As the crow flies wl-8

by Craig Johnson

  He nodded his head and looked sad. “The kid came and got me, and I listened to it a bunch of times. He’s right; somebody put this recording together.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  Nate was almost vibrating with energy. “It’s the federal government, man-this is the kind of shit they do.”

  As one of the two people in the room with a badge, I didn’t really want to be that voice of reason, but it seemed like somebody should say it. “Nate, that’s kind of crazy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that if Cliff Cly thought there was anything fishy about this tape…” I paused for a moment, thinking about the AIC’s flexible attitude concerning any kind of rule, which had resulted in his being here on the Rez in the first place.

  Lolo studied me. “What?”

  I took a deep breath and tried to flush the wacky idea from my system. “It doesn’t make any sense. Why would the FBI be after Artie?”

  “They’ve been after my brother for years, man. He’s a warrior, and they’ve been trying to keep him down.” He pulled the CD from the player. “We should go to the newspapers and get them to expose this.”

  I reached out and took the CD. “No, we’re going to go play this for Cliff Cly and see what he has to say.”

  Nate pegged the needles. “Are you crazy? Those are the guys that did this, man!”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Anyway, if Cliff had anything to do with it, us confronting him will pretty much stop this stuff in its tracks. If he doesn’t know about it, then maybe he can help us figure out who did it.”

  “They’ll burn the radio station down, right Herb?”

  Herbert shrugged. “They could-I mean stuff like that happens all the time.”

  I looked to Lolo for a little support, unsure of what I was going to do if she joined in with the conspiracy theory. “Chief Long?”

  She looked at both Nate and Herbert. “You guys watch a lot of Fox News, don’t you?”

  Nate waved her remark away. “I’m serious; the black helicopters are going to come along and sweep you guys away, and Herb and I are going to be sitting up here at ground zero.” If he’d had room he would’ve paced. “Audrey knew something so they killed her; then they killed Clarence to shut him up, and now they wanna pin it all on Artie.”

  I interrupted the rant. “What could Audrey have known?”

  “I don’t know; something.”

  I sighed. “This all sounds pretty crazy, Nate.”

  “Fine, go talk to your buddies at the FBI and see what they say.” He waved a hand in my face. “Been nice knowing you.”

  I looked at Herbert, but he seemed to be concentrating on the floor. I stepped past him and opened the door. “C’mon, Chief, let’s go.”

  Long followed, and we started out, making it to the reception area before Nate caught my arm. “Hey, look, if something does happen to you guys, what should I do?”

  “Stay away from the windows.”

  I’d meant it as a joke, but I don’t think he got it.

  “How well do you know this Cliff Cly?” She was powering her way down the gravel road, the big V-8 yowling in protest.

  “Like I said, I dealt with him out on the Powder River. He’s not the most ethical of the bureau guys I’ve dealt with, but he gets results.”

  “Do you think Artie is one of his results?”

  I braced my hand on the padded dash and could see where I was wearing an impression into the leather. “Well, it was strangely convenient how that tape showed up to seal the deal just when we needed it, but it seems, well, awkward.”

  She roared the GMC onto the asphalt and laid a strip of rubber that must’ve been a good ten feet long. The people on the sidewalks of Lame Deer ignored the racing Yukon as if it going down Main Street at sixty miles an hour was a daily occurrence; come to think of it, it probably was.

  “You think we should take this to the head office in Salt Lake?”

  I shook my head. “Mike McGroder? No, we’ll give Cliff a chance to hear it and see what he has to say. Do you have any idea where he might be?”

  She pulled the mic from her dash and hit the button. “Base, this is unit 1-anybody there?”

  Static. “Unit 1, this is base. Over.”

  “Charles, do you have any idea where the AIC might be?”

  Static. “Yeah, he was just here-picked up both Kelly Joe and Artie Small Song. He said he was taking them to Hardin for protective custody.”

  She glanced at me. “How long ago?”

  Static. “Maybe five minutes.”

  I reached up and clicked on the light and sirens as the warrior chief four-wheel-drifted through the main intersection of Lame Deer, barely missing a delivery van and a Ford Explorer. By the time we got to the big ridge overlooking the separate lands of the Cheyenne and Crow we were doing a hundred and twenty.

  The muscles at the side of her jaw bunched. “That settles it.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Bullshit! He forged the tape, and now he’s trying to seal it up tight by taking Artie.” She flung the Yukon around a sweeping corner, and I was pretty sure the inside wheels were off the ground. I glanced up at the integral roll bar and was slightly reassured. “It has to be.”

  When we hit the straightaway above Busby, not to be confused with Birney, white or red, you could see the caravan of federal vehicles approaching the gigantic Moncure teepee that had once been a gift shop and tourist trap located beside the town’s general store.

  Lolo’s foot sank deeper into the SUV’s throat, and I watched as the orange needle wound higher. By the time we approached the string of one Yukon, one Suburban, and the Expedition, I’m pretty sure we were only hitting the high spots on 212.

  The chief launched past the rear vehicle, and I could see the surprised looks on the faces of the Feds as she blew by the second one and slid past the leading vehicle with her antilock brakes most assuredly locked.

  We were still hanging out into the forward lane, clouded in blue smoke when the thing finally stopped, and I was just glad the airbags hadn’t deployed. I unsnapped my belt, pushed the door open, and stepped onto scoria-colored asphalt.

  Cly was the first out of a vehicle, and he stepped toward us with a hand on the Sig-Sauer at his hip, motioning to the agent who had been driving to lower his weapon as he came out the driver’s side. He smiled at my appearance. “Hey, nice shirt. You decide to go Native?” He opened his arms to encompass the Little Big Horn country. “Good place for it, Kemosabe.”

  Lolo Long came around the back side of her unit and pointed a finger at Cly. “Where are my prisoners?”

  The agent looked as if he’d been smacked. “What?”

  I kept an eye on the driver as he lowered his weapon but did not reholster, as three more field agents showed up from the other two vehicles. They looked like a preppy barbershop quartet.

  Long had made it to the front of the Suburban and actually kicked the front bumper. “I said where are my prisoners? You can hand over Kelly Joe and Nattie to the DEA or whoever, but you have no right to take Artie Small Song.” She glanced at the other agents, who were wisely keeping their distance, self-preservation being a core class at the academy.

  Cliff glanced at me with an odd look on his face and then pushed his sunglasses up on his wavy locks. “You’re running a skeleton staff in a concrete block; I thought I’d do you a favor.”

  “I don’t need your favors.”

  He looked at me again, spoke slowly, and with the Midwestern accent that Wade Barsad had had, said. “O-key.”

  She circled around to stand in front of him, and I think he was glad the open door was between them. “I’m running a homicide investigation, and you’re trying to run off with my chief witness.”

  The agent looked at me again. “I thought he was the chief suspect.”

  “He was until we listened more carefully to your bullshit tape.”

  I watched him closely, and you could be mistaken about which
side of the coin it was that Cliff Cly of the FBI had been playing, but he seemed genuinely very confused. “What are you talking about?”

  “The phone recording is crap, and you know it.”

  An eighteen-wheeler slowed at the phalanx of official vehicles, the air brakes blowing out like an angry mechanical bull. The operator hung out the window to look at the drama unfolding. Lolo Long was momentarily distracted and shouted at the truck driver. “What are you looking at; you want me to check your logs or something?!”

  The truck sped up, and I stepped a little closer to the epicenter of the conflict, hoping the chief would remember I was on her side. “Why don’t we pull these vehicles over to the other side of the road and get this all straightened out?”

  Long looked at me for a moment and then marched past to navigate the GMC into the gravel lot surrounding the derelict tourist attraction.

  The Feds followed suit, and Cly told a couple of his boys to go get the rest of the agents a few soft drinks from the general store three hundred feet back. They disappeared, but the eyes of the remaining agents in the assorted vehicles watched us like we were trying to steal their collective bones.

  Which at least one of us was.

  “Play it again.”

  Lolo hit the button, and we listened to the remastered CD for the second time.

  The expression on his face didn’t change, but he disengaged himself from the vehicle and stood there, dusting the toe of his dress shoe on the back of a pant leg. After a moment he walked across the crumbling concrete pad and peered into the Moncure teepee, raised a hand, and pushed open the flapping screen door, which was held to the structure by half a hinge. “So, you think the recording has been doctored?”

  The chief and I stood by the grille guard of her unit and watched him. “You heard it-what do you think?”

  He didn’t say anything but stepped forward and disappeared into the shingled structure, his voice echoing in the emptiness. “I heard this thing was built by the WPA, but I think that might be bullshit.”

  We listened as the resonance of his footfalls circled the inside, the FBI men watching. I pushed off the SUV, followed Cliff’s path, and found him standing in the center, looking up at the blue sky, which was approaching the zenith of afternoon heat.

  Lolo followed, and we watched Cly slip off his navy blazer-he continued to look through the openings where the shingles and roof underlayment had let go. “Why would the WPA build something like this? I mean a dam, a trail, a retaining wall I can understand-but a giant wood teepee? That doesn’t make much sense.”

  I tipped my hat back and wiped the sweat from my forehead. “What’s going on, Cliff?”

  He walked to the side of the building and put a hand on a support as thick as a telephone pole; the one he had chosen was cracked and would someday give way, taking the southern portion of the structure with it. “To be honest…”

  Long interrupted. “That’d be nice.”

  He smiled the matinee-idol smile he’d probably been using since junior varsity. “I don’t know.”

  “Bullshit.” Lolo took a step toward him, her face suddenly lit by the cascading beams of sunshine blasting through the openings like head lights. “Bullshit.”

  He sighed. “Honest Injun.” He looked at me and then licked his lips like he was looking for the words. “Look, the tape was forwarded from a source in the BIA.” He gestured toward the CD still in the player in Lolo’s vehicle. “They seemed really fired up about it. Now, I don’t know how they got it, or who they might’ve gotten it from…”

  “Bullshit.” Chief Long wasn’t buying it. “It’s just too convenient, Agent-just too convenient.”

  He shook his head. “I thought the same thing, but the BIA guys are the goods; on the up and up, really.”

  She folded her arms. “Well, that leaves you.”

  “Chief?”

  The two of them turned to look at the field agent standing in the doorway to my right.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, Chief Cly, but I got you a Coke.”

  The AIC walked over and took the can, then dismissed the lesser agent with a curt nod. Cly turned to look at us, the soda dangling in his hand. “So let me get this straight, Chief Long-you’re accusing me of all this?”

  “Who would you accuse?”

  He glanced at me and then back to her. “Look, I know I’ve got a somewhat checkered past, but do you really think I would do something like this?”

  She didn’t say anything, and I had just started to when he spoke.

  “Ouch.” He started to open the can but then didn’t; instead he just stared at the pull tab. “That hurts, Chief.”

  He continued on through the battered screen door, carefully closing it for comic effect. Then he stuck a forefinger and pinkie in the sides of his mouth and blew out a whistle that loosened a few more shingles.

  A chorus of doors opened in the Fed vehicles out front. “All right, people, listen up. As is the plight of the white man in Indian country, our wagons have been surrounded and we are going to give up our prisoners.”

  Lolo glanced at me and then back to him. “What does…?”

  “You want one; you get ’em all.” The agents were smiling as they opened the rear doors and began unlocking the prisoners. It was all great fun.

  I shook my head at him. “C’mon, Cly.”

  He ignored me, tucked the can of Coke under his arm, and clapped his hands. “Let’s go, we’ve got lunch at Walkers Grill in Billings-the federal government is buying.”

  There were mild cheers as they walked Kelly Joe and Nattie in their traveling chains toward the chief’s Yukon. They needed to make a little more effort into getting Artie Small Song from the Expedition, since he’d been heavily drugged.

  “Thorazine.”

  Kelly Joe was the first to poke his head back out the door and ask. “Hey, what’s going on?”

  Cly shrugged. “You’ve been remanded from our responsibility, Mr. Burns. I guess they’re going to take you back to Lame Deer.” He turned to look at Lolo. “Are you taking them back to Lame Deer?”

  She looked at him, defiant till the end. “Yes.”

  He made a big show of slapping his forehead. “Oh, wait, I forgot. With the amount of controlled substances these two had on them the charges were upped and they have to be transported to a federal facility and the closest one would be Hardin.”

  I stepped in close and looked down at Cly as they tried to get the limp and drooling Artie Small Song into the passenger side of the Yukon, Nattie having taken up more than her third of the bench seat. Finally, and with great enjoyment, the agents decided to just dump Artie in the rear cargo space.

  Kelly Joe’s voice sounded from inside. “Hey, can I get some of what you gave him?”

  “Cliff…” He wouldn’t meet my eyes and watched as his men closed the hatch on the drugged Artie. “This isn’t right; we brought this to you.”

  He pointed a finger at me. “You know, Sheriff, I thought we had an understanding. I know you’re pretty much a by-the-book guy and I’m not, but we’re both on the same side and we get results.” He started to say something else, then thought better of it, and started off again. He slid in the gravel, and his voice struck the hard, sun-baked ground. “I owe you my life, but I don’t owe you my reputation.” He handed the can to Lolo Long as he passed. “Here, Babe, have a Coke and a smile.”

  15

  Lolo Long chugged her Coke and looked out the driver’s-side window at me standing there in the Law Enforcement Center’s parking lot, a place where I was making a habit of saying good-bye to beautiful women.

  She pulled the pop can from her lips. “I figure I should enjoy it-it may be the last thing the federal government gives me.” She considered the can. “Along with whatever communicable diseases Cly might have.”

  Kelly Joe and Nattie were still in the back, comfortably dozing in the Yukon’s air-conditioning. “Two hours round-trip?”

  “I can do it faster.” />
  “Please don’t.” She laughed, and I placed my forearms on the sill and twirled the ring that was still on my little finger. “That’ll put you back here this evening; come have dinner with us.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t. I’ve got too much to think about, and besides, I’ve got to go find a killer.”

  I started to open my mouth, but she spoke quickly. “I know you didn’t want any part of this from the beginning, but you helped me, and then I thought you were feeding me to the Feds when they came up with the tape, but you didn’t. I really appreciate that and, whether you know it or not, I’ve learned a lot from you in the last week.” She tightened her grip around my forearm where I’d rolled up my sleeves.

  “I wasn’t much help; as a matter of fact, I think I made the situation worse.”

  She shook her head. “No, you didn’t.” She averted her eyes to the windshield and the glare of the late-afternoon sun, her words taking on a note of finality. “You’re probably right about me not being fit for this job, and I probably won’t be able to keep it, but it was nice to get a taste of what it can be like.” Her breath wavered in her throat. “I want to thank you for that.”

  I thought about how this was not how it was supposed to end, with her providing cab service for the Feds and me walking away. In a perfect cinematic world we would’ve captured the bad guys in spectacular fashion with explosions, car chases, and a parting kiss. She would’ve been played by Ava Gardner, and I would’ve been played by Robert Taylor.

  I looked at her. “I was wrong.”

  She looked back at me, and I could feel her eyes on the side of my face.

  “You’re going to make a great cop if you stick to it.” I turned back and tried not to let the sickle-shaped scar draw my attention like a tide. “Don’t let them run you off your patch; you can do a lot of good here.”

  Her eyes stayed level, and there was no irony in her response. “Thanks.” She patted my arm. “I’ll see you around, Sheriff.” She pulled the gear lever down. “Who knows, I might need a job.”

  I watched as the GMC whipped from the parking lot and headed out for the territories west. I was thinking about a lot of things and felt that strange feeling-like a thought that needed scratching, the one I couldn’t reach-but the final thought before I started to wrestle with the starter on my nemesis was that I was hungry. The next thought was that I didn’t have anybody to have delayed lunch with when it dawned on me that I did.