“Maybe he’s drunk.” I slipped my 1911 from the pancake holder and checked it-cocked and locked-snapping off the safety. “You have a weapon?”
I watched as he silently slipped the foot-long heirloom stag-handled Bowie knife from the small of his back, holding it high so that I could see the turquoise inlayed bear print in the bone.
“That should do, unless he spots you a couple hundred feet off.”
He said nothing and disappeared around the corner in order to work his way toward the side of the butte where Clarence was facing, leaving me to take the easier unobserved trail.
There was a fence at the edge of the parking lot, and I watched as the last glimmers of the day lingered above the Bighorn Mountains as if the yolk of the sun had gotten hung up on Black Tooth.
I carefully opened the gate and stared at the narrow two-track that circled to my left and then made a run up the spine to the cabin’s backside. Near the top I could see a utility wagon that must’ve been used to ferry supplies to the lonely lookout.
I was reminded of one of Henry’s sayings that you could just about escape anything on the high plains-anything except yourself. You could go to a mountaintop or back yourself into a brick wall corner, but you could always count on being bushwhacked by yourself.
My eyes traced over the profile of the hillside, but the Bear had disappeared like he always did. Keeping an eye to the reflective surface of the windows that surrounded the structure on all sides, I walked carefully up the gravel path. There was an overhang on the fire tower, and I was concentrating on that when I saw something move down below.
Standing still, I waited and watched as the heavy metal door that provided the only access to the place swung back just a little. I waited, but it just hung there, about two-thirds open, and I half expected to receive a Winchester slug in the chest.
After a moment I noticed a soft breeze, something not uncommon in summer on the high plains when the light changed, and watched as the door slowly closed again. Ghosts.
Keeping my Colt aimed at the darkened doorway, I carefully made my way across to the safety fence that stood by the drop-off to the left of the walk that led to the bottom floor of the lookout. I heard the slightest creak of the boards in the room above. I swung around, slowed my breathing, and listened for another footstep, but there was nothing.
Swallowing, I went through the open doorway to my left and rolled the. 45 around the empty room, only slightly illuminated by the square window on the other side. I checked behind the door and took a look at the clasp and lock hanging from the surface where it had been pried off with the tire iron that now lay on the gravel.
Inside there were some tools and a wall full of firewood, but nothing else except the wooden stairs that started up to a landing in the corner and then hugged another wall before dead-ending into a trapdoor where Clarence sat.
I crossed the patchwork rock floor, stopped at the base of the stairs, and looked up at the trap, which was slightly ajar.
There were no more sounds, so I carefully put my weight on the first step and wondered where the hell my Indian scout was. There was a slight sound, but I was pretty sure the only way you could’ve heard it was if you’d been in the room with me. I continued up, made the landing, and clutched the two-by-four railing in my free hand.
I could see a sliver of yellowish light at one edge of the trap that hadn’t been there before, carefully fanned my finger over the floor’s undersurface, and slowly pushed upward.
The trap faced the majority of the room, and I’d turned so that I was facing the corner where Clarence had been sitting. There was a table and a couple of chairs in the way, along with a propane stove and a few bunks. I stuck my head the rest of the way out but the table had a blanket draped over it, obscuring the view.
I soundlessly leaned the trapdoor back against the wall. Easing the rest of the way up the stairs, I could now see that one of the propane lamps on the far wall had been lit and gave out with an unrelenting hiss. I led with the Colt and looked over the table top where an empty bottle of Old Crow and two pint Mason jars were lying on their sides.
I could now see that there were two individuals in the corner, Last Bull in the chair still facing the dead sunset and another man leaning against the narrow facing between the windows, holding something and following Clarence’s gaze.
“Those stairs are noisy.”
I came the rest of the way up and could now see clearly that it was Henry, palming the great blade as it flashed in the propane light.
“How did you get here?”
“I pulled myself up on the walkway to the east.”
I kept the. 45 out and circled around the table. “He must be dead drunk.”
The Cheyenne Nation turned to look at the man in the chair as I got there. The shirt at the center of his back was exploded with blood and the material was burned from the close proximity of the gun that had shot him.
The Bear’s voice was resigned. “No, just dead.”
11
“Sure, I can get you DNA testing on the glass-it’ll take about nine weeks.”
I sat on the lip of the trapdoor and stared at the can of beer the AIC had handed to me at the scene; Cliff Cly was certainly not the usual field agent for the Department of Justice. It was even a Rainier, my brand. “That’s not the way it works on television.”
He nodded and opened his own with the rest of the six-pack dangling from his fingers by the plastic loops. He sipped his beer as his crew went about their business, and the ME’s office loaded Clarence up. “Yeah, have I told you what a pain in the ass all that TV stuff is for me?” He thought about it. “Other than I’d like to nail Kyra Sedgwick…”
“Do you think it’s really a good idea to be drinking beer at a homicide investigation?”
He ignored me and sipped his some more. “Christ, somebody siphons gas out of somebody’s car and the assholes want you to dust the garden hose for prints.” Cly watched as they zipped the body bag. “Taxes, that’s the other one I get. My taxes pay your salary; you need to find out who stole my cat.” He laughed. “That’s how I lost my first assignment, cherry, too. Georgetown-D.C.” He shook his head. “How much crime goes on in Georgetown?” He thought about it. “Punishable crime, I mean. There was this spat of cat disappearances-I shit you not-and this senator’s wife wanted Justice to look into it, so they sent me over to this mansion to talk to this woman who lost Fluffy. I get over there and make the mistake of joking with her that it’s probably the Chinese restaurant down the street. Well, she believes me and starts asking questions like, ‘Surely they just catch alley cats or strays and not domestic cats from the neighborhood?’ So I laugh and tell her, ‘Oh no, it’s the domestic ones that they get because they’re fat and stupid.’” He shook his head. “Jump-cut to promising young field agent in Absalom, Wyoming.”
I smiled and set my unopened can on the floor beside me. “That would do it.” Glancing over my shoulder, I looked back at Henry, who had grown more and more silent since the Feds had arrived. The Cheyenne Nation was seated on the windowsill in the darkness by the east wall. “What do you think?”
His voice rumbled back. “I guess we can take Clarence off the list.”
Cly turned to look at him. “You think?”
There was a pause, and then Henry spoke again. “Reasoning says that whoever killed Audrey and attempted to kill Adrian must’ve killed Clarence.”
The agent lowered his can. “Unless it was revenge.”
“Possibly, but the only one who could’ve felt an emotion that strong is being zipped up in a bag right now. Someone killed the woman and attempted to kill the child, and then they killed the man.”
Cliff made a face. “What makes you so sure it’s the same person?”
Henry stood and walked over into the light of all the propane lanterns we’d lit; the place sounded like a snake pit. “Talk of killing is talk; killing is different.”
The agent pulled a can from the plastic and hel
d it out to the Bear, but Henry ignored him.
I figured I’d better speak up. “What he’s saying is that there aren’t that many actual killers on the Rez.”
The agent continued to sip his beer. “You guys get anything out of the shoemaker?”
“Boot maker.”
“Whatever.”
I leveraged myself up and stood so as to make way for the med-ex team and the body. “He wasn’t there, but I had an interesting conversation with his wife, who said that Clarence hadn’t been there for about a year, but we discovered that he was evidently there last night.”
“So I need to go sweat her?”
I smiled. “Good luck with that.”
“Tough?”
“Like a Flying J truck stop steak.”
We watched as they carefully turned the body and made their way down the stairs and into the darkness; but for the flashing blue lights in the parking lot that cast through the open doorway below, it was as if they were carrying Clarence into the grave.
I sighed. “. 38?”
Cly nodded. “Sure looks like to me.”
“Close. Somebody he knew.”
“Yeah.” The FBI man held the beer out to Henry again. “Sure you won’t have one?”
Anyone who knew Henry Standing Bear would’ve been able to spot the storm clouds on the horizon, but Cliff Cly’s experiences with him had been limited. Personally, I was just hoping I could stop the Cheyenne Nation from throwing the federal agent through the plateglass windows.
His voice was smooth, like the surface of the ocean with sharks underneath. “Agent, I am having a hard time believing that you are taking this investigation seriously.” He leaned in. “Somebody has almost wiped out an entire Native family.”
Cly’s eyes searched the face of my best friend and stayed there as a strong moment passed. “Do you want me to call in the black helicopters? Because I can.” He glanced at me. “I can make a phone call and have a hundred Ivy League graduates wandering around the Rez with their heads firmly planted up their asses, and the only thing they’re going to do is make it harder for the guys that are probably going to really break this case.” He extended a forefinger from the can and first punched the Bear in the chest with it, and then me. “Batman and Robin of the Badlands. You know everybody; you know everything-and besides, Sheriff, you’re the one who wanted me to hand the baton over to the Indian Princess. I’m just waiting to share the credit so I can move on to another and better assignment.”
He sipped the beer again, and I thought it was a remarkably gutsy performance in the face of impending Indian disaster.
Tapping the can with the same forefinger, he smiled. “And this? I just think better when I’ve had a beer-one beer.” He extended the four-pack to Henry again. “How about you?”
The Cheyenne Nation didn’t move but then abruptly snagged a can from the plastic loop, pulling it free and then tapping Cly on the chest with it in return. “I just want us to be clear.”
The agent smiled a matinee idol smile. “We are.” He spread his hands and glanced at me. “Okay, boys, so where’s the next body gonna drop?”
Henry and I looked at each other, neither of us with an answer.
“Did you listen to the CD?”
I shook my head. “We are technologically deprived here in the Wild West.”
He crushed his can and stuffed it in the pocket of his Windbreaker. “Let me know if you want me to dub it onto an eight-track, but in the meantime we’ll keep looking for Public Enema Number One.”
“Artie Small Song?”
He pointed a finger at me like a gun but held his fire.
“So who gets to be Batman?”
“You do; I have the legs for Robin.”
I glanced around in vain for a clock in Rezdawg’s dash as we drove on through the night. “I am worn out; what time is it?”
He glanced at his wrist as he eased the truck up Lonnie’s drive and swung the vehicle in a circle pointed back toward the road before going up the hill. “Almost three. I’ll drop you off here so that we don’t wake up the chief.”
“Why do you suppose Lonnie wants me to keep spending the night at his place?”
“He likes the company; I would imagine he gets lonely without his daughter.” I thought about my daughter as he pulled Cly’s can of beer from the seat next to him and handed it to me. “Here. As we both know, Lonnie only has the Beer of Temptation in the house.”
I slid out of the truck, closed the door as quietly as she would allow, and spoke through the open window. “Two beers; I can have a party.” He didn’t say anything, and we listened to the crickets chirping in the velvety night. “You all right?”
“Just tired.”
I nodded. “I thought that was going to be the second ass you were going to kick today.”
The Bear shifted the truck into first, probably anxious to get home to his own bed. “Do not forget that we have a lunch appointment in nine hours.”
“Right.” I started off toward the back porch. “Get some rest.”
He said nothing, and I watched as Rezdawg rumbled down the gravel drive, turned left onto 212, and slowly disappeared.
I was about halfway up the hill when I saw another vehicle coming from the same direction that we’d traveled on 212 and watched as the Yukon signaled and drove up to where I stood.
The driver’s-side window whirred down on the official vehicle, and Lolo Long looked at me. I leaned an elbow on the sill. “You pulling double duty?”
“My one-man staff, Charles, is following Nate Small Song.”
I held up the two cans. “You want a beer?”
“No, thanks.”
I nodded and blew a breath out, extending my cheeks. “Clarence is dead.”
She gestured toward the radio. “I know.” She reached up and turned the motor off. “I think the BIA called the family.”
“Is there anybody besides Charles?”
She rolled a shoulder. “A few cousins, but nobody close.” She watched me thinking.
“No offense, but should we consider adding Charles to our ever-narrowing list of suspects?”
She laughed. “I told you, he doesn’t have enough imagination to carry on a conversation. Anyway, why would he kill his half-brother, sister-in-law, and nephew?”
“I thought maybe you’d have an idea about that.”
She shook her head. “Nope, dead end.”
There was a pause, and I could feel the exhaustion creeping into my marrow. I stood there for a moment more and then asked permission, since it seemed like she wanted to talk. “All right if I come around and sit down? I’m not so sure I can stand up for much longer.”
She pushed her shooting bag and aluminum clipboard onto the floor with a certain panache, and I circled around, opened the door, and sat. She glanced up at the dome light. “It’ll go out in a minute.” Another pause filled the cab, and I thought for a second I was going to fall asleep. “If you were going to pursue the investigation after all, did it ever occur to you to let me know?”
“It was a spur of the moment kind of thing; we went and talked to Inez Two Two, who gave us a lead on two of the places where Clarence might’ve been-one he wasn’t and, as it turned out, one he shall ever be.”
“It’s a lonely spot.”
“Yes, it is.”
I took the time to study her some more; mostly the muscles in her neck. She was tall with a broad-trunked body, but it was sexy the way she carried herself, like she was built for go. She took a deep breath, which gave me plenty of time to study the sickle-shaped scar, almost as if her face itself had been marked with the crescent of Islam.
She looked at me. “I don’t sleep.”
“Ever?” I looked out the window. “I didn’t either until 1972.”
“What happened in 1972?”
“I got tired.”
She laughed a deep, throaty laugh.
“Later, I got married, had a kid; I guess it took my mind off of it.”
“You have a child?”
She ran a hand over the leather-clad steering wheel. “He’s with my husband in Billings.”
“What’s his name?”
“Cale Garber; ranch kid from up near Judith Gap. We met in school; I was already ROTC, so he knew he was marrying a soldier…” The words trailed off.
“I meant your son.”
“Danny.”
“How old?”
“He’s five.” She smiled, but the joy was missing in it. We sat there for a long time before she felt the need to fill the silence. “Before my first deployment I went over to Radio Shack and bought one of those talking picture frames and put a photo of me in it. I was smiling.” She cleared her throat and touched the scar on the side of her face. “Before I had this.” She dropped her hand and picked at imaginary lint on her uniform pants. “I recorded this stupid message, you know… I love you; I love you so much-please don’t forget about me! The frame had a motion detector, and every time they’d walk into the living room the thing would go off. I love you; I love you so much-please don’t forget about me! It became a joke around the house; you know, a catchphrase.”
I sat there staring at the elliptical scar and remained silent.
Her hand came back up and stayed at her temple. “We were in Sadr City when this thing went off, concave, like a dinner platter with something like sixty pounds of explosives underneath-made to go through a Hummer like it was lard.” She turned her head to look at me, consequently hiding the scar. “It killed the driver, Garston, instantaneously; didn’t even know what hit him. Took Van Holt apart and sliced off Kestner’s legs. Stevenson got it in the chest and bled out fast. I mean, we’d been hit by EFPs before, even multiple arrays, but this thing, this one…” She placed her hand on the wheel again, but kept her eyes on me. “It sounded like something ripping-like the air was made of canvas.”
She said the lines again, with the same singsong tune. “I love you; I love you so much-please don’t forget about me!”
As the crow flies wl-8 Page 19