“Hey, do you mind if I make a phone call?”
He sighed deeply and continued to hum.
I waited for him to say something, but he didn’t. After a while, I started dropping my attempts at social graces and surrendered to the exhaustion I felt. I leaned back in my chair and pulled my hat down partially over my face.
It was that way sometimes with the Cheyenne—conversation simply wasn’t required and silence was very often a sign of respect; however, even though I knew he wasn’t attempting to make me feel unwelcome, he wasn’t exactly knocking himself out to become my newfound pal, either.
Nothing happened for a while; then, from under the brim of my hat, I saw Lolo Long walk in our general direction. She sat in a chair beside the deputy, but they didn’t look at each other, preferring to sit at an angle with their eyes centered on an area roughly midwall.
As far as I could tell, the two danced around subjects—one providing a counterpoint to the other’s silences with singular responses and small sounds that I’m sure carried their own meanings of verbal sustenance. They were not whispering but were still respectful of my supposed sleep, and the consonants sounded like small, bright birds in faraway trees, the vowels like a lullaby.
His chair squeaked and he closed a door, and then she moved to my left.
I tipped my hat back up and opened my eyes. Her hair was still wet from her shower, and she had changed uniforms.
“I don’t think your staff likes me.”
She studied the folder that had been on her desk, shrugged, and kept reading. “He’s probably just pissed off because we’ve got his half-brother in the holding cell, but Charles says only about three words a week anyway, so who knows.”
“Every family has a black sheep; some have two.” I looked around at the half-dozen empty desks that were shoved against the wall. “Where are the rest of your personnel?”
She gestured with a distracted hand and continued to study the file. “I fired them.”
I turned and looked at her, expecting more but not getting it. “Excuse me?”
She shrugged. “I fired Charles, too, but he keeps showing up; he hasn’t been paid in two weeks. I don’t know if he understands that he’s been fired. He lacks imagination, and I have to admit that it’s a trait that’s growing on me.” Her eyes came up. “I don’t like people with imagination.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” I nodded toward the sleeping man through the doorway. “That the file on the lodger?”
She looked back at the folder, and about a minute passed. “No, it’s the file on you.”
“I’ve got a file?”
She closed it. “As of today.”
“So, am I still under arrest?”
“Yes. No…” She tossed the file on her desk. “Maybe.”
“Do you mind if I ask for what?”
She puffed a breath out with her lips. “Reasonable suspicion, which covers being friends with Henry Standing Bear.”
There was a lot going on there, kind of like a nascent volcano. “What, exactly, is it you’ve got against Henry?”
Her eyes flared, which reaffirmed my concern. “He thinks he’s above the law, and I don’t like that.”
I smiled. “Maybe not above, but certainly beyond.” I stood, looking down at the phone on her desk. “I’d like to make a phone call.”
She splayed a hand and pulled a wave of the damp, raven-colored hair past her shoulder. “I already made all your calls. You’re spending the night at the tribal chief’s house, and I’m going to drop you off.” She leaned back in her chair, stretched out her arms, and left her fingertips on the edge of her desk like a kid testing her reach. “But right now I thought I’d buy you dinner.”
The Charging Horse Casino is a strange-looking building tucked away along the main road of the Northern Cheyenne Reservation, and if it weren’t the largest gaming facility on the high plains and covered in neon, you might miss it.
A thickset man a little older than me with a salt and pepper ponytail and a weathered face met us and opened the door of the casino. “Hello, Chief.”
Lolo Long didn’t respond but continued in.
I nodded to the man, who gave me the slightest smile, and then continued on to catch up with her. “Somebody you know?”
“Ex–police chief.”
“Oh.”
Most of the building was taken up by the five-hundred-seat bingo hall in the back, but the three-a-week sessions didn’t start till tomorrow night, so the place was pretty much empty except for the professionals who were scattered around the slots and poker machines. We were seated in front of one of the diamond-shaped windows in the farthest corner of the restaurant, where we could watch the late light flare with a horizontal glow just before dying out.
“Is this your usual seat?”
She looked around. “They try to keep me away from the patrons.”
I nodded and sat there, waiting; it was her party, so I figured I’d let her swing at the piñata, which gave me plenty of time to study the sickle-shaped scar that started under her right cheekbone, circled around the orbit of her eye, and disappeared into her dark eyebrow.
The waitress, a middle-aged Cheyenne woman, quietly approached with water and menus. We ordered, and the waitress came back with a pitcher of iced tea. I nodded, and she filled up two glasses, then left, giving Lolo Long time for the window and herself.
She turned back to me. “So, how did I do today?”
I felt like I’d just hit a pothole. “Excuse me?”
“On the job—how did I do?” Her eyes went to the surface of the table. “Look, I know you’ve been doing this stuff for a long time. A long time. I thought you might have some opinions.”
“It’s really not any of my business, but I think maybe you should give the badge back.”
It took a moment for her to work up a response. “I know I didn’t do everything exactly right today.”
“Well, you didn’t do much right today.” I glanced around to make sure that no one was in earshot and continued. “With all due respect, Specialist, I don’t know what your specialty was, but it wasn’t law enforcement.”
She didn’t move.
I felt bad about saying it, but she’d introduced the subject and I was beginning to think that it might be my only opportunity. I tried to soften my voice. “I’m sorry to be the one, but I have to tell you this before you get yourself or somebody else killed.”
The muscles bunched in her throat. “Well, what did I do wrong?”
I glanced around in an attempt to get a handle on the subject. “Let’s just use the altercation with Last Bull as an example: with any kind of decent public defender, he’ll walk.”
“He had a shotgun.”
“An empty one that he did not brandish toward us in any way. If you’d been paying attention rather than trying to gain admittance to a residence where you had no warrant—”
“I know him; he’s a drunk and dangerous.”
“Which makes it even worse. You approached the house with your sidearm drawn. I don’t care how dangerous he is or isn’t—you offered him up a written invitation to resist. He is a potential suspect—the operative word there is potential—and should be treated with at least a tiny bit of respect.” She started to interrupt again, but I wouldn’t let her. “What if you’re wrong? What if he’s a guy who just lost a loved one and his child and that’s all? What then?”
She was angry. “I’ll do something like apologize.”
“That would be interesting since I haven’t seen anything approximating an apology for anything since I’ve met you today.”
She folded her arms, then unfolded them and started to take a drink of her tea or maybe throw it in my face. “Apologies are a sign of weakness.”
I sat there looking at her, making sure I’d heard what I’d thought I’d heard as the waitress arrived with our food—she stood a little to the side to avoid the bloodshed.
I went ahead and finished my statemen
t. “Apologies are a sign of having some semblance of an idea of what’s going on around you and not being a cocksure idiot.” I should’ve stopped there, but the rest needed to be said. “Excuse me for saying so, but you don’t have the training or, from what I can see, the temperament for the job.”
Her eyes stayed steady with mine. She took a deep breath and then stood by the table. The only sounds were the air-conditioning and the noisome jangling of the slot machines.
Again she reminded me of Vic, but without the top-notch training that the Philadelphia Police Academy had provided, or the five years of street duty, or the field commendations that the Terror had hung on her bathroom wall. It was possible that Lolo Long could become a capable officer, but she would never last that long. She would end up dead on a frontage road or bleeding her life away on a patch of threadbare indoor/outdoor carpeting.
Without another word, she turned and stalked out, taking the time only to flip one of the waiting plates from the waitress’s hand. It cascaded in a graceful arc over the startled woman’s shoulder and crashed onto the tile floor with a clatter, bits of broken china and chipotle steak going everywhere.
I dropped my head and sighed. I knew I’d been going too far, but I hadn’t considered how “too far” I’d gone and, considering the recent conversation, I figured the waitress wasn’t likely to get an apology.
The poor woman was still standing there with the other plate in her hand, so I took it from her. “I’m assuming that mine is the one on the floor, so I’ll take the fried chicken.” I held my other hand out to her. “Walt Longmire.”
She nodded and shook my fingers. “I know.” She looked through the window as Chief Long lunged the Yukon out of the parking lot. “She used to be such a nice girl before.”
Setting the plate on the table, I gestured toward the mess. “Do you need some help cleaning that up?”
“No.” She smiled. “I can get it—you eat.”
It was at this point, according to Officer Long, that I betrayed a weakness. “I’m sorry.”
The woman braided her weakness with mine. “I’m sorry, too.”
I sat and began eating the chicken with my fingers; other than the waitress, I was the only one there. I pulled a few more napkins from the dispenser as she returned with a dustpan, broom, a spray bottle, and paper towels. “My name is Loraine Two Two.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Loraine.”
She made quick work of the mess. “I heard it was Audrey Plain Feather who fell off a cliff and died today.”
I gave the chicken a momentary rest. “That moccasin telegraph never sleeps, does it?”
“I worked with her over at Human Services.” She smiled but then it faded. “They said the child, Adrian, was with her when she fell.”
I took a breath and thought about my nonofficial connection to the case. “He’s over at the hospital, but I think he’s going to be fine.”
Loraine stood but averted her eyes from mine. “It’s a troubled family.”
I nodded, still holding a leg in my hands. “That’s what I hear.”
“The man, Clarence; he was paying attention to my daughter Inez, a year ago.”
“Really?” I wasn’t sure of what else to say.
“Yes.” Loraine Two Two turned to go, but her voice carried over her shoulder. “She was thirteen.”
It was about two miles up the road to Lonnie Little Bird’s house, and I was once again regretting the loss of my truck as I trudged up Route 212, the thunder still resonating off the flat surfaces of the distant plateaus.
With my current luck, it was likely to rain again before I got there.
It was also likely that Clarence Last Bull had killed Audrey, but the final word on that would have to wait until Chief Long got the preliminary report from the Montana Crime Lab and the FBI tomorrow morning. It wouldn’t have all the details, but it would be enough to get the slow-moving wheels of justice started on their uphill journey.
Rudimentary math and tonight’s revelation told me that Clarence was having a little on the side, and the fact that it was with a thirteen-year-old girl didn’t exactly endear him to me. I still had doubts, but then I wasn’t sure what a man did after pushing his wife and child from a cliff. Would you just get in your car and drive home drunk? If you were trying to make it look as if it were an accident, you would contact 911 and stay there. It just didn’t make sense, and in my line of work the things that didn’t make sense often led you to the things that did.
I reminded myself once more that this wasn’t my case. Twirling the ring on my little finger, I again remembered that I had a daughter who was getting married in a matter of weeks.
I could hear a vehicle approaching from the rear, and just for fun I threw a thumb out to see if I could get a lift. The thought struck me that it might’ve been Lolo Long in a fit of conscience, deciding to give me a ride after all. Yep, right, and it could also have been Chief High Bear wanting to show me the ledger drawings that he had painted in the roster book he’d taken from the first sergeant of the Seventh Cavalry.
I turned to look back—by the sound, the vehicle was awfully close—and when I did, it seemed to be bearing down on me. It was an older truck with some kind of hopped-up engine and Cherry Bomb mufflers. I stood there for a moment, thinking that the driver hadn’t seen me and would momentarily turn the wheel and go by, but instead the truck continued on a course straight toward where I stood.
I ran across the shoulder and down the hill by the side of the road, passed by a signpost for Route 212, clawed my way up the slight embankment to a barbed-wire fence, and threw myself over into the wet grass. The jacked-up pickup followed me into the ditch and swerved just past, slapping a few posts and shooting sparks from the barbs on the wire that attempted to bury themselves into the sheet metal. The truck slid sideways as it struggled to get back up the hill and onto the highway, then drifted to a slower speed as the driver tried to get purchase.
It was about then that I noticed the elk tied to the hood.
I really started missing my gun.
Soaking wet from the rough landing, I stretched the old three-strand wire, scrambled back over, and started after the half-ton as it slid sideways some more, the bald tires unable to get a grip. There were brake lights and headlights but no license plate on what looked like an old, red Chevrolet.
The driver was sawing at the wheel in an attempt to escape a return trip into the ditch, but all I could see was a mantle of long, dark hair.
I was having trouble getting up the grade in my slick-soled boots but got to the edge of the road and ran along the white line. The Chevy wasn’t making particularly good time going down the road sideways, but it didn’t seem as if I was catching up.
The wide tires on the rear finally got to the gravel, and I watched as the vehicle squirreled to the right, the elk swaying on the hood.
My second and third winds were giving out as I watched, but the driver corrected again and shot ahead east toward Ashland with a roar like a top-fuel dragster. Forcing the air in and out of my lungs, I stopped and placed my hands on my knees, the V-8 echoing off the hillsides and disappearing around the far turn a mile away. “Good God…”
I swallowed and stayed bent over until my blood pressure and adrenaline level approximated normal but kept my eyes on the road just in case the crazed driver decided to turn around and take another pass at me. After a while, the only sound other than me breathing was the cry of a few night birds and the croaking of some of the frogs in the ditch. I finally stood, pulled in two lungfuls of air, and coughed.
It was the time of the evening that was playing with night, and I walked up the road a few steps until I noticed something odd on the gravel. It was a carved piece of buffalo horn about the size of three of my fingers, with a smoothed tip, a piece of rawhide tied in a loop toward the end. There were a few holes drilled into the thing and a larger opening about a quarter down the length.
I popped it in my shirt pocket and glanced up the
road—it was still a couple of hundred yards to the cutoff to Lonnie’s place.
I knocked and shuffled my feet on the welcome mat of the tidy house—I wasn’t sure if the chief was awake or not. I glanced down the concrete ramp that led to the front door and was glad it was a warm night; if worse came to worse, I could always sleep on the hanging swing on Lonnie’s porch.
I knocked again and could hear someone rustling around inside; after a moment, the door opened, revealing the chief in his wheelchair. He looked up at me through blurry eyes but with a grin. “Ha’ahe, lawman. They said you were sleeping over, but I’d given up on you. Um hmm, yes, it is so.”
I opened the screen door and followed Lonnie along the hallway, where there were numerous photographs of him in his major-league ball-playing days and ones of his daughter in jingledress dance outfits and playing basketball.
I sat at the table in the kitchen as Lonnie examined my soaked, mud-covered clothes and the torn jeans where the voracious barbed wire had gotten me in my leap over the fence. “Rough night?”
I took a deep breath and wished Lonnie still drank, but he had given that up in a successful attempt at getting his daughter from the clutches of his sisters. “Somebody tried to run me over.”
“Where?
I jerked a thumb past my shoulder. “Walking, right out here on 212.”
“What were you doing walking?”
“Oh, I had a difference of opinion with your police chief.” I tried to deflect the conversation. “Hey, Lonnie, do you have any of that really good root beer?” I knew the chief kept a single can of Rainier in his refrigerator as a token to alcoholic temptation, but I wasn’t going to ask for that.
“Um hmm, yes.” He wheeled over to the fridge and opened the door.
“You don’t know anybody with an early-seventies pickup, Chevy, red or maroon, with a loud exhaust, do you?”
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