Blood Ties

by Sigmund Brouwer

  And the screaming continued.

  One of the boys! Down the hallway!

  James pushed away the covers and hit the floor at a run. The house was dark. He made it to the bedroom door on memory and hit the lights for the hallway.

  Nothing.

  He cursed. What a time for the bulb to be burned out.

  James continued in the darkness, stumbling down the hallway toward the screaming. Larson’s room.

  Two steps later, he almost collided with Michael, who had burst from his bedroom door. Neither said a word; they hurried together to Lawson’s bedroom at the end of the hallway.

  The roaring continued on the other side of the bedroom door.

  Michael tried the door. It was locked.

  "Lawson!” James shouted. “Open up!”

  The screaming grew louder. The door remained closed.

  “Dad?” Michael asked.

  James backed up two steps, then rammed his shoulder into the door, busting it off the hinges.

  Enough of the faint dawn spilled into the bedroom to allow them to see Lawson’s silhouette at the side of his bed. He was hunched over, jerking and shaking.

  “Son!” James shouted. “What is it?”

  Lawson roared louder, but his frantic jumbled words made no sense.

  James fumbled for the light switch and finally found it. He clicked it, cursing again when the light remained dark.

  “Flashlight, Michael,” James ordered. “Back porch.”

  On the ranch, there were many occasions when a flashlight was needed in the yard or at the barns. Michael knew exactly where to find it. He dashed away.

  James advanced on Lawson, who kept screaming. James placed a hand on his back.

  “Let go, let go, let go, let go!”

  James finally understood Lawson’s frantic words and dropped his hand away. “Lawson? What is it?”

  Only more screaming.

  The flashlight beam bounced into the bedroom ahead of Michael. James stepped back to avoid blocking the light.

  Michael turned the beam on Lawson. It took Michael and James a few seconds to comprehend the situation.

  Lawson was clutching at the calf of his right leg, futilely pulling at the large iron jaws of a rusty bear trap. The chain attached to the bear trap had been secured to a bedpost. Lawson must have stepped out of bed, into the trap.

  “We’re here, son,” James McNeill said. The how and why of something this bizarre he would find out later.

  Lawson kept screaming, kept pulling at his leg, as if no one was in the room with him.

  “Relax!” James shouted. “I can’t step on the release unless you stop moving.”

  Lawson was in full panic, unable to understand.

  “Hold him,” James told Michael, taking the flashlight from his son.

  Michael moved quickly, taking Lawson from behind and grabbing his arms and wrestling him to a standstill.

  That was how Kelsie found them when she stepped over the broken bedroom door a few seconds later: her father in his boxer shorts, Michael in a pair of sweatpants holding Lawson, who was wearing pajama pants and screaming in pain.

  James pointed the beam downward and stepped on the release spring of the giant trap. “Pull the jaws apart,” he ordered Kelsie above Lawson’s screaming.

  Kelsie didn’t hesitate.

  Lawson was so panicky he didn’t realize his leg was free until Michael lifted him from the trap. Then Michael let go, and Lawson collapsed onto his bed, moaning and holding his leg.

  James pushed Lawson’s hands away, and pulled up the pajama leg. He shone the flashlight to see that the skin on Lawson’s leg was a deep, angry red. where the teeth of the trap had closed on it. In some places, where the notches had dug deep, pinpricks of blood oozed from the skin.

  “Water,” James told Kelsie. “He needs water.”

  Lawson probably didn’t need water, James thought, but he wanted the boy to stop his feverish moaning. Drinking water might be a normal enough act to snap him from his panic.

  Kelsie ran to the kitchen.

  “Hey, bud,” Michael said. “You’re fine.”

  Lawson writhed on the bed.

  A minute later Kelsie returned with the water. James handed the flashlight to Kelsie then took the glass and forced it to Lawson’s mouth, pouring the water in when Lawson refused to hold the glass himself.

  It seemed to help, for Lawson began to calm himself.

  “That’s better,” James said. “And I think your leg will be fine. Your pajamas saved most of the skin. It was an old enough trap that much of the snap was gone. A new trap would have broken your shin.”

  “Trap?” Lawson’s forehead was beaded with sweat. “I was going to the bathroom. I stepped down. It...”

  It wasn’t hard to figure out the mechanics of stepping in a trap. What bothered James far more was how the trap had gotten there – and why.

  He didn’t need to puzzle about it for long.

  Kelsie screamed. It was a short, brief, high-pitched note of terror. She’d let the flashlight wander. It now pointed at a large feather on the floor beside the bear trap. Kelsie screamed again then fled from the bedroom.

  9:23 a.m.

  Russell Fowler faced the three men who sat in his office. He would have preferred to meet them elsewhere, but on short notice he could think of no better place. Restaurants were too open. Renting a meeting room at a hotel might have worked, but in a town this small it might not pay for folks to see all of them together. He was praying no one of importance walked in now and that if someone did, Two Car would be smart enough to handle the problem in the reception area without sending anyone back here.

  “News conference, Russ?” Andy Summit asked. “Like the big city?”

  “Sure,” Fowler said. “You’ll notice the coffee served in china and, of course, the big platters of hors d’oeuvres.”

  “Coffee?” Andy said. “That would be a treat. It’s tough to percolate anything when everything electrical is shut down.”

  “I made it over a campfire,” Fowler said. “The old-fashioned way.”

  Andy and the other two joined in the slightly nervous chuckles at the sheriff’s attempted humor. They needed a release in tension. It had caught each of them by surprise, seeing the other two. Wasn’t this the first time they been brought together by the sheriff? Into his office? Something had to be up.

  Andy Summit was news director at KJIK, an FM country-music station. Tom Ramsey filled the same position at the local AM station. The third, Eddie Lewis, was editor of the Kalispell Times.

  “Boys,” Fowler said, “about an hour ago, I got a call from Seth.”

  He didn’t need to explain more about the caller’s identity. All the media people in the valley knew one another. Most Friday afternoons the various reporters and other news people got together at the Kicking Horse Saloon to trade gossip and war stories. Seth Williamson, news producer for KJOH-TV, had a reputation for buying more than his share of the rounds of beer on Friday afternoons. He was well liked as a result.

  “Seems somebody dropped off a cassette tape at their front office today.” Fowler watched for any reaction.. This was a trade-off. He didn’t like the prospect of releasing information they might not have. On the other hand, it would be surprising if they hadn’t gotten a copy of the same cassette, and if not, each of them would eventually hear anyway.

  “Native Sons?” Eddie asked. “I was on the verge of getting one of my reporters to call you to confirm some facts, but you reached me first. So I decided to come and find out for myself.”

  Eddie grinned. He was close to Fowler’s age. His thin hair was plastered sideways over his shiny dome. “And now that I hear you mention cassette, I’m sure glad I’m here.”

  The other two wore puzzled expressions. Fowler pulled a portable cassette player out from under his desk. He set it on top of the desk and punched the play button.

  “This is a call to all the native sons of North America,” the voice said.
“It is time to reclaim our land. If we unite, we can defeat the European colonizers who have raped our heritage. Wherever you live, join the fight. Derail the white man’s trains. Knock down his power lines. Poison his water. Burn his factories. Strike and run in the honorable tradition of great warriors. And when the white man is filled with terror, he will honor treaties and return to us our heritage. We are the Native Sons.”

  “Power lines?” Andy said. “Utility company told us the power’s out because a transformer blew. This have anything to do with that?”

  “They agreed to send the transformer story out as the official press release,” Fowler said. “Truth is, someone knocked down an entire hydroelectric tower. Whoever did it used a bulldozer from a nearby construction site.”

  “Bulldozer?” Tom Ramsey blurted. “Tower? Utilities said it would be a matter of hours before power was restored. You have an idea how many lines one of those towers supports? You can’t just splice something like that together. We could be out for days.”

  “Half-day tops,” Fowler said. “They’re putting up temporary poles.”

  “Time doesn’t matter,” Andy said firmly. “The entire valley’s out. We have a right to know why, especially if it’s part of a terrorism thing. You can’t hold that stuff back on us.”

  Fowler took a breath. This was the payoff moment. “I want to make a deal with you guys,” he said. “That’s why I’ve called you in for a discussion.”

  At the word deal, all three lost any animation or friendliness in their faces.

  “Come on,” Fowler said. “I’m going to tell you as much as I know. All I’m going to ask is that you guys keep it quiet for a while.”

  “This is terrorism,” Andy said. “What if these guys strike again? People need to be able to protect themselves.”

  “The cold truth is that if we don’t know where they’re going to strike next, people can’t protect themselves anyway.” Fowler put up his hands to fend off any remarks at his callousness. “I’ve got a real good reason for asking.”

  They waited. He drew another breath.

  “First of all, it will throw everybody into a panic. Do we want to start a small war?”

  No reply. The newsmen could well picture good old boys packing rifles and heading out to the reserve in a convoy of pickup trucks.

  “Second,” Fowler said, “what happens if you put this out? How long’s it going to take for the wire services to pick this up and spread it across the entire nation?”

  Again, no reply. They all knew the answer.

  “Don’t you think that’s exactly what these Native Sons want? Why else leave a cassette on the seat of the bulldozer? Why send out copies to the media? If every newspaper in the country picks this up, if every national network runs it in primetime news, it’s only going to encourage these guys to do more. And what about natives in the rest of the country? Remember Wounded Knee? Plenty of other hot-heads on other reservations might think this is a great idea and do the same thing in their areas.”

  Fowler paused for breath. “There’s not much we can do to secure a valley this big against random acts of terrorism. You might think these Native Sons are nuts, but the idea is good. Scary good. If we can’t secure this valley, how about other towns and cities near other reservations? Same problem. If this got any momentum at all, it could snowball.”

  He shook his head. “Snipers. Fires. Dynamite. Get the natives across the nation wound up in a cause working together, we might see real trouble. Like brush fires springing up all Over until you have a forest fire beyond control.”

  Fowler measured his small audience. They were listening intently. “Here’s what I’m asking,” Fowler said. “It’s only going to work if all of you agree to sit on these cassettes. That way, no one gets an unfair jump. Give me as long as you can. All it might take is a day or two to get these guys. If I can stomp this bushfire before any others start, the forest is saved.”

  “I don’t know,” Andy said. “It’s like a conspiracy. What if there’s a leak about the conspiracy? Then where will all of us be in the eyes of the public?”

  “Three days,” Russ said. “I’ve told you enough at this point, any one of you could walk out and write a major story this afternoon. But if all of you hold off three days, what could be the harm in that?”

  “It would have to be all of us,” Eddie said, looking at the others. “If one jumps the gun, the rest of us look bad. And the one who jumps the gun looks real good.”

  Fowler knew this was not the time for him to speak. He’d presented his case. It would be dumb to oversell it.

  “It’s not like this is New York,” Andy finally said. “We know each other. We should be able to trust each other. And I think all of us want to do what’s right for the community.”

  “Three days,” Eddie said. “But if anything else happens, the deal’s off. What do you guys say to that?”

  The other newsmen agreed.

  Fowler’s grave nod hid a fair degree of triumph. He did care some about the Native Sons, and he knew there was a lot of truth in his argument. Media play would be throwing gasoline on the fire.

  But there was more, much more that he didn’t want these guys to know. The worst thing that could happen was more outsiders in the valley snooping around, especially if all the outsiders were professional media trained at turning over rocks. Fowler – and the people he worked for – would rather see a hundred FBI agents bumbling around than a dozen journalists armed with tape recorders and cameras.

  “Thanks, gentlemen,” Fowler said, standing. “You’ve helped more than you can imagine.” He didn’t know what might happen over the next three days, but three days was better than nothing.

  10:47 a.m.

  Clay recognized the back of Kelsie’s head. She was sitting at a booth at the far side of the diner. It surprised him that she wasn’t alone. It surprised him more that the man in the cowboy hat across from her was James McNeill, her father. It explained, at least, why she’d ask to meet him at a restaurant. If she didn’t feel this needed to be secret any longer...

  Clay walked through the cigarette smoke, passing cowboys and truckdrivers who were too intent on their own conversations to notice him.

  James stood at Clay’s approach, extending his hand in greeting. “I don’t know if I should take a swing at you,” James said, “or write a letter of thanks.”

  “Then I guess I’ll ready myself to duck or fetch my reading glasses.”

  “Go on. Sit down.” James waved a hand at a young, gum-chewing waitress leaning on the counter. “Chrissie, how about some coffee?” To Clay he said, “You do drink coffee?”

  Clay nodded. He didn’t know which side of the booth to choose. It didn’t seem right to plunk down beside Kelsie, but he wasn’t anxious to let James squeeze him in on the other side.

  James saved him the decision by sitting beside Kelsie. Clay took the opposite seat and faced them both, holding any words until after the waitress poured coffee and swished along to the next booths in her too-tight polyester dress.

  “I’d like to take a swing because I don’t care for folks – especially eastern folks – inquiring after my business. I want to thank you kindly, because just this morning I discovered why you’ve been looking into the records of the men who work at my ranch.”

  “There’s a lot I find interesting about that statement, Mr. McNeill.”

  “I told him about the notes, Mr. Garner,” Kelsie said. “I couldn’t help it.”

  “Call me James,” the rancher said, squeezing his daughter’s hand affectionately. “And I imagine your first question is how I knew about your inquiries of the men who work at my ranch. It’s a small town, so small a two-bit rancher like me can still be considered a man of influence. As a result, it don’t take long for word to reach me about anything of importance.”

  Clay winced. He should have foreseen that. “And Kelsie told you the why.”

  “Exactly,” James replied. “Kelsie told me the why. You don’t
know it yet, but this morning, just before dawn, she got a good reason to tell me.”

  James explained the bear trap and the confusion around it without electricity to provide lights. He told about Kelsie’s reaction to the feather they found beside the trap and how he’d asked Kelsie to explain what she knew, especially since she’d been acting strange over the past couple of days.

  “She was scared,” James said. “Scared about the situation, scared to tell me. And I don’t blame her, Fact is, I believe without the family conversation at lunch yesterday, I doubt she would have told me anything.”

  Kelsie broke in. “Then last night, Daddy called us together – me and Michael and Lawson – and asked us if we knew anything about the Federal Bureau of Investigation looking into ranch matters. I didn’t say anything because I was too afraid one of them might get hurt if I didn’t keep the secret like I was told. But after Lawson stepped into a bear trap in his own room...”

  She dropped her eyes to the table. Her shoulders trembled. Clay wondered if she’d gone as far as confessing to James her midnight walks with Nick Buffalo. He decided it didn’t matter. That was between them. Besides, regardless of what she did, she wasn’t responsible for a lunatic’s jealousy or actions.

  “If this weirdo got into our house twice...” James grimaced. “She told me about the lipstick writing on her forehead. If he got in twice, she felt it was more important to warn us than try to protect us. And she figured we already knew about the FBI, so a part of the secret was out anyway, and it couldn’t hurt too much more to tell me. I’m sitting here with you because if any folks put together that you’re FBI, they’ll think you’re asking me train-derailment questions.”

  “Michael and Lawson know about the notes?” Clay asked. “Did you tell them what Kelsie told you?”

  “Nope. Before she said a word, Kelsie made me swear on a Bible that all this would stay between you and me and her. Which is one of the reasons I’m here with her. First of all, I’d like to thank you. I understand you agreed you would help as best you could, and you agreed to keep it quiet for her. Seems to me that’s stepping past the boundaries of your job.”