“She has two big shiners. She’s at work today.”
“Have you seen the TV coverage?”
“I don’t have a television.” “You landed a plane on Pike Road?”
“A very small plane.”
“Did you hurt your foot?”
“Stepped on some glass.”
“You should always wear shoes.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Les Fox looked up at Maytubby through the plate glass of his office. Maytubby walked on to his desk, which was again littered with sticky notes. He heard Fox’s tread on the carpet and quickly picked up his desk phone. Not fast enough.
Fox stood in his doorway, his legs spread and his arms across his chest. “Out of the blue of the western sky.”
Maytubby put the phone back in its cradle. “Uh …”
“Sky King. You know.”
“Sorry.”
“Kirby Grant, fifties TV drama about an Arizona rancher who chases rustlers and such in his plane.”
Maytubby shook his head.
“You’re too young. One of those messages”—he pointed to the desk—“is from a New York Times stringer.”
“He should interview Hannah Bond.”
“Hannah Bond is an Anglo county deputy. Zero exotic Indian interest.”
Maytubby stared hard. “You know that Jill Milton is my fiancée.”
Fox gripped his forearms tighter.
Maytubby said, “You know Hillers tried to take me out in McCurtain.”
“You were freelancing …” Fox frowned and let his arms drop and put his hands in his pockets. “But yeah.” He looked at the ceiling and exhaled. “You were never a showboater. You pay for the plane yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Give me a receipt, and the nation will reimburse you.” He walked away.
Maytubby called every press number and said to everyone who answered, “I have no comment.” Then he called Scrooby.
“Stoddard’s counsel won’t let him talk. The trophy wife has filed for divorce. Hillers’ DNA is a match for the Tate murder and two Arkansas murders.”
“Did …?”
“Yes. I called Detective Washington. He can close. Treepanty is still in a coma. Hillers has a PD but won’t talk to anyone. Just glares at the ceiling. Katz says he’s a scary mother.”
“Phoo-oo, he’s a scary mother!”
Scrooby chuckled. “Exactly. Later.”
Chapter 34
Hannah Bond, wearing her full Johnston County deputy uniform, was already seated at a table in JD’s Café in Ada when Maytubby and Jill walked in at 7:00 a.m. It was a dimly lit place with red drapery blocking the windows, and lattice screens between the tables and an empty lunch buffet. Hannah was studying the menu. She looked up and nodded sheepishly.
Jill tucked into her seat, Maytubby sitting next to her. There were menus on the table. Jill picked hers up, scanned it quickly, and said, “My grandfather was a hand at calf fries. I’m going to order that and scrambled eggs and home fries and biscuits with gravy.”
Hannah turned questioning eyes on Maytubby. He ignored her and studied the menu. “I think I’m going for oatmeal and prunes.”
Jill and Hannah looked at each other. “Prunes,” Hannah said.
Acknowledgments
I am deeply indebted to my gifted editor, Michael J. Carr, whose skill, cheer, and advocacy went above and beyond.
Jason O’Neill, former Chickasaw Lighthorse chief of police, patiently explained the basics of tribal jurisdiction. Any errors on this score are mine and not his.
My dear friends Sarah Miracle and Jill Fox read the manuscript and supplied details about nutrition education. Neva Harjochee provided some vital cultural nuance. Jason Eyachabbe introduced me to the Chickasaw language and corrected Chickasaw dialogue in the story. Cody Dixon was a thorough guide on our tour of the Kullihoma Grounds.
Warm thanks to those who commented on the manuscript and answered my pesty questions: Karleene Smith, Susan Lackey Parker, Young Smith, Desiree Hupy, Jim Rosenthal, Amanda Boyden, Wendy Jones, Jeff Buckles, Stuart Stelly, Kim Oliver, Joan Schoenfeld, Reggie Poche, Dale Wares, Paul Swenson, Rocky Robbins.
A hearty salute to Jenny, the owner of Norman’s Gray Owl Coffee, and to the shop’s crew of brilliant baristas, who daily solved vocabulary and diction puzzles: Laney, Laura, Andrew, Rachel, Chris, Roshni, Jasmine, Erika. A shout-out to Rob at Michelangelo’s Coffee.
Many thanks to my agent, Richard Curtis.
A Q&A with
Kris Lackey
Q: Was there a particular event, idea, or image that inspired you to write Nail’s Crossing?
A: On a visit to Ada in 2011, I saw a Lighthorse Police cruiser. The term “lighthorse” is a survival from Indian Territory days. It distinguishes a small mounted force from the cavalry. That cruiser fetched my imagination.
Q: What is your connection to the Chickasaw Nation?
A: I am an Anglo, with no indigenous heritage. The first time I was aware of the Chickasaw Nation was when I studied Oklahoma history in junior high school. My elderly teacher, in the 1960s, described Indian removal with sympathy rare for the times. I wrote a report in high school on the Civil War in Indian Territory and learned that some of the removed nations held slaves and took sides in the conflict.
Q: The landscape is described so vividly in the book. What kind of research did you do to capture the setting?
A: In preparation for Nail’s Crossing I read books about the Chickasaws, interviewed members of the nation, took an introductory language class, and haunted the library of the Oklahoma Historical Society. To get the lay of the land I drove lots of country roads in my tiny hybrid. I have worn out three copies of the Oklahoma Atlas and Gazetteer.
Q: How would you describe the dynamic between Maytubby and Bond?
A: They trained
together and finished at the top of their CLEET class. They are tight friends, easy with ribbing each other. They negotiate their cultural differences with humor and respect.
Q: Is there a particular time of day you prefer to dedicate to writing?
A: Brief stints: late morning and late afternoon.
Q: Do you have any writing rituals?
A: I write in coffee shops. The bustle and white noise keep me alert and focused. And I have many diction questions for the baristas.
Q: Did you outline before you wrote the book, or was your approach less structured?
A: The detectives and I are on the same page. I am as baffled as they are.
Q: Your writing style has been called “unusual,” “unique,” “flavorful,” and “different but effective.” What do you think readers mean by this?
A: I don’t know. Whet the knife, pare and pare. That’s all I do. An old biographer once told me, “Never underestimate your reader’s intelligence.” So when I think the reader can go it alone, I don’t explain. Action and dialogue should do the heavy lifting. I don’t like to meddle.
Q: If you were to create the soundtrack for Nail’s Crossing the movie, which particular songs or musicians would you include to help tell the story?
A: Two soundtracks: Neil Young’s work on Jim Jarmusch’s film Dead Man; Explosion in the Sky’s music for the film Friday Night Lights. I also like the dark takes on Texas swing by Café Noir.
Q: Your previous book was a work of nonfiction, RoadFrames: The American Highway Narrative, which Douglas Brinkley praised as “without a doubt…the finest interpretive analysis of US highway literature ever written.” Readers have remarked that in the scenes in Nail’s Crossing when Maytubby is in his patrol car on the highway, they feel like they are right in the car with him. Do you think your in-depth knowledge of on-the-road literature helped to bring these scenes to life?
A: A prevailing fantasy of nonfiction road writers is that they are reexperiencing the “virgin gaze” of the European explorer. Maytubby knows too much history to fall into this trap. He knows, for instance, that plains tribes roamed his landscape before the Chickasaws arrived. But when he returns to a place like Boggy Depot, he connects it to the specific privations of his ancestors. He and Jill Milton also understand the circumstances of the enslaved victims of removal. They cannot share the romantic road vision of Anglo travelers.