by Joseph Flynn
Chapter 5
Marlene wasn’t sitting in John’s chair, but she was standing behind his desk, looking out the window. She turned when she heard him enter and said, “I think your office has a better view than mine, Tall Wolf.”
John replied, “I’ll trade with you, if you want.”
Marlene waited for the kicker.
John added, “After I have your office cleansed and blessed by my mother.”
They both knew John thought Marlene was Coyote. The Trickster. The sly shape-shifter that was always creating mischief for its own amusement and to its own advantage. Shortly after his birth, John’s adoptive parents had saved him from being devoured by the largest coyote either of them had ever seen. If not in the flesh, John felt sure Marlene had been there in spirit. Had felt cheated out of making a meal of him as an infant.
He also thought she had pursued him in her current human guise when she’d recruited him to join the BIA not long after he graduated from college. Meaning to consume his soul if not his flesh. Maybe, though, she’d take a good bite out of his hide, too. Anyone who saw the incisors in Marlene’s mouth would never doubt her ability to rend flesh. Anyone who’d ever worked for or with her would have no trouble thinking of her as a man-eater.
The mood she was in now only reinforced both of those perceptions for John.
“You feel safer with Mommy around?” she asked him.
Serafina Wolf y Padilla was a professor of cultural anthropology at the University of New Mexico. She was also a curandera — healer — and a bruja — witch. John had managed never to finish worse than even when he went head to head with Marlene, and he usually came out on top. Even so, he took comfort in the knowledge that if he ever suffered as a result of Coyote’s scheming, his mother would exact a horrific retribution.
He was also secure enough in his masculinity to admit as much. “Sure, I always feel good with my mom around. Are you going to finally take the opportunity to meet my parents?”
John had invited Marlene to his swearing in, if only to see whether she had the courage to accept. Marlene smiled, revealing her overdeveloped canines.
Coyote was scheming again, John saw. At the very least, she meant to spoil his day.
“The reason I stopped by this morning was because someone at Amtrak hadn’t gotten the memo that you now have charge of BIA special investigations and they called me.”
“Amtrak?” John asked.
“Intelligence division, the people over there who look at threats to the train lines.”
“What happened?” John asked.
“Someone stole a locomotive that left Los Angeles bound for Chicago. It’s disappeared.”
John looked puzzled. “How do you steal a train? And what would the BIA’s interest be?”
Marlene smiled at John’s momentary inability to intuit the situation.
“Come on, Tall Wolf. You should be able to answer at least one of your questions.”
That was all the prodding he needed. “There’s a Native American angle … somebody thinks the bad guys are Indians?”
“Maybe. What else?”
“The engine itself is relevant?”
“How could that be?” Marlene smiled at him.
She was playing the teacher coaxing the slow kid in class. John didn’t let her condescension get to him. He thought about the situation. Terrorist assholes around the world had been using truck-bombs for years. Such improvised weapons had terrible destructive power. If someone ever seized control of a train and filled it with explosives it could destroy the heart of a major city.
But what did that have to do with Native Americans? It hardly seemed likely anyone would use such a weapon against a reservation. Attacking any poor community would only bring global condemnation.
So … he’d asked if the locomotive was relevant and Marlene hadn’t said no. That meant it was a reason for him to get involved. What train had he ever seen that was pertinent to a Native American culture?
That question led him to think of where he’d grown up: Santa Fe, New Mexico. His adoptive parents had instructed him in the cultural basics of the local tribe, the Northern Apaches, the people from whom his birth mother had come.
But it wasn’t tribal lore that resonated now, it was the name of his hometown.
Santa Fe. Just like the old railroad, the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe.
Its most famous train was —
The phone on John’s desk rang, surprising him.
He didn’t even know his office number yet. He answered the call anyway.
“Special Agent Tall Wolf,” he said.
“Soon to be Co-director Tall Wolf,” Byron DeWitt replied. DeWitt was a deputy director at the FBI. “You hear someone grabbed a Super Chief locomotive?”
Chapter 6
Southwestern U.S.
Alan White River had long ago lost count of how old he was. Keeping track had never mattered to him. He’d known when he was a boy, a man and an old man. Now, he was very old, but he still stood tall. His long, white hair remained full, pulled back from his weathered face. There was still a last rush to what had once been a fierce wind. A will that possessed a core of iron still animated him. He was sure he had everything necessary to perform one last great task. After that, he wouldn’t care if his body passed beyond this life.
His spirit would remain, and if he was worthy, it would join the ranks of his ancestors. There he would be more at home and at peace than he’d ever been in this world. To those who survived him, he would have shown that he’d been a man worth remembering.
He told the young warriors who did his bidding, including his great-grandson, Bodaway, Apache for Firemaker, “Let me see these men, and let them see who stole their train.”
White River and his band entered a rude mountain shack that wouldn’t last another winter.
The four men who’d crewed the Super Chief sat tailor-fashion in a semi-circle and wore blindfolds. White River’s men removed the coverings from their eyes. The crew’s wrists were left bound behind their backs. White River might have towered over them, looked down on them, asserted his position of power.
He didn’t do so. He sat as they did on the dirt floor.
Morning light pushed through the imperfectly joined walls. The rising sun also powered through the one dirty window and made the captives squint. To them, the man who held their lives in his hand was little more than a cloud of glowing white hair and a soft but strong voice. Its tone told them not to mistake old age for weakness.
White River said, “I told my people not to hurt any of you, if they could avoid it. I am told all of you are well. Is that so?”
The senior engineer, Albert Wicker, grimaced.
“You are injured?” White River asked.
Wicker shook his head. “Not hurt, but I need my blood pressure medication.”
A yellow plastic bottle with a childproof cap landed in his lap. The senior engineer looked at the label and saw it was his prescription. “Thank you.”
White River read the label. Took two pills from the bottle and popped them in the man’s mouth. He recapped the bottle and left it in front of Wicker.
Another member of the crew, Dale Brent, a younger man, cracked wise. “So you’re not gonna let us die of heart attacks. You’re just gonna shoot us, right?”
Bodaway, standing behind Brent, put a foot hard into one of his kidneys. The crewman toppled over sideways and moaned. White River shot his great-grandson a disapproving look and waited until Brent grew quiet.
Without any verbal instruction, Bodaway righted the man.
Then White River said, “You will have food and water. You will have each other’s company. You will be watched, but if you do not try to run, we will leave you alone.”
White River stood. His shoulders were still broad. They blocked the sun and allowed the railroad crew to see his face. A thousand lines scored it, the sum of which showed he wasn’t a cruel man, but neither was he to be underestimated. He could clai
m their lives with a word or a gesture.
As if reading their minds, he told the crew in an even tone, “If you try to escape, you will die. If you attempt to run and hurt one of my people, you will die badly. But if you cause no trouble you will be released before long. Your train will be returned to you and you will be allowed to complete your journey. Think of these words before you decide how to act.”
White River turned to leave but Wicker, the senior engineer, said, “I won’t be able to take my pills with my hands tied behind my back.”
White River looked at him. “No, you couldn’t do that, could you?”
He spoke in a language his captives didn’t understand. The bindings were removed from the wrists of each crewman. They all tried to rub the pain away.
White River inclined his head, and one of his men brought several plastic shopping bags into the shack and lined them up against a wall.
“Food and water,” White River said. “We will leave you now. You won’t see us, but we will be watching you at all times. Remember what I said. You try to run, you die. Maybe in great pain.”
For the moment at least, none of the crew doubted him.
Chapter 7
Washington, D.C.
Byron DeWitt escorted Maj Olson into the office of the Secretary of the Interior. DeWitt began his introductions with John Tall Wolf. “You’ll be working with the new co-director of the BIA’s Office of Justice Services, John Tall Wolf.”
While shaking John’s hand, Maj asked, “You won’t be delegating the investigation to someone else, sir?”
She’d already been surprised by having met with DeWitt. The guy was way up the FBI food chain. She thought he’d hand her off to an underling, someone closer to her own pay grade but, no, he explained he’d be working his half of the case and —
John told the Amtrak special agent, “I like to get out of the office. At heart, I’m a working cop.”
That message was meant for more than Maj, but she pleased John when she said, “Me, too. I like nothing better than doing field work. I’m a hands-on person.”
Maj’s claim was backed up by her appearance. Bright, attentive eyes, a long, lean build and strong hands with short nails and calluses that didn’t come from pushing paper.
“We should get along just fine,” John told her.
DeWitt introduced John’s parents and Rebecca Bramley, whom he’d met at dinner the night before, and the soon-to-leave-office Secretary of the Interior, George Kinsley. Saving the headliner for last, DeWitt said, “Madam Vice President, may I present Amtrak Special Agent Maj Olson, Ph.D. in American History from Columbia University. Special Agent Olson, the honorable Jean Morrissey, the vice president of the United States.”
The vice president smiled and extended her hand. Maj took it and did her best not to get into a my-grip-is-stronger-than-yours contest.
Even so, the vice president felt the strength in Maj’s grip and asked, “Did you play any sports as an undergrad, Special Agent?”
“I ran track at Columbia, ma’am.”
Jean Morrissey beamed at her fellow collegiate athlete. The vice president had played ice hockey at Minnesota. “That’s great. Well, we’d better get down to business. Secretary Kinsley has an oath to administer and then we all have a train to find.”
Maj watched as John took his oath. She could see he took it seriously, but she thought there was just a glimmer of reservation in his eyes. His parents and Ms. Bramley, though, placed no qualifications on the pride they felt for him.
Ms. Bramley, introduced as a lieutenant in the RCMP, looked like quite an athletic specimen herself. A good match for a big guy like Co-director Tall Wolf.
The Wolfs were interesting looking people, Maj thought. Immaculately dressed and groomed, they were the picture of the American professional class. Still, there was something otherworldly about them. That was the best adjective Maj could find.
And her new partner, if she might think of him that way, was he unusual, too?
Before she could explore that notion, the ceremony was over and everyone was shaking hands, including hers once again. Making her feel she was a full member of the investigation. That was reassuring and still a little hard for her to believe. Government work was normally a matter of hierarchy not meritocracy, but —
At the vice president’s suggestion, Secretary Kinsley escorted the senior Wolfs and Ms. Bramley out of his office for the moment and she addressed the three federal employees who would be working under her direction.
“The president,” she told them, “has delegated the job of finding this train to me. I don’t intend to let her down. I know all of you won’t let me down. I’ll need daily reports from you, Deputy Director DeWitt and you, Co-director Tall Wolf. Special Agent Olson, I’ll expect to see your input, too. We’re going to pull out all the stops here. If any of you need resources beyond what you might presently foresee, contact me immediately. I’ll make sure you get whatever you need. Without skipping any legalities, I want to wrap up this matter as quickly as possible. Do we all understand each other?”
John and DeWitt said, “Yes, ma’am.”
The vice president turned to Maj. “Special Agent?”
“Ma’am, Amtrak has already agreed to provide me with a two-car train similar to the one that disappeared. My thought was to follow the route the Super Chief should have taken and see where I think things might have gone wrong.”
Maj glanced at John to see if he was on board with that idea.
He nodded. “That would be a good start to the investigation.”
The vice president said, “Very well. Do you have something else in mind, Special Agent?”
“I just had the thought, ma’am, it might be a good idea if I could be provided with a dirt bike. The trail might lead off the rail bed.”
For the blink of an eye Jean Morrissey looked as if she wished she could ride along with Maj, but she only nodded. “Whatever you need. Anything else?”
“If I’m not out of line, ma’am,” Maj said, “it might also be a good idea to have a helicopter on call.”
Chapter 8
Flying West
John asked Maj Olson, “Would you like me to call you Doctor Olson?”
She shook her head. “Please don’t.”
The two of them had just taken off from National Airport in Washington and were headed to Los Angeles International Airport. They were afforded the use of the aircraft the government made available to outgoing Department of the Interior Secretary Kinsley. He graciously had said they were welcome to it; he’d used it only twice during his time in the president’s Cabinet.
A Montana oil man, Kinsley normally used his own Gulfstream to save the government money.
Not only had that been more convenient for him, it also allowed him to conduct personal affairs — including those of the amorous sort — when he flew. Kinsley was a bachelor and something of a ladies’ man. He correctly assumed that it wouldn’t look good for the president if he conducted any high-altitude hanky-panky in a government airplane. What he did in his own flying machine, however, was his business.
His choice of transportation, moreover, conformed to the Department of the Interior’s main guideline for travel: Choose the means that provides the best value to the government.
John and Maj were using the plane because they’d interpreted the vice president’s directive to proceed with haste not to include the vicissitudes of commercial air travel. It also turned out that the DOI’s Office of Aviation Services would be able to provide Maj with a helicopter should she need one.
The FBI, tasked by Deputy Director DeWitt, would provide Maj with a dirt bike in L.A.
She’d asked John, “You want one, too?”
“Sure, why not? If your train can accommodate it.”
“That’s one of the great things about trains: They can haul just about anything.”
Now, she responded to John’s question. “Only my mom calls me Dr. Olson, and she does it only when she’s tr
ying to fix me up with some guy.”
“How has that worked out?” John asked.
“So far, I’ve been able to elude all prospects,” she said with a laugh.
“It’s okay then if I call you, Maj?” He pronounced the name to rhyme with Taj.
“That’d be great.” She was pleased when people didn’t call her Madge. “And do I call you Co-director Tall Wolf?”
“John will be fine.”
“May I ask what you’ll be doing in Los Angeles while I’m securing the use of the train Amtrak says it will have for me?”
John gave her a look. “Says it will have?”
“My colleagues try their best, but Amtrak is chronically underfunded.”
“Give me a minute,” John told her.
One of the many perks of not flying commercial was you didn’t have to worry about whether you could make a phone call when you felt like it. John might have called Marlene Flower Moon and asked her to lean on whoever it took to make sure Maj’s train was waiting for her in L.A. Only after disappearing from his office an hour earlier, there was no telling when or where Marlene might turn up next.
John was sure he could have persuaded Marlene it would be in her self-interest to be helpful on this case. In fact, he had a big idea to suggest to her. But he wanted to test another question. How badly did the vice president really want to see this matter resolved?
He called the White House and identified himself. He was put through to Jean Morrissey immediately. He expressed his concern. The vice president told him not to worry. Dr. Olson’s train would be waiting for her by the time she arrived at Union Station in Los Angeles. The vice president would see to it personally.
Hearing that news, Maj was impressed. “That’s some pull you’ve got, John.”
“More likely an indication of how serious this situation is,” he said.