Fred mumbled, “Sungmanitu.”
“What?” Streeter stammered. “Who’s Sung may …?”
“Sungmanitu,” Ray answered. “That means coyote.”
Streeter’s mouth went instantly dry. “You mean CCG? The Coyote Cries Gang?”
“No, Kola. Not the gang. The man,” Ray said.
Fred added, “Sungmanitu hothun.”
Ray levelled his gaze at Streeter and nodded.
Streeter understood. He shook his head. “Not Coyote Cries. He’s been behind bars for decades.”
Fred said, “Jeremiah Coyote Cries may be behind bars, but his black heart continues to infect our children. Even after all these years.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Streeter asked Ray.
“Because it is not a battle you can win for us. We must fight him as one people. Besides, you didn’t need any more worries about the man. You’ve had enough.” He eyed Streeter before addressing Alice. “Did you make a sandwich?”
She nodded. “On a plate near the sink.”
Streeter exchanged a glance with the couple.
Fred said, “This has been a heavy burden for all of us.”
Streeter offered consolation, saying, “Yes, I know. It’s tragic loss for all of you. For everyone. For me.”
Fred sighed. “I didn’t mean that his death has been a heavy burden. Of course it has. What I was referring to was that Pearl and I believed that Jeff was murdered—he told us.”
Pearl said, “And now, to hear that your theory is that Jeff was murdered?”
Streeter glanced over at the sandwich again. “He told you?”
“In a dream. He came to both of us,” Pearl said. “He asked us to be there for his parents.”
Fred explained, “When a person dies in the Catholic faith, the soul leaves the body and wanders about in a place called purgatory until it can advance to heaven. In purgatory, the deceased must be purged of all sin, cleansed before entering heaven. The only way that person can be cleansed of sin is for people on earth to pray for that person.”
Streeter listened carefully to Fred’s inflectionless story.
Ray looked around the small kitchen and pointed to the counter. “Alice leaves food for Jeff every night on that counter in case he gets hungry while he wanders about in purgatory.”
Genuinely curious and not comprehending, Streeter asked, “Catholics believe people eat in purgatory?”
“Not Catholics,” Ray answered evenly. “Indians. At least this Indian does. I believe that Jeff has been wandering and will be going to heaven soon. Many are praying for his soul. But he has been hungry—hungry for the truth to be known. Last night, he ate half of the hamburger that Alice left for him.”
Streeter turned slowly to look where Ray was pointing. The counter was very empty except for the uneaten sandwich. Ray looked at Streeter and smiled softly. “I am not crazy with grief. I know that Jeff is in a better place—a place that we can only hope to be one day. He loves us and awaits us.”
Fred added, “We are just family concerned about our own. Jeff was a very good man; a leader among us. He was God’s child, and we will miss him.”
Ray and Alice simultaneously bowed their heads in a quick prayer.
Streeter stole a glance at the sandwich, praying there hadn’t been a bite taken since he’d last looked.
COYOTE CRIES WATCHED Floyd Tice pace.
Floyd’s long arms swayed carelessly at his side like branches in a breeze. With effort, his legs moved clumsily beneath him as he strode across the length of his two-bedroom house.
He was pacing. And thinking. He was trying to figure out how to escape his destiny like trapped prey just waiting for the predator to pounce.
Coyote Cries smiled as he watched the two men through the open back window.
“Are you sure it was him?” Floyd mumbled nervously.
The thin man sitting on the edge of the overstuffed chair wrung his hands nervously. His bony elbows propped precariously on the peaks of his uplifted knees. He nodded.
Both men were in their early fifties and aged by worry, from what he could determine. It must be from the news he had made sure they heard a few hours ago. The news Tice had just received must be more frightening than the beating he’d endured several weeks earlier.
And to think, he still isn’t walking quite right yet.
Coyote Cries studied him.
Floyd was a much larger man than he’d remembered—over six-feet-two inches and weighing nearly two-hundred-fifty pounds—which he carried almost entirely around his waist. His black hair was thick, peppered with grey, cut short above his ears, and held in place by a ratty, folded, blue bandana. He wore his jeans beneath his expansive waist and an old T-shirt with a worn logo of a cartoon truck driver and the saying ‘Ten-four, good buddy’ beneath it. There was nothing on his long thin feet.
Johnnie Red Cloud, the young man sitting quietly in the chair, was wearing a sleeveless, blue sweatshirt, tight designer jeans, and brown dingo boots. His long black hair was secured loosely with a black elastic band. A folded blue bandanna was tied across his forehead.
The boots and bandanas were trademarks for members of the CCG.
“Shit,” Tice mumbled.
“He told me he’d be here at your house at seven,” Red Cloud added, nervously.
Both men instantly looked out the door, at the microwave clock, and sighed in exasperation.
Red Cloud stammered, “Look. I’d love to stay here for you, buddy. But I got two little ones at home, and my old lady will kill me if she finds out I met with Coyote Cries.”
Tice couldn’t disguise his fear. His jaw went slack, his eyebrows arched, and his expression hollowed. He’d stopped pacing.
Red Cloud rose, diverted his eyes from his friend, and left without a word.
Tice knew what Coyote Cries wanted. He had told him. He wanted to know why Tice had been meeting with the federal agents. He’d heard they’d been at his house twice already this week.
“Damn feds,” Tice growled through clenched teeth and began pacing across his living room, wearing a distinct path where his long, heavy feet dragged through the brown shag carpet.
Coyote Cries waited until Red Cloud was gone, rounded the house through the side yard, and knocked once on the door.
He imagined Tice mumbling to himself on the other side, pissing himself.
Tice opened the door wide, a forced smile plastered on his face.
Coyote Cries stood on Tice’s porch with his hands tucked deep in the pockets of his black leather jacket. His feet, which were clad in custom-made black leather cowboy boots, were spread shoulder-width apart. His dark blue jeans had been expertly pressed with a precise crease running up the front of each pant leg.
His grey hair was twisted neatly into two long braids. He sported a menacing grin and let the eerie silence underscore his calm demeanor.
In a tight voice, Tice greeted him nervously. “Jeremiah. Come on in, friend.”
Tice waved a shaky, long hand in a generous fashion toward his living room. He probably secretly hoped Coyote Cries would refuse the offer. But he didn’t.
Coyote Cries sauntered over to the television that was sitting silent in the corner of the living room. He stood in front of the tube looking straight ahead at the wall—at the large, colorful star embroidered on a quilt hanging in front of him.
The familiar star was the symbol of the United Sioux Tribes. A four-pointed red star was in the center encircled by a bright blue band that provided the base for the outer star’s points, which were actually red and white teepees signifying the number of tribes comprising the coalition. The recognizable symbol signified the united front of tribes, whose leaders were organized to speak out against issues negatively affecting the Indian people.
Coyote Cries smiled ruefully and thrust his hands deep in his coat pockets as he positioned his feet firmly beneath him: in case Tice got stupid and attacked him from behind.
In the reflection of
the television screen, he watched Tice slowly make his way to the couch on bent and wobbly legs. With a defeated expression, he slumped down into the soft cushions.
Tice had probably heard the rumors about Coyote Cries’s reaction to anyone who spoke about his business with the FBI, the BIA, or the tribal police. Jeremiah Coyote Cries carefully crafted his intolerant, and often ruthless, reputation.
He wanted everyone in his organization to know that he had no fear—and even less respect for life. He’d spread rumors about himself that he’d slit the throats of anyone who shorted on payments, cut product without his instruction to do so, or for any other infraction of the rules.
But under Alcott, many people had become soft. They’d become careless.
Coyote Cries simply asked, “What have you heard?”
“That you were back; that you escaped from prison; that you killed a bunch of guards; and that you’re exacting your revenge on everyone who defied you,” Tice said, his voice quivering.
“And?”
“That Alcott’s dead and that you put Todd Long Soldiers in the ICU. But I haven’t heard why. And that Jimmy split.”
Coyote Cries slowly turned toward Tice and glared at him. “And you?”
“I’ve had two visits from the feds. Two feds—yesterday and today. The same guys.”
Coyote Cries remained standing, even though Tice continued to sit on the couch. He noticed Tice had trouble maintaining eye contact. But so far, he had told nothing but the truth. For his sake, he’d better continue.
“What did they want?”
“Information about the main pipeline of all the drugs that came into the reservation and about you.”
Tice thought about it for a moment. “I told them that there were lots of rumors and that the drugs were mainly couriered out of Denver by Dan Alcott. Only because I knew by then he was already dead.”
So far, Coyote Cries liked what he heard.
Tice added, “I told them a variety of stuff was sold, like marijuana, heroin, Quaaludes, cocaine, and methamphetamines; that other drugs were available when the market demanded but only on special occasions. I told them that the business was booming in meth and that they could pretty much count on finding a meth lab in every other house on the rez. They didn’t like hearing that.”
Coyote Cries clenched his fist in his pockets. “Is that true? About the meth labs?”
“Nah,” Tice said, waving a hand dismissively. “But there are several. The biggest demand is for meth. We told Alcott that, but he wouldn’t listen. So demand outstripped supply and well … you know the business. Someone’s going to make it if we don’t supply it.”
Coyote Cries formulated a plan. “If I supply, can you sell?”
“Absolutely.”
“Are you equipped to step in for Long Soldiers?”
“Of course. I think it was that asshole who had me beaten. Wasn’t you, was it?”
Coyote Cries raised an eyebrow. “Beaten?”
“Yeah, six weeks ago. It almost killed me. They busted my legs with a metal pipe. I’m still not right yet.”
Coyote Cries hadn’t heard about Tice being beaten. Not from Vic, not from Alcott, and not from Long Soldiers. He’d first heard the news from Norma Chasing Dog when she was talking to the suit in Long Soldiers’s hospital room.
“Who do you think beat you?”
“I was supposed to testify in a case against a pedophile. This little girl was being touched up by—”
“I don’t care.” Coyote Cries was losing patience.
“Look, I don’t know who beat me. I’d never seen the guys before. It could have been the pedo taking me out as a witness. It could have been Long Soldiers, jealous that my sales numbers were dwarfing his. It could have been Alcott, pissed I was helping the feds on the pedo case. Who knows?”
“How’d you sell so much more than Long Soldiers?”
“With new techniques. Hitting on the high schoolers wasn’t working. I moved down to elementary and middle schoolers—with meth.”
Coyote Cries noticed the man had no shame in his technique. He liked him. But he had to be sure. “What did you tell the agents about me?”
“That you started dealing in drugs when you were only thirteen; how savvy and street-smart you were at twenty with experience and criminal skills far beyond your years, even then; how you were destined for a life of crime and psychological impairment given your background. But those of us who really knew you would simply explain all that away as evil.”
Coyote Cries couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Never before had someone been so forthcoming with the facts. And they were facts. Everything the FBI probably already knew from twenty years ago. This guy was either the most brilliant man on his team—or the stupidest.
“That you were the bastard and eldest child born to a young mother of five; that your stepfather was abusive to the children and the mother, who had increasingly found solace in the bottom of a bottle.”
That was Number One for Coyote Cries: his stepfather. He had killed him and set him on fire. And no one had missed him—not even his mother.
“That at age nine, young Jeremiah Coyote Cries had been expelled from the tribal schools and was refused by the Catholic school, considering his deviant and dangerous background; that he had started a fire in the art room at one school; slashed the tires of an unpopular teacher’s car at another; and threatened to kill a principal at a third.”
Tice shifted on the couch and actually lifted his bent leg to relieve the pain, from what Coyote Cries could interpret from his pained expression.
“That your records clearly indicated a pattern of disrespect for the rules, particularly the ones banning weapons on school grounds; that the schools collectively turned their educational backs on you when you brutally beat another fourth grader to near death over an argument on the playground; that you received a nearly fatal beating from your stepfather for being expelled; that the teachers would describe you as being vacant of human emotion, numb to the pain you inflicted on others, and of the view that life is valueless.”
For once, Coyote Cries remained speechless.
Tice shrugged. “That’s it in a nutshell. Oh, plus I threw in that all of what I told them was true, but that since your incarceration, you’d had nothing to do with the nefarious activities on the reservation and you were a completely changed man who had found religion.”
Coyote Cries grinned.
Everything he said was true, except that he had nothing to do with CCG, and he didn’t know the gang had the moniker.
“Who came up with CCG?”
Tice grinned. “I told them it was me who made up the CCG to keep them off the trail of the real mastermind behind the drug ring on the rez: Dan Alcott.”
“Brilliant,” Coyote Cries said.
“I thought so. Long Soldiers and Blue Owl disagreed with me, but hey.”
“Blue Owl is a coward. And Long Soldiers is as good as dead.”
Coyote Cries moved toward the couch. He thought Tice may have flinched. But he held it together. He extended his hand. Tice grabbed it and shook.
“You’re the new man. My lead. I’m headed out. But you tell everyone you’re in charge of CCG. That Red Cloud is your right-hand man and Blue Owl is out. Make sure you take care of him. I’ll take care of Long Soldiers. Got it?”
Tice rose, clapped Coyote Cries on the back. “Got it. Thanks, boss.”
They walked toward the front door.
Coyote Cries stopped suddenly. “Their names?”
“Whose?”
“The agents.” He knew one of them would no doubt be the suit, Roger Landers, the bald man he saw at Long Soldier’s hospital room. But he wanted to know for sure.
Tice opened his mouth to speak, then snapped it shut. He waited a minute. Then said, “I’m drawing a blank. Roger Landers and … the name’s on the tip of my tongue.”
Coyote Cries waited.
“For the life of me, can’t think of it. But I will.�
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“When you do, let me know.”
He started out the door.
He heard Floyd Tice blurt the name as it came to his mind. “Streeter Pierce. That’s it. Roger Landers and Streeter Pierce.”
Coyote Cries nodded again.
He knew he had to get back to Denver and prepare.
But not before visiting his mother.
He drove to her house—a hovel, really. The place hadn’t changed since he’d last been here—to say goodbye. He never imagined he’d see her again. She hadn’t been well, even back then, even though she had only been in her mid-thirties.
His heart raced as he plucked his way through a yard full of discarded garbage bags. He wasn’t sure how he’d feel if he learned she had died, and he was even less sure what he’d say to her if she was still alive. He kicked a dead bird off the second step leading to her door.
He knocked.
The house hadn’t been painted in all these years. The screen was dangling from one bent hinge and nearly fell off in his hands when he swung it open to knock on the door a second time.
But then he heard it. A chain rattled. The knob turned.
An old woman opened the door and asked, “Who is it? Who’s there?”
The woman was large, weighed nearly three hundred pounds by his estimation. Her eyes were a milky brown rather than the black he remembered.
“Please. Speak up. I am blind and old and can’t stand here all day.”
She was ill with diabetes then, but she was far worse now. Heavier. Blind. Not well at all. “Mother?”
Her jaw dropped. Her eyebrows arched. Several strands of hair fell forward across her face as she trembled. “Jeremiah?”
She reached out her hands to him, wailing.
He stepped inside and held her, kept her from collapsing to the ground.
Without a second’s thought, she recited the words he’d heard since birth, her cadence a lullaby that would lift his spirits through the darkest hours.
Jeremiah 1:5:
Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you. Before you were born, I set you apart. I chose you … a prophet … of our Indian Nation.
I LOOKED AT the clock.
Jeremiah’s Revenge: A Liv Bergen Mystery Page 22