Portrait of Vengeance

by Carrie Stuart Parks

  “Yes.”

  He tugged at his lower lip. “Okay, I can buy LoneBear getting hot under the collar and trying something on your car.”

  “Oh, I think she did more than that. I think she also got that mechanic brother of hers to help her drive my car into the Clearwater River. If not for Beth, I probably would have had to return to Montana.”

  Seth winced. “I’ll look into it. Right now what I need to know is who is trying to kill you?”

  Taking a deep breath, I told him about all that Beth and I had uncovered about my past. I finished with, “I think your kidnapper and killer is a man named Jacob Greene. That’s the angle I want to investigate. All the evidence seems to point in that direction.”

  Seth listened without interruption, his gaze on LoneBear’s body. “Jacob Greene. I’ll look into it, see what I can find out.” He looked at me. “In the meantime, I need you to do the interviews in Kamiah that you missed yesterday, then you can pursue your line of inquiry.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “One might need a composite sketch. Her name is Lorraine Wolf, and she’s an Oglala Lakota.” He looked at me pointedly. “From the Pine Ridge Reservation. In South Dakota.”

  “Right. Okay. Um . . . What are you trying to tell me?” I asked.

  “Have you heard of the Pine Ridge Reservation? Or maybe Wounded Knee?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “WOUNDED KNEE,” I SAID SLOWLY. “A BATTLE—”

  Seth shook his head. “Massacre. Genocide by the US 7th Cavalry. Around three hundred Sioux, mostly women and children, were killed.”

  “But that was a long time ago.”

  “December 29, 1890.”

  “Like I said, a long time ago.”

  “To some, it’s still a festering sore. I’m just warning you that Lorraine is not going to be a cooperative witness.” He abruptly strolled away to his patrol car.

  I tore my gaze from watching him and headed to Beth. As I approached her car, I could only see Winston’s head inside. Glancing around, I couldn’t spot her. I opened the passenger-side door.

  “Oh!” Beth sat up from the rear of the SUV.

  “Were you taking a nap?”

  “No.” She crawled over the seat, slid down Winston’s broad side, and got out of the car, then slipped into the driver’s seat. She handed me her phone.

  “You were calling someone?” I asked.

  “No. Taking surreptitious photos of the crowd.” She pushed a button so I could scroll through the images. “I’ve read the killer sometimes watches the effects of his work or inserts himself into the investigation. I took a few while pretending to be on the phone, then got in the back so no one would see me and took the rest. I kept my hand near Winston’s head so it wouldn’t be silhouetted, but he kept lying down, so I kept saying, ‘Where’s the kitty?’ and ‘Cookie.’ You owe him a lot of cookies.”

  “Beth—”

  “I was thinking about going undercover—”

  “Beth—”

  “—because no one knows who I am and I could listen—”

  “Beth!”

  “What?”

  “You’re watching too much television. Again.”

  Beth squeezed her lips together and started the car. “I was just trying to help.”

  “You’re a wonderful help, Beth.” I smiled at her and started to hand back the phone when I paused at one of the faces. Quickly I checked the assembled crowd still watching from across the street. “When did you take this one?” I held up the phone.

  “Um, that was one of the first. Maybe fifteen, twenty minutes ago. Why? Did you recognize someone? Did I photograph the killer?”

  “It’s just strange, that’s all. This is Peter Otskai, the assistant manager of the Clearwater Casino. It was his boss, Sinopa, who was murdered.” I handed her the phone. “Could you send that to my computer? Chief Kus might find that interesting.”

  “Absolutely! Now, where are we going next?”

  “Kamiah. Drive down—” My cell phone rang. “Gwen Marcey.”

  “Hi, Gwen, this is Dan Kus, Seth’s dad. Can you drop by the park in Spalding? I have some things to show you and a possible guide.”

  “On my way.” Beth raised her eyebrows at me. “Slight change of plans. We’ll be stopping by Spalding on the way to Kamiah. The Nez Perce National Historical Park. Dan Kus may have found me a guide and more information about my folks.”

  Beth drove toward Highway 95. She didn’t speak until we’d crossed the river and headed east. “Um . . . I don’t like to tell you your job, but don’t you have an appointment with some witnesses in Kamiah?”

  “This stop is on our way. Don’t worry.”

  She glanced at me, then focused on the road. “Gwen, I don’t know how to say this without hurting your feelings, but I am worried.”

  I shifted in my seat to look at her. “Why?”

  “You just have a lot on your plate right now.”

  Making an effort to unclench my jaw, I reached for a pencil out of my purse. “Nonsense. I have a new job that I love—”

  “You’re still on probation. And you’re working a double homicide with a missing child, a fate you thought, until recently, was yours.”

  “Yes. Well. Work’s a bit of a challenge, but my life is going well. My cancer is gone—”

  “It’s good to know your glass is half full now, but we need to be honest about what’s going on and how you’re affected.”

  I took a tighter grip on my pencil. “My daughter—”

  “Your ex-husband is seeking to get Aynslee full time. His wife is pregnant.” She looked at me. “Aynslee told me when she called.”

  “Um . . . I found out something about my parents . . .” My vision blurred and throat closed up. What’s the matter with me? I don’t remember them.

  Her gaze returned to the road. “You’ve forgotten appointments with witnesses, missed clues during interviews, can’t even remember to zip your pants and grab your dog. Yeah, I’m worried.”

  Turning away, I stared out the side window. I focused on nothing, though the day was a postcard-perfect advertisement for North Central Idaho. Beth was wrong. I was fine. I’d found out quite a few earth-shattering things about my life lately. That would make anyone miss a few appointments.

  But I needed a friend right now. And Beth was the only one I had. “You’re right. Let’s get the interviews done, then go to the historical park.”

  Beth gave me a thumbs-up.

  Tugging out the binder with the case information, I read over the autopsy on the body of the young girl. As Seth had mentioned, the cause of death was undetermined with no sign of trauma. She’d been of Asian or Native American background, buried for four to six years, and was wearing a pair of green pants, size 5, and a green-and-white striped shirt.

  I tapped my pencil on the binder, then circled the town where the child had lived, Lacey. “Beth, I had you look into murders with a child missing in the Northwest thirty-some years ago.”

  “Right.”

  “Would you look again, but this time go back only about ten years?”

  “I’m on it, Sherlock. Anything else?”

  “Get a couple of maps. One of the Pacific Northwest, one of the Clearwater River drainage.”

  “Okay, anything else?”

  “I’ll let you know.” We were fast approaching Kamiah and my next interview. I pulled out the information on Lorraine Wolf. She’d been at the Easter egg hunt and mentioned to a neighbor that she’d seen a man watching Beatrice. The neighbor called in the report to police, and Lorraine had reluctantly agreed to an interview. I needed to convince her to give me a composite sketch.

  We soon reached Kamiah. I read the directions to Beth. The single-story, white house was just a few turns off Highway 12. A child’s bike lay on its side in the front yard and a vegetable garden was on the side. “If you can wait until I make contact, I’d appreciate it. Seth said this might be a reluctant witness.”

  “Seth?” Beth
’s eyebrows rose.

  “Chief Kus.”

  “But you called him Seth.”

  “That’s his name.” My face felt warm.

  Beth could barely hide her grin. “I told you he was a good-looking man. Obviously you did notice.”

  “It’s not like that—”

  “Uh-huh. If it’s ‘not like that’”—she made quotes in the air—“what about you and Blake?”

  “Not now, Beth.” The warmth turned into a major hot flash. I waited a moment, then cleared my throat. “Did you want to take Winston down to the river and see if he wants to go wading? I bet there’s a park or maybe a boat launch. I’ll call you when I’m finished.”

  Beth rolled her lips and muttered, “I wish you hadn’t eaten your crate, Winston. You’re cramping my style as a sidekick.”

  Stepping from the car, I approached the house and knocked. Though I’d had the feeling of being watched since we parked, it took a few moments for the door to open. A short woman, barely five feet tall, with long gray hair answered. Sturdily built, she wore oversized glasses, a faded denim shirt, and blue jeans.

  “Yes?” she asked, unsmiling.

  “Hi, Ms. Wolf? I’m Gwen Marcey, here working with the Nez Perce Tribal Police on the missing child. I’m here to talk to you and maybe draw a composite of the person you saw on Sunday.”

  “I told them when they called and I’m telling you now, I want nothing to do with cops!” She started to slam the door in my face when a meaty hand gripped her shoulder. “What’s going on here?” a deep voice asked.

  She reluctantly opened the door wider, bringing a large man into view. He was easily well over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and a rounded stomach covered by a faded red T-shirt. A circular logo of a hand making the peace sign and a Native American profile graced the front of the shirt. His gray hair was parted in the middle and tied in the back. “Who are you?”

  “My name is—”

  “Credentials.”

  Even though my badge was prominently displayed and hanging from a beaded neck chain, I opened my purse and dug out my leather ID wallet. He took it from my hand and studied it carefully, then stared at my face before handing it back. “What do you want?”

  “I’m sure you heard of the double homicide of the Sinopas and the abduction of their four-year-old daughter. Your . . . Ms. Wolf saw someone who could be a person of interest in this case. Chief Kus of the Nez Perce Tribal Police has asked me to follow up and perhaps draw a composite sketch.” I held my breath.

  “You go back and tell your Chief Kus that Mrs. Wolf didn’t see anything.” He shut the door firmly in my face.

  Beth was still parked at the curb waiting for my all-clear sign to drive away. I slowly walked back to the car. “I’m deducing that we need to move on to the second interview,” she said.

  “So it would seem.” I dialed the number for the next witness. After ten rings, I hung up. “Another washout. They’re either not home or not answering.”

  “So what do you want to do?”

  “Head to Spalding to talk with Seth’s dad. He may be able to help me find out about the death of my parents.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  BETH WAS SILENT FOR THE FIRST FEW MILES. She finally cleared her throat. “Um, Gwen, I hate to bring this up again, but you can usually schmooze even the most reluctant witness into giving you a composite.”

  “There’s always a first.”

  “Don’t you think it’s another indication that you’re—”

  “No! I told you I’m fine.” I pulled out my sketchbook to keep busy, drawing the logo on the T-shirt Mr. Wolf wore. The wording had long since faded, but the image of a hand making a peace sign with a Native American profile was clear in my mind.

  “What are you drawing?” Beth asked.

  “A logo on Mr. Wolf’s shirt. Seth mentioned that Mrs. Wolf is an Oglala Lakota from the Pine Ridge Reservation and that I might have trouble getting a sketch from her.” I gave Beth a meaningful look. “Her husband was, if anything, even more hostile.”

  “Let me see the drawing.”

  I turned my sketchpad in her direction. “Look familiar?”

  “No. I’m sure they’ll know at the park. I do know a bit about Pine Ridge.”

  “Okay, shoot.”

  Beth winced. “Bad choice of wording. In the 1970s, Pine Ridge was the location of a shootout between FBI agents and a group of Native Americans camping nearby. Two agents, lying wounded on the ground, were shot in the head, execution style. The killers’ trial was contentious.”

  “That might explain the hostilities toward anything to do with law enforcement.”

  The Nez Perce National Historical Park overlooked the Clearwater River with a sprawling visitor center and museum. Parking was a distance away with paths leading to the gray-painted building. Beth got out to walk Winston while I went inside. A man in bermuda shorts with a camera around his neck and a woman in sap-green leggings and an orange print top were speaking to the park ranger about a movie that had apparently just ended. A very old, hand-carved canoe was displayed on my right under an impressive mural of a traditional Nez Perce village. Ahead was the gift shop, and to my right a door led to the museum. Entering the museum, I was drawn to a horse made out of wood slats with an exquisite beaded saddle and bridle.

  “The Nez Perce were the only tribe to practice selective breeding in their horses,” a male voice behind me said. “And they were superb horsemen.”

  I turned. Somewhere in his midtwenties, the young man was about my height, with black hair pulled into two braids reaching almost to his waist. He was wearing a western-cut shirt and pressed blue jeans. “Oh. It’s you.”

  “Have we met?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Dan said you’d be coming. Let me get him.” He left the museum.

  I followed, reluctant to leave the displays of Nez Perce arts and crafts.

  He headed for a door beside the counter, leaned in, and said, “She’s here.”

  Dan Kus appeared, spotted me, and smiled. “Gwen. Welcome to the Nimi’ipuu Cultural Center.”

  “Nimi’ipuu?”

  “The name we call ourselves. It means ‘real people.’”

  The young man leaned against the counter. “The name Nez Perce came from the French Canadian fur trappers and means ‘pierced nose,’ something the tribe never did.”

  “Impressive center.” I waved my hand at the airy lobby area.

  “Well then, I’ll give you the five-cent history lesson. The Nez Perce National Historical Park is spread out over four states and follows the route of the last great Indian war of 1877.” He looked at me. “You, of course, know the story from your school history lessons, right?”

  “Well . . .”

  “That’s what I thought. After years of broken treaties, a young Nez Perce named Wahlitits began a battle with the US Army at White Bird Canyon in Idaho. What followed was a running fight—”

  “A fight that had the tribe ambushed at Big Hole,” the young man said. “Wahlitits had a dream. He said, ‘My brothers, my sisters, I am telling you. In a dream last night, I saw myself killed . . . We are all going to die.’ And with the ambush, over ninety Nez Perce were dead, most of them women and children.”

  “Yes, well.” Dan nodded at the man. “About eight hundred Nez Perce, including surviving women and children, fought over two thousand trained American soldiers over four months and twelve hundred miles. Led by Chief Joseph—”

  “Real name, In-mut-too-yah-lat-lat,” the young man added. “Thunder coming up over the land from the water.”

  Dan smiled slightly. “Yes, General Howard cornered the remnant of the tribe just forty miles from the Canadian border, where they were seeking their freedom.”

  The young man gave me a brochure. “Chief Joseph’s tactics are still taught at the military academy at West Point.” He pointed at a paragraph. “This was reported to be his surrender speech.”

  I am tired of fighting. Ou
r chiefs are killed. Looking Glass is dead. Toohulhulsote is dead. The old men are all dead. It is the young men who say yes or no. He who led the young men is dead.

  It is cold and we have no blankets. The little children are freezing to death. My people, some of them, have run away to the hills and have no blankets, no food. No one knows where they are—perhaps freezing to death. I want to have time to look for my children and see how many I can find. Maybe I shall find them among the dead.

  Hear me, my chiefs. I am tired. My heart is sick and sad. From where the sun now stands, I will fight no more forever.

  I placed the brochure in my pocket, unable to speak around the lump in my throat.

  “Anyway, enough history.” Dan patted my arm. “I called because I’ve found an outfitter for you, a good man named Phil Cicero.” He handed me a scrap of paper with the name and phone number. “Phil’s expecting your call.” He led me to a map of central Idaho. “I’ve also located the coordinates of the plane crash.” He touched a spot on the map where he’d stuck a yellow pushpin. “It’s in the middle of some pretty rough country.”

  “It’s important that I get there.”

  Dan nodded. “I understand. This land”—he waved at the map—“is part of my history, my connection to my ancestors. You’re on a journey to find yourself and your people.”

  “Yes. I hadn’t thought about it that way, but that’s exactly what I’m doing.”

  “The Nimi’ipuu had a practice that when a young person reached a certain age, he was sent out into the mountains alone to find his Wy ya kin—his animal or bird spirit. That spirit would speak to him and give him help throughout his lifetime.”

  “Seth told me about this. He said he went on such a journey.”

  “I did as well, though I was older. My given name was Shore Crossing.”

  “With my luck, the critter would be a cougar, I’d be named Mrs. Robinson, and I’d start stalking Generation Z for dates.” I grinned at my wit.

  Dan stared at me.

  “You know, Mrs. Robinson, The Graduate . . . the movie . . .” I pivoted and studied the map. “So . . . um . . . how long to reach this spot?”