by Alex Archer
Luckily that didn’t happen. Instead, when she took a three-second look out the door she saw a junker brown sedan screaming around a corner with the long black barrels and distinctive ribbed foregrips of M-16s sticking out the windows. She glanced around to see if there were follow-up vehicles, or gunmen approaching on foot. She saw nothing threatening.
When Annja turned around she saw Johnny going quickly from customer to customer, making sure no one was badly hurt. She started doing the same. The diners had all gotten onto the floor and laid low with no apparent panic. They were picking themselves up now.
Ruth’s soft-serve hairdo popped up from behind the counter. “What the hell,” she demanded, “was that?”
“Dog Soldiers’ social call,” Johnny said.
The bullets had missed everyone. An elderly woman and a trucker had suffered cuts on their faces. They seemed pretty calm, considering.
“Why would somebody want to go and do something like that?” the old woman said as Ruth came up to examine the gash in her cheek. “What’s the world coming to?”
Annja turned to frown at Johnny.
“The Dog Society plays for keeps,” he said.
“Are you sure those were Dog Soldiers?” Annja asked.
Johnny shook his head and laughed in disbelief. “Do you think I’m dumb enough to sit there waiting for my own people to take a shot at you from a moving car, just to prove some point? You can’t be sure of hitting what you aim at, blasting full rock and roll from a moving vehicle. So you can’t be sure of missing, either, can you?”
“You’re right,” she said. “So, more coincidence.”
“Not really,” he said. “Somebody saw me and dropped a dime. Remember what I told you about life in Indian country.”
He raised his head and frowned in concentration, as if sniffing the air. Annja heard the faint whine of sirens begin to rise.
“This place is about to get even less healthy for me,” he said, “so I’m gone. Think about what I told you.”
“I will,” she said.
He tossed a few bills on an interior table and left, moving with purpose but no haste. She stood and watched as he forked his big red-and-buff bike, fired it up and blasted away.
Sirens were screaming on the wind, which blew unimpeded into the shot-up diner. Annja surveyed the scene. Ruth had mustered the kitchen staff, who were all unharmed, to see to the customers. They seemed to have the situation well in hand, with no serious injuries suffered. Annja found a safe chair and sat to await the arrival of the law.
To her surprise the first to arrive on the scene weren’t Lawton cops or Comanche County officers, nor even the highway patrol, but a pair of gleaming gray sedans full of trim young Indian men in business suits with short haircuts. Some of them drew handguns and moved out of sight, evidently to check the rear exits to the building. Three entered the diner.
The obvious leader was a man in his late twenties, who was built like a power lifter. He stood a moment with hands on hips, pooching out the tails of his suit coat, frowning over the scene. Then he approached Annja.
“You’re Annja Creed?” he said, flipping open a leather case to display a shield that read Comanche Nation Law Enforcement.
“Yes.”
“I’m pleased to meet you. I’m George Abell, chief inspector of the Comanche Nation’s new special investigative unit.”
He seemed young for such a prestigious assignment. It never did any good that Annja had seen to point that sort of thing out to people. It always annoyed her mightily when someone said something like that to her. So she made no comment beyond politely acknowledging the introduction.
“What happened here?” he asked. His two companions drew handguns and went back to check the kitchens and the back rooms.
She told him. Since the other people in the diner would tell the investigators about her companion she told him the truth. Most of it, anyway; she saw no point in mentioning the Bad Medicine. After all, he was concerned with what just happened here.
Abell started frowning at mention of Johnny Ten Bears. His frown only dug itself deeper into his round, slightly coarse face as she gave him an edited account of their conversation.
“You’re a very lucky woman, Ms. Creed,” he said when she’d finished. “John Ten Bears is a dangerous man.”
“I’m sure he is, Chief Inspector,” she said. “But wasn’t it the Dog Society that shot at me?”
He scowled even deeper and put his hands behind his hips, elbowing out the tails of his dark suit coat. His men came out of the back shaking their heads—nobody hiding there. He nodded briskly to them and they began moving among the witnesses, asking questions of their own.
“The Dog Society are basically radical activists,” he said. “Sometimes they let their zeal for social justice run away with them. While I won’t rule out that some Dog hotheads might’ve been responsible for the shooting, since Johnny Ten Bears is a bitter and brutal enemy, I think most likely our shooters were disaffected Iron Horses. They’re a gang of violent criminals, Ms. Creed. There’s nothing they’re not capable of.”
Except stabbing or shooting me when they had their chance, and I even gave them a halfway decent excuse, Annja thought. Interesting. Then again Abell wouldn’t be the first cop with a hatred for bikers.
The chief inspector spoke like a college-educated man—closer to an academic than a stereotypical Midwestern law-enforcement man, or even Lieutenant Tom Ten Bears, who wouldn’t settle for being anybody’s stereotype. He was surface pleasant, at least, slick in a way that belied his powerful appearance.
He lost points when, smilingly, he said, “I really urge you to go home to New York and leave the investigation to professionals, Ms. Creed.”
“I’m a journalist,” she reminded him, “as well as an archaeologist. I’ve done consulting work for law enforcement before. I won’t interfere in your investigation.”
“You misunderstand me,” he said, shaking his head and smiling. “I only have your safety at heart. It might not be going too far to suggest you may be a marked woman. Ten Bears is a criminal. Probably even a terrorist. He’s also a punk. He’s always been a punk and a wannabe.”
Annja shied back from him, ever so slightly.
“Please forgive my vehemence,” Abell said. “I’ve known John since we were kids. It makes me angry that he’d put you and these other innocent people at risk from such potentially deadly violence.”
“I was afraid I’d find you here,” a voice said from the door.
Both Annja and Abell turned, the latter frowning again.
“Lieutenant Ten Bears,” Annja said.
The stocky highway patrol officer had stepped aside to clear the way for emergency crews bustling in to examine the wounded. He stood with his thumbs hooked in the front of his belt. He didn’t look as cheerful as usual.
“Morning, Annja,” he said. “Mr. Abell.”
Abell nodded shortly. “Lieutenant.”
The air temperature dropped a few degrees from where the nasty Plains wind had already pushed it. She could practically see the testosterone swimming in midair, like dust motes. Departmental rivalry in action, she thought. No doubt complicated by the fact of Johnny Ten Bears.
Ruth rushed up. “Tom! That crazy son of yours was in here. He brings trouble with him wherever he goes.”
“Tell me something I don’t know, Ruth. Everybody okay?”
“Aside from a few nicks and scratches. Nothing they won’t get over. I sure hope Mrs. Kubica’s insurance covers this mess, though.” She scrubbed her hands in her apron, shaking her head. “Lucky thing those so-and-sos couldn’t shoot for diddly.”
“Amen,” the lieutenant said. Other troopers came in with evidence techs and began taking statements. “Ms. Creed, I’d like you to come back to the barracks and give me a statement.”
Abell opened his mouth.
“Of course, Lieutenant,” she said. Turning to Abell she extended a hand. He gave it a firm if perfunctory shake.<
br />
“I appreciate your solicitude, Mr. Abell. Goodbye.”
“I’ll want a copy of any statements the witnesses make,” Abell called as the lieutenant and Annja left.
“Send the request through channels, George,” the elder Ten Bears said. “You know the drill.”
Once safely enclosed in the car and prowling away down the road from the shot-up diner, Annja said, “Thanks for rescuing me—again.”
“All part of the service, Ms. Creed. That Georgie’s always been way too full of himself. Is a bit of a bully—loves to throw his weight around. And had a lot to do it with, too.”
He shook his crew-cut head. “You can get serviceable cops out of beginnings like that. A good one, I don’t know about. Guess we ought to give the youngster a chance to grow up some.”
Annja bit down hard on the urge to ask if George Abell had bullied Johnny when they were kids. Instead, on the drive to the Troop G barracks on the east edge of Lawton, she gave the lieutenant a summary of current events. A considerably fuller one than she’d given Abell, extending to the previous couple of days.
At the station she gave a videotaped statement and then filled out the usual reams of forms. When that was done she went back to Ten Bears’ office, as he’d requested.
He was peering over the tops of his reading glasses at his computer monitor, as if whatever he saw there smelled bad. He waved her to a seat.
“You report that little restroom encounter to the New Mexico authorities?” he asked.
“No,” she said quietly.
He sighed, took off the glasses and swiveled to face her. “Your little playmates in there committed multiple crimes. Including a little thing we call felony battery.”
“Outside your jurisdiction,” she said.
“Well, I am sworn to uphold the law. And I’ve always gotten along pretty good with those New Mexico State Patrol boys and girls.”
She shrugged. “Well, I am reporting it. To you.”
“I’m guessing you don’t want to pursue this?”
She shook her head emphatically. “I’ve already had my face splashed all over the news too much because of my involvement with poor Paul.”
He raised an eyebrow at her.
“Okay,” she said, “I’m a television personality. That doesn’t mean I’m a celebrity, or want to be one. I don’t live for face time. I work for Chasing History’s Monsters because it’s fun, it pays well and I feel as if it gives me a chance, if not always a fair one, to shine the light of science and reason into some dark, superstitious places. In terms of the show, though, I’m just a minor and occasional talking head. That suits me fine.”
For far more reasons than I hope you’ll ever get wind of, she thought.
He chuckled and nodded. “Fair enough.”
She leaned back in her chair then, and gave him an intent look. “So, Lieutenant, why didn’t you tell me you were related to Dr. Watson? To say nothing of Johnny?”
“Didn’t see it was any of your business.”
His tone remained light and bantering; he gave off none of the challenge that usually accompanied that class of statement. From her limited acquaintance of the man she guessed he was capable of both perfect sincerity and total fraud. Whatever served his ends, as a law-enforcement officer or, probably, a Comanche.
“Anyway, I reckoned you’d find all that out. And you did.”
He studied her a moment. Outside, the day began to show signs of fading.
“So what’d you make of Johnny?” he asked.
“He’s obviously an intelligent man,” she said. “He certainly seems sincere in his convictions.”
“So he gave you that Great White Father crazy talk of his. I don’t know where I went wrong with that boy. I tried to raise him with his head on face-frontwards.”
“Does it ever occur to you, Lieutenant,” she said, “that you might have?”
He frowned at her. Then he laughed. “You’re a sharp one, Ms. Creed. I see I better look sharp to make sure you don’t slip one past this poor old lawman.”
“Nothing could be further from my intentions,” she said. “Anyway, horsecrap. Nobody ever slips anything past you, Lieutenant. Do they?”
“Well, come to think of it…mebbe not all that often, at that,” he said.
“I haven’t learned much about what happened to Paul, or what’s going on in Comanche County, nor what they might have to do with each other,” she said. “But I have a better idea how things stand.”
“I’d say so, given all the bullets cracklin’ past your ears and all. Now that you’ve seen for yourself what the stakes are around here, are you sure you want to stick with it?”
“Yes.” She started to rise, then hesitated. “You don’t believe it was Johnny’s own people who shot up the Oklahoma Rose, do you?”
After a moment he said, “No. I don’t put much past them, don’t get me wrong. But the Dog Society won’t be mistaken for the Ladies’ Aid anytime soon, either. As you found out back in New Mexico. If I weren’t an upholder of the law, sworn in all right and proper, I’d be tempted to opine they deserve each other.”
Given her experiences Annja would be much less tempted by that opinion. She almost hated to admit it, but she saw Johnny’s point about his club’s perspective. It was possible neither she nor her inadvertent hosts had handled things very well that night in the Bad Medicine.
“I’ll be in touch, Lieutenant,” she said, standing to go.
“One more thing, Ms. Creed. Don’t go thinking you know my son. Don’t make the mistake of assuming you understand anything about him at all. Even if he can charm a chunk of dead dog out an old snapping turtle’s mouth.”
She frowned. “I totally don’t believe that’s an authentic Oklahoma aphorism,” she said. “I think you just made it up in hopes of making me throw up.”
“Don’t want you upchucking on the paperwork, Ms. Creed—all respect, it messes it up so it won’t hardly feed through the copy machine. Other than that, you are purely correct.”
THROUGH GATHERING TWILIGHT, she ran.
It soothed her. She needed to decompress and process. Even if she couldn’t fully give in to her feelings quite yet.
Mourning Paul properly would have to wait until he was avenged. Or until it became apparent it was beyond her ability to do so.
She was on a back road through low rolling hills, on her way back to the motel, which she guessed was a mile away yet. The wind had died at last. With the exertion she was comfortable in her T-shirt and sweatpants in spite of the fact the temperature had dropped noticeably when the sun dipped behind the Wichitas ten minutes or so earlier.
She was jogging, taking a break from running flat out, when an eerie feeling prickled the skin at the back of her neck and made her belly muscles go taut.
Not slowing her pace she looked around.
She saw a shadow, a black silhouette on a rise not a hundred feet to the west.
It was shaped like a huge wolf.
11
Annja slowed to a stop. She looked hard at the creature. “If you’re really the one who killed Paul,” she called out, “come try me on for size.”
She didn’t really believe it. It was surely a human, deranged or evil or both, who had murdered Paul and all those other innocent people. Not an animal like this one. However spooky.
Maybe she couldn’t quite disbelieve it, either. But if it did attack her—unusual behavior for a lone wolf or even a feral dog—that would prove it probably was involved with Paul’s cruel death.
And Paul would be avenged.
Instead, the creature whirled and disappeared. She thought about pursuing but decided it probably wasn’t a good idea. At best it would be as futile as her chasing after the shadowy creature in Roosevelt Park in Albuquerque. They were both almost certainly just random big scary-looking dogs, anyway.
She realized then what had caused the animal to bolt. A dark-colored sedan was driving toward her along the road with its halogen headlight
s weird actinic eyes in the twilight. It was moving more slowly than the road’s surface, rutted by spring rains, seemed to mandate. She stood by the ditch, frowning slightly, as the vehicle slowed to a stop beside her.
The window rolled down. A suit-jacket sleeve and a white shirt cuff came out with a pale hand sprouting from them like a lily. The hand displayed a photo ID with a big gold government seal.
“FBI, Ms. Creed,” a male voice said from behind the hand, the cuff and the badge. “I need to ask you to get in the car, please. We need to talk.”
THE FEDERAL COURTHOUSE in Lawton was a big yellow-brick cube standing apart from other buildings in the downtown area. It was the sort of mountain-solid late-nineteenth or early-twentieth-century building they didn’t build anymore, and consequently the kind of building with a weather-darkened brass plaque stuck on its aboveground cement foundation.
Special Agent in Charge Lamont Young was a big, blond, bland man in a pale gray suit. Annja didn’t know, and he didn’t volunteer, whether he was in charge of the local Lawton office or of some task force sent from somewhere larger, presumably Oklahoma City. He interviewed her in a room with yellow-painted walls and white trim that smelled of old paint and the steam heat from an old-fashioned radiator under one lone window that was turning the place to a sauna. He perched his broad rump on the edge of a green metal desk and talked in vague terms about a “potentially unstable situation” and “risk factors,” with his hands clasped between his knees.
Then he got down to asking questions. They were general. What do you do? What are you doing here? What was your relationship to the deceased? She sat in an uncompromising and uncomfortable wooden chair, gave simple, direct answers and hoped they’d wrap it up soon.