Jeremiah’s Revenge

by Sandra Brannan

  Studying the photos, Streeter chuckled at how much Ray looked like his brother Fred. They were identical but such different people. Fred wore well worn, less fashionable clothes. Both men had just turned sixty. Streeter knew this because when Roger picked him up at the airport, he said that he hadn’t seen Ray in a while, but that he’d stopped by Fred’s house to wish him a happy birthday last month.

  Both brothers were nearly six feet tall, with skinny legs, wide chests, and large bellies. Both had crew cuts, although Ray wore his hair just a little longer than Fred. They both had warm smiles and contagious laughs. Fred wore thick, black glasses, and Ray wore silver wire-rim frames. When they were together, it was hard to distinguish between their voices. And the twins frequently talked at the same time, exchanging barbs and funny stories. Occasionally, Ray would slip in words from the Lakota language; Fred frequently did, too.

  Alice was a short, thin woman in her late fifties. Her impish grin made her look at least two decades younger than her age, and her gemstudded glasses framed her bright, laughing eyes. She had worn a light-green smock dress with a wide, ivory-colored collar and matching pumps to the funeral. A small silver cross hung around her neck. And of course, she had the colorful scarves—to share with the other women in celebration of life.

  Fred’s wife, Pearl, was also short, but very stout. Her deep-set eyes nearly disappeared when she flashed her wide grin, and she could certainly be described as jolly. She wore a floral-print, summer dress with well-worn moccasins on her otherwise bare feet. The major difference between the two women was that Pearl’s cheerful face was etched from hard work and difficulties, making her appear much older than Alice even though she was the same age. Alice appeared to have had an easier life, which she probably had, in many respects—up until this week.

  He noticed a photo of an old woman, possibly from the turn of the century, surrounded by children of all ages and holding a swaddled baby. Underneath the photo, someone had written in ink, “Alice’s great-grandmother, Iayanke.” He studied her hands and noticed a missing digit. He remembered hearing about the old Lakota tradition that was rarely, if ever, practiced in modern times.

  Instantly, he knew the reason they didn’t want him to attend the burial and meal. She was indeed planning to use the cigar cutter in keeping with an old Lakota tradition for a mother grieving over the loss of a child, which was to cut off the tip of one of her fingers in honor of Jeff.

  I KNEW THE OWL Canyon Quarry like the back of my hand.

  I used to manage this operation and loved every employee as if they were part of my large family. But I didn’t recognize some of the new employees hired over the past year, and a pang of regret filled my belly for the first time since I had committed to law enforcement. I missed being a part of this extended family unit—and being a miner.

  I was thrilled when I introduced Special Agent Phil Kelleher to my father and brother, reminding Dad that Agent Kelleher was the man the FBI had assigned to live with me during the serial killer case over a year ago.

  My dad shook Phil’s hand and then hugged him. I nearly chuckled at Phil’s response: rigid and awkward because of another man’s physical touch. That was just my dad. And me. We were both high-fiving, fist-bumping huggers. Phil was not.

  We made a quick plan, wired up the office of the site manager, who was away on personal leave for the day, and strapped mics on both my brother and father, instructing them to play it cool with the inspector. Neither appeared nervous or uncomfortable with his assignment.

  I looked at the clock. There was plenty of time.

  My cell phone buzzed, and I stepped away from the three men to take the call.

  Laurie Frumpley greeted me. “I just got a call from Matt Juzlig.”

  “From Grand Junction?”

  She hesitated before saying, “Glenwood Springs.”

  Clearly my head was still muddled. “Now I remember him. He’s the guy who warned Ben Ridgewood about Dick Roth.”

  And I didn’t say the guy on whose behalf I had called my friend at the Glenwood Police Department to assist him. If I had, Laurie would know my thinking wasn’t all that clear and that I shouldn’t be working.

  “Juzlig sent me some audio files. He said you’d want them. He had some help from law enforcement up there. Was that your doing?”

  I said nothing. I’d worried about his safety.

  “Anyway, they got some excellent sound bites. The prosecuting attorney reviewed the audio clips and said we’re close. Hopefully, with what you get today, they’ll be able to arrest the bastard.”

  “Ms. Frumpley!” I said, never having heard her curse before.

  She giggled. “You bring out the shero in me.”

  “Shero?”

  “The female hero. I love helping you, Liv. You empower me. You don’t treat me like a desk jockey like so many others do.”

  I felt my cheeks flush. “Laurie, you’re damned good at what you do. Don’t ever forget that.”

  “Ms. Bergen. Did you just swear?”

  “Way too often. Gotta go. Thanks!”

  I wandered back to my old office, the new site manager’s office. “Twenty minutes. Places everyone!”

  Phil and I took off in the SUV and drove to a hogback ridge where we could park out of sight but still be high enough so that the antenna could reach the recording devices from anywhere in the three-mile complex. Then we waited.

  Although he wouldn’t let me take the risk of walking up to the ridge, I took one of the biggest risks of my life as we sat waiting. “Phil, I’d like to ask you something. And I’d ask if you could please keep what I say confidential.”

  He said nothing and stared straight ahead at the gravel entrance road off Highway 287, watching for Dick Roth.

  “Will you? Keep this between you and me?”

  He nodded once.

  I let out a breath. “Do you think Streeter is irreparably damaged?”

  I detected a slight buckling of Phil’s eyebrows followed by an interminably long silence.

  I realized I had to offer more to get him to talk. “I am madly in love with Streeter Pierce. Probably always have been.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched and possibly curled.

  “Jack Linwood was dear, but I could never get over my feelings about Streeter.”

  I got nothing from the stiff man sitting next to me, although the hint of a smile still played on his otherwise stern lips.

  “And I think he loves me back. Not to kiss and tell, but we’ve spent the entire week together.”

  He cleared his throat before growing rigidly still once again, possibly resisting a smile for only a brief instant.

  “And this morning, before you arrived at the hospital, he broke up with me. He told me he was basically just having a fling with me.”

  His eyebrow arched.

  “I don’t believe him, either. That’s just not Streeter.”

  He said nothing.

  “I think he’s scared. I think he’s afraid to love me, to be in love with me—to love anyone after Paula …”

  His eyebrow collapsed, but he didn’t say a word.

  “… which makes me wonder if he truly is as irreparably damaged as Father Shannon claims.”

  We both sat in silence for a long moment staring at the deserted entrance road that was occasionally traversed by a truck retrieving or delivering rock somewhere.

  “He said you have tickets for me to DC. But I had no say in the transfer.”

  Phil reached into his pocket, eyes still on the road, and handed me the itinerary.

  It was for tomorrow morning—one-way.

  I sighed. “I’m not giving up on him. I’m not running. I love him. So between you and me, don’t waste your time trying to take me to the airport tomorrow.”

  The corner of his lip curled once again as he pointed at something.

  I recognized the car that pulled in off the highway. I keyed my mic and said, “Dick Roth is here. Recording: ON.”

&nbs
p; My brother and Dad both acknowledged that it was show time with a quick affirmation.

  Within minutes, Dick was escorted back to the site manager’s office. We heard Roth say, “Oh, I thought you were alone.”

  “This is my dad, Garth Bergen. He stopped by unexpectedly on his way to Rawlins.”

  “Nice to meet you.” I could picture my dad’s wide smile, his firm handshake, and his magnetic personality drawing Roth in like a moth to a lit firecracker.

  They talked for a few moments, my dad expressing his appreciation for the EPA—genuinely and with direct knowledge and details about numerous regulations many owners or presidents may not know firsthand. But my dad did. And so did Ole.

  The conversation steered toward time being of the essence. My dad, taking the hint, chipped in a great leeway, “I’ll let you two be on your way. I’ve kept you long enough. I’ve got to get going.”

  I spoke in a whisper. “Dad, what are you doing?”

  “Good luck, son. Make sure we do whatever this fine man tells us to do. You have the authority to make any necessary improvements to the plants and operation, as long as Mr. Roth suggests best practices. On my way.”

  “Dad!” I whispered. “Dad?”

  I watched in horror as he stepped out of the office toward his pickup truck and drove away.

  I turned off my mic and turned to Phil. “What in the hell is he doing?”

  Kelleher grinned. “Disobeying our instructions. He’s just like you.”

  “Ole’s on his own now. Damn it.”

  I listened intently to Ole and Dick Roth’s conversation. Ole played up to everything Roth said, placating him in any way possible, stating often how he needed to please his dad, never receive a citation, or Garth would be sorely disappointed in him.

  Within minutes, Roth was delivering the same load of shit as usual—reading the opacity at the crushing plant as twice the permitted limit. How disappointed Garth would be in Ole at the notice of violation he’d have to write up, and how sorry he was that he’d have to do it because he liked the two so much.

  And Ole had him eating right out of his hand, asking how he could make this go away, what he could do to convince him that his crushing operation was in compliance.

  The “ask,” the deadline for coming up with hush money, the handshake agreement—all recorded. All within two hours. Dick Roth drove out onto the highway headed south to Fort Collins for a long lunch, Ole having asked for at least two hours to drive back into town to retrieve the cash.

  The instant Roth’s taillights disappeared, I saw my dad coming from the north and turning into the entrance. He had never left. He had been there all along.

  “Sneaky.”

  Phil actually laughed out loud. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. He sized up the situation perfectly, made himself scarce, and set up his son for a home run.”

  “But that wasn’t the plan,” I protested.

  “Since when did a Bergen ever follow a plan?”

  I shot a glance his way and headed toward the site manager’s office to congratulate them for a situation well-played, even though it was off-script.

  Phil said, “He’s scared to death.”

  “Who? Dick Roth? Or my dad?” I had no clue where he was getting that idea. I didn’t see any of the three frightened at all.

  Then he surprised me more than I ever thought possible, tying up my earlier monologue with a bow.

  With four simple words.

  “Streeter. Of losing you.”

  LATER THAT EVENING, after dinner and over a plate of Alice’s famous plum cake, Streeter asked what had been happening with the Two Bears family.

  Alice still worked for one of the public schools as part of the clerical staff. Ray planned to retire from his quarry job as a dozer operator after forty years with the company. And Fred continued to ranch on the reservation, which was leased and operated by one of the few Caucasians who lived on the reservation. Wasicu, as Fred called them, were not permitted to live on reservation land unless they were married to an Indian, which Fred’s boss was.

  Pearl worked several part-time jobs at the hospital in the cafeteria and as the village seamstress to make ends meet. Even between Fred and Pearl, they had barely made enough money to keep their four children fed as they were growing up, but now they enjoyed a few luxuries since all four had moved out on their own. Fred and Pearl’s total income, including the allotments for living on the reservation, paled in comparison to Ray and Alice’s, who could no longer receive an allotment since they had moved off the reservation.

  Streeter commented, “So you two stayed?”

  Pearl flashed a grin. “My family’s there. I’ve lived there all my life. I need to stay and help some of the young people who don’t choose to provide a life for themselves.”

  Streeter said nothing, shoveling more cake into his mouth.

  “Some of our youth fall into the trap of believing that more government funding is the answer,” Pearl explained evenly. “They stick their hands out expecting a big, fat check just like little, helpless birds in a nest waiting for the next worm. As their hunger grows, so do their demands for more worms.”

  “Not birds. Khukuhse.” Fred stuffed another forkful into his mouth.

  Pearl’s eyes disappeared when she laughed, which Streeter enjoyed. He laughed, too. He knew enough Lakotan to know that Fred had called them pigs.

  Pearl continued, “Instead of flying out and finding the worms for themselves, they sit and wait for the next, grumbling about their hunger. Pretty soon, their wings become feeble and useless. Then all they can do is sit in the nest and squawk.”

  Fred added, “They need to work to earn self-worth.”

  Pearl summarized her thoughts less directly, more in keeping with the Lakota style. “That’s no way for a bird to live. They should fly on their own.”

  Streeter held out his plate for another piece of cake offered by Alice. “When I tell people I’ve worked in South Dakota, they jump to a reply either about Mount Rushmore or why the government hasn’t provided more funding programs for the reservations to make life easier.”

  “Easier?” Pearl asked as she helped herself to a second piece of cake, too. “As far as money goes, yes. But life is not about how easy it can be. It’s not about how much you’re worth in dollars. It’s about whether life is worth living. So few people understand that concept.”

  Alice added, “Handouts are like a bully. They take, rather than give.”

  Talking over one another and finishing each other’s sentences, first Ray chimed in. “When you live your life dependent on someone or something other than yourself, it is difficult to realize your own self-worth.”

  Then Fred said, “The only way to find self-worth is to know self-reliance.”

  Then Ray again, with, “Self-reliance means caring for yourself, doing for yourself, earning for yourself.”

  Fred responded, “It is very difficult to rationalize that you have earned for yourself by simply being a descendent of the original people. There are centuries of descendants who were promised money in exchange for original ancestors being ostracized from the rest of the country.”

  “And even more difficult to rationalize that you’ve earned something just because of the color of your skin,” Ray wrapped up.

  Streeter asked, “So what about Jeff? Why did he go back to the reservation? You raised him here in Rapid City so he’d be safer.”

  Pearl dabbed at her eyes but was the first to answer. “Jeff considered himself very fortunate. He’d say he was blessed with wonderful parents and a wonderful family.”

  The elder Two Bears blushed in unison and cast their glances downward—humbled.

  “He told me at his graduation party that you taught him to be proud of his heritage and to work hard for what he wanted.” Streeter remembered the young man’s beaming smile when he talked about his parents.

  Pearl added, “Most kids on the rez are not so fortunate. When Jeff graduated from co
llege with his teaching degree, he wanted to return to the rez to make a difference. He would say, ‘Even if I could touch one child, help him reach for a dream and then teach him how to work hard to achieve it, I would feel like I made a difference.’”

  Streeter knew Jeff would be proud of Logan Walking Crow. Jeff had definitely made a difference in that young man’s life.

  Fred added, “Half of the two million Indians in this country live on or near reservations. What the Wasicu call Sioux represent about five percent of that total population. I guess Ray was the half that left, and I was the half that stayed.”

  Ray said, “About a third of our people are listed under the poverty line. The average number of violent crimes committed against Indians as a percentage of the population is nearly two and a half times higher than all the races combined.”

  Alice rose to remove the plates and retrieve the coffee pot. “My boy had a way of putting things in perspective. He’d say, ‘Imagine one hundred of my students in this room. I could separate thirty-three of them and say, ‘You are going to live in poverty.’ I could take another thirty-three of them and say, ‘You have to live with some disability,’ and fourteen of those thirty-three will have to live with a severe disability.’”

  “Many from car accidents,” Fred added.

  “Drunk driving,” Ray said.

  Streeter knew the Two Bears would eventually get around to talking about Sunday’s tragic event, but this was their way of weaving the story, leading up to what had happened with Jeff and to their firm belief that he had never touched drugs.

  Alice poured coffee in each of the cups. “My boy would say, ‘I could take another seventeen of them and say, ‘You seven are going to be assaulted. You four are going to suffer aggravated assault. This one is going to be raped. This one robbed. Three of you will be neglected or abused as a child. One of you may be murdered.’”

  Pearl said, “Sounds harsh. But Jeff was right.”

  Streeter did the math and sipped his coffee. “That leaves seventeen students.”