As the Crow Flies

by Craig Johnson

  “We did, but it’s the wrong guy.”

  A smile pulled at the corner of her mouth. “What about the drug dealer?”

  “He’s in the office making a list of known associates of the deceased, but I don’t think he did it either.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got more real work to do.”

  “Yep, but…”

  “We don’t need you.”

  I was a little hurt. “At all?”

  She caught my tone of voice and sat up, turning in the seat and pulling herself onto the sill, clutching onto my shirt in a playful manner. “I always need you, but I don’t need you this afternoon if you’ve got things to do.” She looked at the shirt in her fingers, especially the name PRETTY WEASEL. “Did you hire on?”

  “I just needed a clean shirt.”

  “It’s not that clean.” She studied me, with the smile she reserved for me playing on her lips. “Repeat after me—Na-he-stonahanotse.”

  “What does it mean?”

  She was more emphatic this time. “Repeat—Na-he-stonahanotse.”

  “Na-he-stonahanotse.”

  She nodded at my pronunciation. “Good, now try this one: E-hestana.”

  “E-hestana.”

  “Now put them together.”

  I thought. “Na-he-stonahanotse. E-hestana. Now, what did I just say?”

  “This is my daughter; he may take her.”

  Maybe it was the sun, maybe it was the lack of sleep, but I felt my knees give just a little bit. I swallowed and could feel my eyes well and just hoped that she wouldn’t notice, but of course she did.

  Her eyes softened, and she placed her head against my chest. “I’m getting married, Daddy.”

  I laughed, but it was short and choked in my throat. “Yep, I guess it just hit me.” She pulled her head back, and I swept a wave of the strawberry blonde hair away, just a little damp from the sunbathing.

  “You won’t have to worry about me so much.”

  “Right.”

  She continued to smile. “I’m settling down and having a baby; things get easy from here on out, right?”

  I shook my head. “Oh, yeah.”

  “We’re stealing the Bear and going to Billings for supplies, but we’ll be back tonight with another Moretti.”

  “The groom?”

  She smiled. “He’ehe’e—I asked him if he could come early and help, and besides, I kind of miss him. The rest of the family is staying in Denver till the last hour so we don’t have to worry as much about the rooms, which, by the way, were okay. Michael, Lena, Henry, you—we’re all having dinner.”

  I glanced at the Cheyenne Nation as if I didn’t know. “At Chez Bear?”

  Cady retrieved her sunglasses. “Actually at the Charging Horse Casino if we don’t get going. Could you make us a reservation, just in case, Dad?” She glanced at the clock in the T-Bird’s dash. “You have six hours to catch a killer.”

  Lena Moretti was looking at me again. “No pressure.”

  Cady kissed my grizzled face and lowered herself back down, put on her shirt, and stretched the seat belt across her lap.

  Part of me wanted to go, but I knew I’d be more help to Chief Long. “I don’t have a vehicle.”

  The Cheyenne Nation pushed off the fender of the Thunderbird and turned to stand over the passenger-side door, his gaze tracking first to Lena Moretti and then to his truck parked behind the car. “I’ll leave you Rezdawg.”

  He fished the keys from his pocket and tossed them to me, assorted fetishes, feathers, and all.

  I couldn’t believe he actually bothered to take the keys out of the thing.

  I studied the fob in my hand and then looked at the rusting hulk. The bunch of them wheeled out of the parking lot, made a right, and headed for the big city.

  “Like I said, I don’t have a vehicle.”

  When I walked back into the Tribal Police office, Lolo Long was on her way out. “What are you doing here?”

  I shrugged. “Abandoned.”

  “Good, you can come to KRZZ with me; Nate called and said that he’s got more for us.”

  “What about Charles, Artie, Kelly Joe, and the impending euthanasia?”

  “Mom brought over lunch, and she’ll stay till we get back.” She pulled a slip of paper from her shirt pocket and handed it to me.

  “What’s this?”

  “The list of people on the medications that were on the old bracelet you found. The database only goes back about twelve months, but she said she would check and see who might have had anything critical before that that would have led to that amount of medication.” She gestured toward the waiting GMC. “To the radio station?”

  I raised a fist. “Stay calm, have courage, and wait for signs.”

  With the chief driving, we were there in three minutes. The same vehicles were parked, with the addition of Herbert’s Cherokee. “I guess the morning drive guy finally showed up for the afternoon shift.”

  Lolo led the way in, and the Sudoku gamer pointed toward the production studios beyond. Bill Miller’s Ghost Dance hovered in the speakers, and I could see Herbert His Good Horse wearing his signature mottled-gray top hat with the leather studded band stuck with the large eagle feather. He was in the on-air studio and turned and waved at us, pointing past the offices to an area where we hadn’t been before.

  We turned the corner—Nate was sitting in a stripped-down studio about the size of a walk-in closet, his head resting in his hands as he listened intently, a pair of hi-tech headphones over his ears. Chief Long stepped up behind him and casually placed her hands on his shoulders, causing the young man to leap up and turn around.

  Lolo raised her arms, and we watched as he slipped the headphones off. “Jeez, you guys scared the crap out of me.”

  “Sorry.” She smiled. “What’s up?”

  He stepped past us and started around the corner. “Hold on, let me get Herbert.”

  We stood there looking at the rock-and-roll posters of artists I certainly didn’t know, and after a moment Nate reappeared with Herbert in tow. Nate pushed past us, and Herbert stuffed the rest of the room with himself before closing the door on the clown-car studio.

  Nate cleared his throat. “This is pretty important.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and looked worried.

  Herbert gestured toward the young man. “Tell ’em.”

  “This tape…” Nate paused. “It’s produced.”

  I shot a glance at Lolo, but she looked as confused as me. “What do you mean produced?”

  His eyes flitted around in a nervous way. “The Feds made this recording. These two guys aren’t even talking to each other.”

  Chief Long leaned into him. “What?”

  “I was listening to the amplified tape, and I kept hearing these little bumps—you know, sounds between the people speaking. It’s really well done, but it’s dubbed.” He gestured toward the equipment behind him. “This conversation’s been patched together—the Feds made this up, man.”

  He half-turned and hit a few keys on the computer—and Artie Small Song’s and Clarence Last Bull’s voices exploded through the speakers. He immediately turned the volume down. “I edited it so that you can listen to the transition points between them talking.”

  I listened carefully to the amplified version—and he was right.

  Lolo Long’s eyes were wide as she turned to me. “I can hear it.”

  “Yep, so can I.”

  Nate punched some more keys, and the music in the background leapt forward. “There’s something else.”

  I listened for a moment. “Ira Hayes, I know. We checked the jukebox up at Jimtown, and it’s not there.”

  Nate shook his head. “No, not that. Listen.”

  We all did, but it was Lolo who asked. “What are we listening for?”

  “The lyrics.”

  The chief and I looked at each other and then at Nate. He gave us an exasperated look. “They’re repeated.”

  We listened to the portion
about the flag and throwing a dog a bone and then listened to it again.

  Lolo laughed. “It’s the chorus.”

  Nate frowned. “No, it’s not, and even if it was it wouldn’t be repeated that soon. Somebody dubbed the music in so that it would drown out the edits, but they didn’t realize they were repeating those lyrics.”

  I glanced at Herbert, who had had a lifetime of experience in the field. “What do you think?”

  He nodded his head and looked sad. “The kid came and got me, and I listened to it a bunch of times. He’s right; somebody put this recording together.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  Nate was almost vibrating with energy. “It’s the federal government, man—this is the kind of shit they do.”

  As one of the two people in the room with a badge, I didn’t really want to be that voice of reason, but it seemed like somebody should say it. “Nate, that’s kind of crazy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that if Cliff Cly thought there was anything fishy about this tape…” I paused for a moment, thinking about the AIC’s flexible attitude concerning any kind of rule, which had resulted in his being here on the Rez in the first place.

  Lolo studied me. “What?”

  I took a deep breath and tried to flush the wacky idea from my system. “It doesn’t make any sense. Why would the FBI be after Artie?”

  “They’ve been after my brother for years, man. He’s a warrior, and they’ve been trying to keep him down.” He pulled the CD from the player. “We should go to the newspapers and get them to expose this.”

  I reached out and took the CD. “No, we’re going to go play this for Cliff Cly and see what he has to say.”

  Nate pegged the needles. “Are you crazy? Those are the guys that did this, man!”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Anyway, if Cliff had anything to do with it, us confronting him will pretty much stop this stuff in its tracks. If he doesn’t know about it, then maybe he can help us figure out who did it.”

  “They’ll burn the radio station down, right Herb?”

  Herbert shrugged. “They could—I mean stuff like that happens all the time.”

  I looked to Lolo for a little support, unsure of what I was going to do if she joined in with the conspiracy theory. “Chief Long?”

  She looked at both Nate and Herbert. “You guys watch a lot of Fox News, don’t you?”

  Nate waved her remark away. “I’m serious; the black helicopters are going to come along and sweep you guys away, and Herb and I are going to be sitting up here at ground zero.” If he’d had room he would’ve paced. “Audrey knew something so they killed her; then they killed Clarence to shut him up, and now they wanna pin it all on Artie.”

  I interrupted the rant. “What could Audrey have known?”

  “I don’t know; something.”

  I sighed. “This all sounds pretty crazy, Nate.”

  “Fine, go talk to your buddies at the FBI and see what they say.” He waved a hand in my face. “Been nice knowing you.”

  I looked at Herbert, but he seemed to be concentrating on the floor. I stepped past him and opened the door. “C’mon, Chief, let’s go.”

  Long followed, and we started out, making it to the reception area before Nate caught my arm. “Hey, look, if something does happen to you guys, what should I do?”

  “Stay away from the windows.”

  I’d meant it as a joke, but I don’t think he got it.

  “How well do you know this Cliff Cly?” She was powering her way down the gravel road, the big V-8 yowling in protest.

  “Like I said, I dealt with him out on the Powder River. He’s not the most ethical of the bureau guys I’ve dealt with, but he gets results.”

  “Do you think Artie is one of his results?”

  I braced my hand on the padded dash and could see where I was wearing an impression into the leather. “Well, it was strangely convenient how that tape showed up to seal the deal just when we needed it, but it seems, well, awkward.”

  She roared the GMC onto the asphalt and laid a strip of rubber that must’ve been a good ten feet long. The people on the sidewalks of Lame Deer ignored the racing Yukon as if it going down Main Street at sixty miles an hour was a daily occurrence; come to think of it, it probably was.

  “You think we should take this to the head office in Salt Lake?”

  I shook my head. “Mike McGroder? No, we’ll give Cliff a chance to hear it and see what he has to say. Do you have any idea where he might be?”

  She pulled the mic from her dash and hit the button. “Base, this is unit 1—anybody there?”

  Static. “Unit 1, this is base. Over.”

  “Charles, do you have any idea where the AIC might be?”

  Static. “Yeah, he was just here—picked up both Kelly Joe and Artie Small Song. He said he was taking them to Hardin for protective custody.”

  She glanced at me. “How long ago?”

  Static. “Maybe five minutes.”

  I reached up and clicked on the light and sirens as the warrior chief four-wheel-drifted through the main intersection of Lame Deer, barely missing a delivery van and a Ford Explorer. By the time we got to the big ridge overlooking the separate lands of the Cheyenne and Crow we were doing a hundred and twenty.

  The muscles at the side of her jaw bunched. “That settles it.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Bullshit! He forged the tape, and now he’s trying to seal it up tight by taking Artie.” She flung the Yukon around a sweeping corner, and I was pretty sure the inside wheels were off the ground. I glanced up at the integral roll bar and was slightly reassured. “It has to be.”

  When we hit the straightaway above Busby, not to be confused with Birney, white or red, you could see the caravan of federal vehicles approaching the gigantic Moncure teepee that had once been a gift shop and tourist trap located beside the town’s general store.

  Lolo’s foot sank deeper into the SUV’s throat, and I watched as the orange needle wound higher. By the time we approached the string of one Yukon, one Suburban, and the Expedition, I’m pretty sure we were only hitting the high spots on 212.

  The chief launched past the rear vehicle, and I could see the surprised looks on the faces of the Feds as she blew by the second one and slid past the leading vehicle with her antilock brakes most assuredly locked.

  We were still hanging out into the forward lane, clouded in blue smoke when the thing finally stopped, and I was just glad the airbags hadn’t deployed. I unsnapped my belt, pushed the door open, and stepped onto scoria-colored asphalt.

  Cly was the first out of a vehicle, and he stepped toward us with a hand on the Sig-Sauer at his hip, motioning to the agent who had been driving to lower his weapon as he came out the driver’s side. He smiled at my appearance. “Hey, nice shirt. You decide to go Native?” He opened his arms to encompass the Little Big Horn country. “Good place for it, Kemosabe.”

  Lolo Long came around the back side of her unit and pointed a finger at Cly. “Where are my prisoners?”

  The agent looked as if he’d been smacked. “What?”

  I kept an eye on the driver as he lowered his weapon but did not reholster, as three more field agents showed up from the other two vehicles. They looked like a preppy barbershop quartet.

  Long had made it to the front of the Suburban and actually kicked the front bumper. “I said where are my prisoners? You can hand over Kelly Joe and Nattie to the DEA or whoever, but you have no right to take Artie Small Song.” She glanced at the other agents, who were wisely keeping their distance, self-preservation being a core class at the academy.

  Cliff glanced at me with an odd look on his face and then pushed his sunglasses up on his wavy locks. “You’re running a skeleton staff in a concrete block; I thought I’d do you a favor.”

  “I don’t need your favors.”

  He looked at me again, spoke slowly, and with the Midwestern accent that Wade Barsad had had, said.
“O-key.”

  She circled around to stand in front of him, and I think he was glad the open door was between them. “I’m running a homicide investigation, and you’re trying to run off with my chief witness.”

  The agent looked at me again. “I thought he was the chief suspect.”

  “He was until we listened more carefully to your bullshit tape.”

  I watched him closely, and you could be mistaken about which side of the coin it was that Cliff Cly of the FBI had been playing, but he seemed genuinely very confused. “What are you talking about?”

  “The phone recording is crap, and you know it.”

  An eighteen-wheeler slowed at the phalanx of official vehicles, the air brakes blowing out like an angry mechanical bull. The operator hung out the window to look at the drama unfolding. Lolo Long was momentarily distracted and shouted at the truck driver. “What are you looking at; you want me to check your logs or something?!”

  The truck sped up, and I stepped a little closer to the epicenter of the conflict, hoping the chief would remember I was on her side. “Why don’t we pull these vehicles over to the other side of the road and get this all straightened out?”

  Long looked at me for a moment and then marched past to navigate the GMC into the gravel lot surrounding the derelict tourist attraction.

  The Feds followed suit, and Cly told a couple of his boys to go get the rest of the agents a few soft drinks from the general store three hundred feet back. They disappeared, but the eyes of the remaining agents in the assorted vehicles watched us like we were trying to steal their collective bones.

  Which at least one of us was.

  “Play it again.”

  Lolo hit the button, and we listened to the remastered CD for the second time.

  The expression on his face didn’t change, but he disengaged himself from the vehicle and stood there, dusting the toe of his dress shoe on the back of a pant leg. After a moment he walked across the crumbling concrete pad and peered into the Moncure teepee, raised a hand, and pushed open the flapping screen door, which was held to the structure by half a hinge. “So, you think the recording has been doctored?”

  The chief and I stood by the grille guard of her unit and watched him. “You heard it—what do you think?”