“I should think you’d easily make it in a day if you went partially by horseback. Why were your parents flying that day?”
Leaning against the wall, I stared out the window as a tour bus arrived and disgorged a number of tourists. “The only thing I’ve found out so far is . . . maybe . . . my dad was looking at the dam . . . and—”
“Well then, you could start your journey there. I have my boat docked at the Big Eddy Marina.”
“I wouldn’t want to trouble you—”
“Ha!” Dan grinned. “I was just looking for an excuse to take it out.”
“Like you need an excuse.” The young man winked at Dan.
“Gwen, this is Thomas Wolf.”
“Hi, Thomas. Funny, I just tried to interview a Lorraine Wolf.” I stuck out my hand to shake.
Thomas drew his brows together and ignored my hand. “Lorraine is my mom. Why did you try to interview her?”
“I told you earlier, Thomas.” Dan patted him on the arm. “Gwen is working with my son on the murder of Alice and Adam Sinopa and the kidnapping of Beatrice.”
“I repeat”—Thomas continued to glare at me—“why were you bothering my mom?”
“Thomas!” Dan frowned.
“It’s okay,” I said to Dan, then turned to Thomas. “Your mom might have seen someone paying too much attention to Beatrice at the Easter egg hunt. I was trying to get a composite drawing.”
“I suppose the person you wanted to draw was native? And Seth sent you to interview her?”
“Maybe part native. I’m the only forensic artist they have. Seth did warn me your mom might be a bit difficult to interview.”
Thomas reached over and straightened a stack of flyers on the counter. “And did Seth say why?”
“He mentioned that your mom was Oglala Lakota from the Pine Ridge Reservation and asked me if I knew about Wounded Knee.”
Thomas’s eyes narrowed as he looked back at me. “What about AIM?”
“Now, Thomas,” Dan said. “Let’s not get into all that.”
“Aim?” I glanced back and forth between Dan and Thomas.
“American Indian Movement,” Thomas said.
“I’m sorry, but what does this have to do with the murder of the Sinopas and the abduction of their daughter?” I asked.
“Did it ever occur to you that the Sinopas were murdered by whites?” A vein pounded in Thomas’s forehead. “That your intrusion is just another example of the ongoing treatment of Native Americans?”
Heat rushed to my face. “I wasn’t looking at any particular skin color—”
“You wouldn’t understand.” Thomas gave me a dismissive gesture. “You’re white. You’ve never known what it’s like to be hated because of your race, or belief system, or even your job.”
“You don’t know me—”
“Okay then.” Dan took my elbow and pulled. “Let’s go on that boat ride.” He ushered me out of the center, up the walk, and to the parking lot.
“How dare he!” My voice shook. “He . . . he . . .” I yanked my arm from Dan’s grasp. “How dare he presume I’d act any differently depending on someone’s skin color, or background, or—”
“Now, Gwen, you have to consider how he was raised.”
Winston spotted me, dropped his head, and launched himself in my direction. Beth had both hands on the leash but was helpless to stop the determined dog. The Pyrenees arrived at my side triumphant at his success with a breathless Beth in tow. “Sorry,” Beth said. “He’d managed to water every tree and was getting bored. Hello.” She turned to Dan. “I’m Beth Noble, eximious sidekick.”
“Word of the day?” I asked.
“From last week. Finally got to use it.”
Dan held out his hand. “Dan Kus, purveyor of recondite history.” The two of them grinned at each other and shook hands. “Beth, I was just about to take Gwen on a boat ride and share my discoveries with her. I would be most honored if you and your . . . furry horse would join us.”
“I’m not sure about furry horses and water, but that sounds great.” Beth tugged Winston to her side.
“We can all ride in my SUV. You really don’t want Winston in your car.” Beth got behind the wheel and I insisted Dan sit next to her so Winston wouldn’t hang over his shoulder and demand petting. Not to mention the occasional drool.
“Was Tom’s dad at home when you tried to interview Lorraine?” Dan asked.
“If he’s a big guy with long braids, yes,” I said.
“Nick Wolf.” Dan shook his head. “He was caught up in that nasty business on the Pine Ridge Reservation back in 1975.”
“I read two federal agents were murdered,” Beth said.
“And an Indian, Joseph Stuntz, whose murder was never investigated. Actually, more than forty-five murders from that time were never investigated. The cumulative events from that time formed a perfect storm.”
“How so?”
“The Pine Ridge Reservation doesn’t have a lot of folks living there. Probably less than twelve thousand residents, but they had more murders than the entire state of South Dakota. It’s also one of the poorest parts of the country. Add grinding poverty and injustice to murder . . . It makes for a bitter stew.” He opened his window slightly, allowing the wildflower-scented air to circulate.
“Thomas mentioned AIM.”
“American Indian Movement. Born out of the civil rights movement in the late 1960s, it was a reaction to the years of mistreatment by the federal government. AIM held protests throughout the country.”
We turned upriver on Highway 12 toward the small town of Ahsahka. “I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “I can’t imagine how hard it was for those folks. But I’m not the government. We shouldn’t forget, but that was a different time, a different place, and a different people.”
“In the eyes of Lorraine and Nick, you’re cut out of the same fabric. The only way they felt they could make themselves heard was to take a stand.”
“You sound like you relate to their cause.”
“I can understand it.” He glanced at me. “But Nick’s not someone you want to upset. He can hold a grudge, and when the time comes, he’ll get even.”
“Is that a warning?”
“Just an observation.”
I thought about my stolen and destroyed car, the sniper attack, the murder of LoneBear. “Could others besides Nick Wolf have the same . . . resentment against me?”
“Because of the shooter at the police department?”
“And other things.”
Dan turned slightly in his seat toward me. “I think the brutal double homicide and missing child has everyone on edge. Having said that, I think you need to be very careful.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
WE DROVE TO OROFINO, THEN BACKTRACKED TO Ahsahka, which proved to be on the north side of the Clearwater River. A large fish hatchery occupied the mouth of the canyon. As we crossed a bridge identified as the North Fork of the Clearwater, Dan pointed right.
My mouth dropped at the sight. In the distance loomed a giant dam. With water pouring down two spill gates in the front, it looked vaguely like a Mayan temple. We turned toward the structure on a road paralleling the deep, rushing river.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” Dan asked. “More than seven hundred feet high, third tallest in the United States.”
“There’s no way someone could blow that up,” I blurted out.
“Blow it up?” Dan turned so he could see me. “So that explains that wounded look in your eyes. You thought your dad was planning some kind of terrorist explosion on the dam? That his plane went down instead?”
I reluctantly nodded.
Dan reached back and patted my arm. “Well, I assure you the dam is quite impervious to attack.”
A lump formed in the back of my throat. Why would I think my dad was anything less than a respectable citizen?
Because the name he gave when he chartered the plane sounds like fiction. John and Mary Smith?
; “Um . . .” I needed to think about something else. “I don’t even know how they build something like this.” I motioned at the soaring mass of concrete. We were climbing a road on the left side of the dam that looked like it would take us to the top of the structure.
“They divert the river into a channel or tunnel while they construct the dam, then when they’re finished, close up the diversion and allow the lake to fill in. This creates hydroelectric power and recreational access to the lake. And a place for my boat.” He grinned at me. We passed a turnoff to the dam’s visitor center and crested the hill, and the lake came into view. Pine-covered mountains swept down to the ultramarine-blue water.
“Beautiful,” I whispered.
At the bottom of the road was a park with picnic tables, outdoor cooking grills, restrooms, and several buildings hooked together. Soda machines stood in front. “Big Eddy Lodge and Marina,” Dan said as we pulled into a paved slot and got out. “A ranger has an apartment in that building, and the park service maintains an office there.” He pointed.
In front of us, the ground dropped steeply to a pair of docks extending into the lake, with individual slips for boats. A small shed on the dock sold snacks and gas for the boats. On the right, a sharply pitched boat ramp led to the water with a third small dock nearby. Overhead an osprey called out in its high-pitched whistle and another answered. The warm spring sunshine felt good on my arms. The air was clean and smelled of warm pine needles. Pulling out my purse, I slung it over my shoulder.
Parked in front of the offices were a few cars and forest service vehicles. Two more trucks pulled in and a man got out of one of them. The driver of the second truck remained in his cab.
I swallowed hard and stared at the tinted windows. Could this be who’s been following me? Shooting at me?
“Gwen, what are you looking at?” Beth asked.
“I . . . uh . . . need something to drink.” I jerked my head slightly in the direction of a soda machine in front of the building. Without waiting for a response, I strolled over to the dispenser, grabbed some change from my purse, dumped it into the machine, and punched the first button. A can dropped into the slot. Casually I grabbed it up, leaned against the machine, and opened the can. Pretending to look around the parking lot, I let my gaze drift to the driver of the truck.
A young woman was jabbing away at her cell phone, obviously unable to get a signal.
I took a big gulp of the drink, then almost spit it out. I’d bought peach-flavored sweetened tea. The mass of sugar coated my teeth and tongue. Dropping the can into the garbage next to me, I returned to Beth and Dan.
“What was that all about?” Beth asked.
“I thought someone was following me in that truck. I’m just getting paranoid someone’s after me.”
“You mean, getting shot at, almost murdered, car stolen—”
“Okay, justifiably paranoid.”
“Maybe,” Dan said. “Maybe not. I don’t know about the rig you checked out, but that first truck belongs to Thomas Wolf.”
“He followed us here?”
Before I could charge over, find and confront Thomas, Dan grabbed my arm and headed to the steps leading to the docks. Beth and Winston followed. We passed by every type of boat from pontoon to rowboat, catamaran to cabin cruiser. A young woman in a light-brown T-shirt with a Parks and Recreation logo waved from the adjoining dock and we returned the wave. Dan’s speedboat, almost at the end of one dock, proved to be a Prussian-blue, twenty-foot inboard bowrider. I thought the dog would hesitate to get into the boat, but Winston jumped in and made himself comfortable in the bow. Dan helped Beth and me get in, untied his boat, and walked to the end of the slip before stepping in. “Could you pull in the fenders?” He pointed. “Watch out for submerged logs.”
I moved forward next to Winston, pulled in the fender, and sat so I could see into the water ahead of the boat. Once free of the docks, Dan nudged the engine and we cruised to the center of the lake. I drank in the clean mountain air and watched the deep kelly-green water for logs. We rounded a point of land. To our right was the dam, looming several stories above us. I shaded my eyes and stared at the massive structure.
“Now that you see all this from both sides, how do you think your dad could even make a dent in the dam?” Dan shut down the engine and allowed the boat to drift.
“I don’t see how, but that was the impression Meyers’ Flying Service had, the place where her dad chartered the flight,” Beth said.
Dan merely raised his eyebrows.
Wrapping my arms around Winston, I sighed. It was time. Beth nodded encouragement. Slowly I told him of my strange upbringing—Holly, Jacob, the fictional killer, fake names, hiding out, running, and finally being found and raised by Dave’s family. I told him about the Lamb Chop puppet and why I thought Jacob was a suspect. He listened quietly.
After I finished, no one said anything. Waves lapped against the boat, the breeze stirred the pines, and a fish jumped somewhere behind me. “And you have no idea who your parents were or why they were here?” Dan finally asked.
“No. I mean, their names really could be John and Mary Smith.”
“But not likely,” Dan said.
“Not likely.” I shrugged. “I’m on to the next clue—the plane crash itself.” We’d drifted down the lake toward where the water was passing through large metal gates to the spillway.
“Um . . . aren’t we getting kind of close to that?” Beth pointed at the water rushing through the gates. We were moving faster in that direction.
“That’s why there’re those buoys and logs over there—to keep boats from going on a wild ride down the spillway.” Dan started the engine and moved away from the dam, heading toward the marina. As we passed the docks, a lone figure stood at the end. I recognized Thomas Wolf. He watched us as we sped by.
I glanced at Dan. He seemed focused on steering the boat, but his jaw muscles had tightened.
We rode up the lake for a few miles before Dan again shut off the engine. A herd of elk grazed on the hillside above us. Most of the bulls had shed their antlers, but a few still had impressive racks.
“This is beautiful country.” I trailed my hand in the snow-chilled water. “Does the water warm up enough to swim in?”
Dan nodded. “It’s about fifty-eight degrees now. It’s warm and perfect in July and August. Do you like swimming?”
This wasn’t the time to discuss the style of a bathing suit when you had to wear breast prostheses. “Um, I used to.”
The sunlight kissed the waves, creating a diamond-sprinkled carpet to shore. A memory surfaced of looking up at an old farmhouse on a hill like the one in front of me. I had no idea where it was but would sketch it as soon as we got back to the car and I could get to my forensic art kit.
“It is beautiful country,” Beth agreed. “Maybe your folks were just wanting to see it from the air.”
“Or looking to buy some land,” Dan said.
“Buy land? Isn’t this part of the reservation?” Beth asked.
“Yes.” Dan leaned back in his seat and rested his elbow on the side of the boat. “But the United States government, back in the eighteen hundreds, gave up to 160 acres of land to individual tribal members. They figured the Nez Perce would assimilate white American life with land ownership. Instead, the tribal members sold the land to the general public.”
“So . . .” I opened my hand for him to continue.
“So now more than 90 percent of reservation lands are in white ownership.” Dan looked at me. “Chief Joseph, the man we spoke about at the museum, didn’t want to move off tribal lands and to a reservation. When he was asked to sign a treaty, he made another famous speech.” His eyes grew distant. “‘I do not need your help; we have plenty, and we are contented and happy if the white man will let us alone. The reservation is too small for so many people with all their stock. You can keep your presents; we can go to your towns and pay for all we need; we have plenty of horses and cattle to sell, and w
e won’t have any help from you; we are free now; we can go where we please. Our fathers were born here. Here they lived, here they died, here are their graves. We will never leave them.’”
In the silence that followed, an osprey whistled across the water to be answered by his mate.
“Powerful words,” I said slowly.
“Powerful feelings.” Dan nodded. “And I believe the events of the past impact all that happens in the present.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
WE WERE ALL SILENT ON THE WAY BACK TO BIG EDDY Marina, each lost in our own thoughts. I was relieved to see Thomas Wolf and his truck gone when we returned. As we climbed the steps from the dock, a radio somewhere played Kenny G’s haunting “Going Home.” I paused and listened.
Before getting into the back seat, I opened the back end of the SUV and pulled a sketchpad from my forensic art kit. Beth got behind the wheel and Dan took the passenger seat. As Beth drove, I sketched the farmhouse from my past. The roof had been red metal, the house painted white with a wraparound porch.
My phone rang. I reached into my purse and pulled it out. “Gwen Marcey.”
“Yeah. This is Jay Pender.”
My brain went blank for a moment. “Um.”
“Lucinda Greene’s physical therapist.”
“Oh. You mean Holly.”
“Yeah, whatever. After you left, Lucinda started talking about books. Then she said your name. You wanted to know if anything changed with her . . .”
“Thank you! I’m just outside Orofino, coming from the dam. We’ll swing by.” I disconnected. “Dan, would you mind a slight detour? Holly—that’s my sitter I told you about—is talking. Well, sort of.”
“Not at all. Another clue on your quest?”
“Hopefully.”
Dan gave Beth directions and we soon reached the state mental hospital. Both Beth and Dan chose to wander across the grounds rather than go in and meet Holly. I hurried across the parking lot to the building. Jay Pender was waiting for me behind the reception desk. He nodded toward the large multipurpose room where I’d seen Holly before. Amy, the woman who’d pretended to be a nurse during my last visit, was sprawled on a sofa. She waved at me, then went back to using a highlighter pen as a cigarette and reading a magazine.
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