Watching Eagles Soar

by Margaret Coel

  “What happened?” she managed.

  “Got himself shot over at his girlfriend’s place, damn fool,” the chief said. “We got an anonymous call somebody heard a gunshot at the house. Couple of my boys checked it out, and there was Ralph on the living room sofa with a thirty-ought-six slug in his chest. The girlfriend was standing there in some kind of shock. Still holding on to the rifle.”

  Vicky shook her head, trying to fit the pieces together. “He was shot with a rifle?”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me if it turns out to be his own gun. My boys held the girlfriend until the FBI agent got there. He took her into custody on suspicion of murder. We went to the convenience store to give Bertie the bad news. Clerk said she didn’t come in today. Didn’t find her at the house, either.”

  “She’s on the way home now,” Vicky said.

  The chief drew in another long breath. “Sure gonna be tough on Bertie. Ralph might’ve fooled around some, but he wasn’t a bad sort. I’m gonna ask Father John to drive out to Plunkett Road and give her the bad news.”

  Vicky said, “Bertie’s a client. I’ll drive over, too.”

  She started to hang up when the chief said, “What was on your mind?”

  “It’s not important.”

  * * *

  Father John O’Malley wheeled the Toyota pickup onto Plunkett Road, a narrow strip of gravel snaking through the open plains of the Wind River Reservation. A cloud of dust rose ahead, and out of the dust appeared a light brown Bronco, metal trim glinting in the sun. A sense of relief washed over him. He was usually the sole bearer of heartbreaking news—the part of his job as pastor at St. Francis Mission that he never got used to. But it looked as if Vicky Holden was also on her way to see Bertie Eagle Cloud.

  He followed the Bronco into the dirt yard that sprawled in front of a yellow cubelike house, the only sign of human habitation he’d seen for miles. A white propane tank stood at one side on spindly legs, and nearby, a rusty pickup sloped into the dirt. He let himself out and walked over to Vicky, who was standing at the door of the Bronco.

  “How did you hear?” he asked.

  “Banner.”

  They walked across the yard to the house. The front door was ajar, and he rapped on the thin wood. From inside came a thud, like that of a cabinet hitting the floor. Father John pushed the door open a few inches. “Bertie?”

  Another thud. He glanced at Vicky. “Stay here.”

  He stepped into the small living room. A sofa, two chairs, and television console stood mutely along the walls. There was no one around.

  The thuds started again, hard and rhythmic, like the beat of a drum. He walked into the kitchen and down a hallway, following the sounds to a bedroom. Clothing and papers tumbled over the bed and dresser and crept across the floor. Bertie stood in the closet, her back to him, several large boxes at her feet. She yanked a stretch of shirts and dresses off hangers and tossed them behind her into the room. Then she reached up and tugged at a cardboard box on the top shelf, white tee shirt stretching around rolls of flesh. The box crashed to the floor.

  “Bertie!” Father John said. “What are you doing?”

  The woman swung around and glared at him. “Why’d you come here?” Her gaze shifted sideways, and he realized Vicky had come down the hall and was standing behind him.

  “I told you, Vicky.” Bertie stepped over the boxes, shaking a fist. “I’m gonna find that rifle. I got my rights. You bringing Father John round ain’t gonna change my mind.”

  “It’s not what you think,” Vicky said. Her voice was gentle.

  Father John stepped across the room and took Bertie’s hand. “Let’s go into the living room and sit down, Bertie. We have bad news.”

  The woman tilted her head and fixed him for a moment with clear, steady eyes. Then she shouldered past and disappeared through the door. Father John and Vicky followed her into the living room.

  “So, let’s have it.” Bertie plopped onto the middle cushion of the sofa. Vicky sat down beside her.

  Father John pulled over a straight-backed chair and sat facing them. “I’m sorry, Bertie,” he began—it was never easy—“Ralph is dead.”

  “Dead!” The woman’s mouth gaped open, formed around the word. She turned to Vicky. “That bastard can’t be dead.”

  Vicky nodded slowly. “The police found him this afternoon at Liz Redman’s house. He was shot. Liz has been arrested.”

  “No!” Bertie was shaking her head. The black hair swung around like a veil. “What right’s that whore got to shoot him? I got the right. I should’ve finished him off when I had the chance. If I’d’ve found the rifle instead of that pistol, I could’ve done it. I wouldn’t’ve put no hole in the wall.”

  “Sshh,” Vicky said, patting the woman’s hand. She might have been trying to soothe a child. “Ralph’s dead, Bertie. Let it be.”

  Father John was quiet. He saw the picture: at some point Bertie had tried to shoot Ralph with a pistol, and Vicky knew about it.

  Suddenly Bertie was working her way off the sofa, heaving herself upright. “I wanna see that bastard.”

  Father John stood up and reached out one hand, steadying her. “You may not want to do that.”

  The woman brushed past him. “I’m goin’ to that whore’s house.”

  * * *

  The wooden house might have been dropped onto the flat stretch of plains—a collection of boards with streaks of faded white paint and a roof that sloped over the small front stoop. Yellow police tape stretched around the perimeter of the dirt yard. Parked on the graveled road in front were a couple of four-wheel drives and two white Bureau of Indian Affairs police cars. Father John parked behind the last car. In the rearview mirror, he saw the Bronco sliding to a stop. The passenger door swung open and, in a half second, Bertie had stepped over the tape and was grinding her way toward the porch.

  Father John let himself out and waited as Vicky came around the Bronco. “Bertie’s in shock,” Vicky said. “She rambled on and on all the way over here. She never shut up.”

  Suddenly Bertie’s voice split the air: “I got my rights. I’m the wife.” Chief Banner stood on the stoop blocking her way.

  Vicky hurried up the steps. “Come on, Art. You know she has the right to see her husband.”

  “She may have the right, Vicky, but it might not be best.”

  Father John joined them. “We’ve already gone over this,” he said.

  The chief shrugged and led the way into a small living room crowded with uniformed policemen and several men dressed in slacks and dark sport coats. There was a hush of conversations. Ted Gianelli, the local FBI agent, huddled with a group in front of the sofa pushed against the opposite wall. A photographer bent down; light flashed through the room. As he stepped aside, Father John saw the body slumped over the edge of the sofa.

  Bertie lurched forward. “He’s dead!” It was a scream. “He’s really dead.”

  Gianelli stepped over to the woman. He wore a dark blue sport coat and gray, wrinkled slacks. The red tie draped down the center of his white shirt looked like a streak of blood. “You’ve seen him, Bertie. Let’s go outside and let the lab technicians finish their job.” He took her arm—an unsuccessful attempt to turn her around.

  Bertie jerked away. “That whore shot him.”

  Gianelli drew in a long breath. “Liz says she found Ralph when she got home from work. The rifle was next to the sofa. Says that’s all she remembers. But the police found her standing over him with the rifle in hand. Looks like she fired twice. One shot missed and blew a hole in the wall.”

  For the first time, Father John saw the broken wallboard, the dark hole boring into the wall above the sofa. He glanced at Vicky. She was staring at the wall.

  Banner spoke up. “My boys found two rifle cartridges on the floor. Crime boys dug a thirty-ought-six slug out of the wall.”
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br />   Vicky glanced from the chief to the FBI agent. “What are you saying? That the same gun hit both Ralph and the wall?”

  Both men nodded. “Thirty-ought-six,” Gianelli said.

  The murmur of conversations over by the sofa punctuated the quiet. Father John saw the look of shock and comprehension cross Vicky’s face, and he understood.

  “I told Ralph he was gonna get shot some day,” Bertie was saying, “but he kept whorin’ around.”

  “Don’t say anything else.” Vicky’s tone was sharp.

  Bertie reared back. She stared at Vicky a moment, then wheeled toward Father John. A frantic look came into her eyes, like the look in the eyes of an animal searching for a way out of a trap. “He shouldn’t’ve done that to me, Father. You understand, don’t you?” She started backing toward the door. The room grew quiet.

  “Listen to Vicky,” Father John said. “You have the right not to say anything.”

  The woman threw back her head and gave out a laugh edged with hysteria. “Nobody understands,” she said, backing up, laughing. “Ralph deserved to die, and that whore deserves to go to prison forever.” She drew in a shuddering breath. “I left the rifle for her. I waited at the gas station ’til I seen her comin’ home; then I called the police. She picked up the rifle, like I knew she’d do, and the police come walkin’ in. It worked just like I planned.”

  “Bertie, for God’s sake, stop talking,” Vicky said.

  Chief Banner moved behind Bertie, blocking the door, and Gianelli stepped in front. “Bertie Eagle Cloud,” he said. “I’m placing you under arrest for the murder of your husband.”

  Nobody’s Going to Cry

  The Eighth Commandment: Thou shalt not steal.

  She’d left Lander thirty minutes ago for the eight-o’clock appointment at the Arapaho tribal offices in Ethete twenty miles inside the Wind River Reservation. It should have allowed plenty of time, and Vicky Holden liked to be on time. A compulsion from the ten years she’d spent going to school and practicing law in Denver. Highway 287 had been a clear shot north with only a few pickups and sedans in the oncoming lane, Arapahos heading to jobs in town, sun glinting on windshields and bumpers. The morning air was light and suffused with gold. It would be another hot day. The wind knocked against the Jeep and flattened the wild grasses in the open fields on both sides of the highway.

  It was after she’d turned right and gone about a mile on Blue Sky Highway that she regretted not having left earlier. Blocking the road ahead were four police cars, an ambulance, and two SUVs. The blue and red lights flashing on the roof of a police car looked faded in the sunlight. Vicky tapped on the brake and slowed alongside the Wind River police officer holding up one hand like a traffic cop. She recognized Howie Thunder. The wind plastered his gray uniform shirt to his chest.

  Vicky rolled down her window. “What’s going on?”

  “Better turn around, Vicky. Go back to 287.”

  Vicky glanced past him. Milling about were other uniformed officers as well as a couple of sheriff’s detectives in blue jeans, light-colored shirts, and cowboy hats. Beyond the vehicles she could see the brown pickup sloped into the ditch, the wheels on the driver’s side clinging to the section of dirt that bordered the asphalt. The slightest jar, she was thinking, and the pickup would turn over. Inside, an Indian slumped over the steering wheel, clumps of black hair falling over his face. A broad-shouldered man in a cowboy hat climbed out of the ditch behind the pickup. Ted Gianelli, the local FBI agent, looked like the other cops in civvies. The wind was blowing the fronts of his tan leather vest away from his white shirt.

  “What happened, Howie?” she said, looking up at the officer still outside her door. She’d known Howie and his wife, Myrna, since they were kids. They’d gone to school together at St. Francis Mission.

  “Police business,” he said, squinting in the sun. He was about six feet tall and looked in shape, with a flat stomach and muscular brown arms that hung beneath the short sleeves of his uniform shirt.

  “Since when does the fed handle traffic accidents?” Vicky got out of the Jeep into the warm air. She had to hold her hair back in the wind.

  The man shrugged and glanced back at the pickup. “Since bullets put a drug dealer into the ditch,” he said. “Anonymous call came in at seven this morning. Said somebody was dead inside a pickup. I got here first. Fed thinks it must’ve happened in the middle of the night. Jose Montecon. You heard of him?”

  Vicky nodded. There had been numerous articles in the Gazette about the Mexican drug ring that had moved onto the Wind River Reservation. Montecon was identified as the leader, but he’d hooked up with a local partner, Ernest Redbird. The news had made her feel sick to her stomach. She knew the Redbird family. Sylvia, Ernest’s sister, had raised him after their parents had been killed in an automobile accident. Both Redbird and Montecon had been indicted by a federal grand jury, but they’d fled the area before they could be arrested.

  “We got a tip last week Montecon was back,” Howie was saying. “Word on the rez is that Redbird made off with a lot of his money, and Montecon was after him. We figured Montecon must’ve thought Redbird was here. Otherwise, why would he take the risk of coming back? Every law enforcement agency in the area has had an alert out for both of them.” He clenched his hands into fists and threw another glance at the pickup. “Looks like Redbird found Montecon before Montecon found him.”

  “How do you know that?” Vicky could hear the tightness in her voice.

  She was grasping for some other explanation, she knew. There could be dozens of people on the rez who would like to see the drug dealer shot.

  Another thought hit her. Sylvia had been through a lot trying to help Ernest get off drugs. Every time he got clean, Montecon showed up and got him hooked again. And Sylvia knew how to handle a gun. She could bring down an elk with a single shot. Oh, my God, Vicky thought.

  She tried to concentrate on what Howie was saying, something about it being a deliberate killing. “Redbird shot out the rear right tire,” he said, shaking his head. “Waited for the pickup to skid to a stop and drove alongside. Made sure he had a clear aim before he shot Montecon in the face. You ask me, he wanted that bastard to be looking at him when he pulled the trigger so he knew who done it. He saw the chance to take over the drug ring, cut out Montecon, and run it himself.”

  “Any evidence? What about the gun?” She was going to have to talk to Sylvia right away, Vicky was thinking. Prepare her for the fact that the police would be looking for Ernest in connection with a murder. And sooner or later, they may start looking at her.

  Howie let out a cough of laughter. “Whatever gun he used, he dropped into a well by now. It’ll never be found. Redbird’s the one with the motive,” he went on, squinting into the distance. “Makes the most sense. One drug dealer cutting out another. Happens all the time. Both of ’em are bastards. Ruined a lot of folks’ lives here. Got kids on meth—kids! Jesus Christ, Vicky, he got a lot of adults hooked, too. Nobody’s going to cry over Montecon.”

  * * *

  “Bull crap what those cops say about Ernest.” Sylvia Redbird peered into an empty pack of cigarettes, then rolled it into a ball and tossed it onto the table next to her chair. She was a large woman with black hair pulled back from a leathery face and tied into a ponytail, and roughened hands the size of a man’s. She wore blue jeans, red tee shirt, and dust-covered hiking boots.

  “They framed him, made it look like he was guilty so him and Montecon both got indicted. What was he supposed to do? Hang around and let them cops arrest him? He had to take off.”

  “The police think he came back,” Vicky said. “They think he killed Montecon.”

  The woman let out a noise that sounded like the howl of a coyote.

  “Ernest? Kill somebody?” She threw up one of her big hands. “Okay, okay. Maybe there was a time when Ernest could’ve done something crazy like tha
t. Montecon was a slimeball—that’s a fact. Sucked the life outta everybody he knew. Got Ernest hooked on meth, then kept raising the price on him. Forced him to start dealing, get more customers on the rez. That’s the truth, Vicky. No way Ernest would’ve starting selling meth if he wasn’t forced.”

  “Where is he?”

  Sylvia shrugged. “How would I know?”

  “The court might go easier on him if he surrendered.”

  “Like hell. He’d go to prison for dealing drugs. They throw in a murder charge, he’ll be locked up the rest of his life.” Sylvia folded her arms across her broad waist. “I’m telling you, Ernest’s clean now. Went to the mission and talked things over with Father John.” She gave another shrug and looked away. For a moment Vicky thought she would jump to her feet and end the conversation.

  “Father John would have suggested he turn himself in,” Vicky said.

  It was a moment before Sylvia responded. “How do you know?”

  “I know Father John.” Oh, she knew him well—John O’Malley, the pastor at St. Francis Mission. They’d worked together for six years—priest and lawyer. There had been so many divorces, accidents, adoptions, DUIs, assaults, even homicides that had drawn them together, she felt as if she could recite word by word what Father John would have told Ernest Redbird.

  “Went to rehab, got himself together,” Sylvia said, turning the topic back to Ernest. She moved her eyes to some point across the room. “Got himself a nice girlfriend. He’s done with the rez and all the problems. Making a new life for himself somewhere else. He’s not coming back. Let it be.”

  “The police think Montecon was looking for him, and that Ernest found Montecon first.”

  The woman leapt from her chair. “Can’t they leave him alone? Montecon’s put him through enough hell. Hell, I tell you! He’s free now. Somebody else shot that bastard, not Ernest. Let the cops go find the real killer.”