Shadow of the Raven

by David Sundstrand

  “Sounds good.” He felt himself blushing and was grateful for the dark. “And tomorrow’s going to be tough.”

  “How come?”

  “Guess I’ll have to explain this all over again to the people at Inyo County Sheriff’s Department.” He paused. “And Dave’s sorta pissed off.”

  “Why?”

  “No cell phone.”

  “I’m with him.”

  “Why didn’t you identify yourself?” Clearly, it was more an accusation than a question. Lt. Robert W. Dewey didn’t bother to hide his skepticism. He’d listened to Frank’s story without interruption, his long, angular frame upright in the wooden office chair, hands on his knees, his hazel eyes never leaving Frank’s face.

  It was the question Frank would have asked himself. “It wasn’t a completely conscious decision. They took me for Eddie Laguna. At the time, it seemed like a good idea to play along. I had an idea who they were. I was off duty. My weapon was in the truck. I believed them to be dangerous. I think I was—am—correct in this assessment. So I played along, hoping to get clear as soon as I could. As it turned out, the opportunity didn’t present itself.”

  “What made you think they were anything more than punk bikers?” Dewey’s expression hardened. Frank could read the barely concealed contempt. He told himself that no matter what, he knew the truth because he’d been there. Or did he? Why had he gone along? He knew part of it was because he’d thought he might learn something, because he’d figured he could beat them out in the desert. And he had. Only he’d never thought it would cost two lives. In fact, he hadn’t thought about it much at all. Full of himself catching the bad guys. He’d played it by ear, trusting to luck, or whoever watched over drunks and fools.

  “They were more than punk bikers, Lieutenant. The one who called himself Hickey was armed with a Glock. At the Joshua Tree Athletic Club, they put a man in the hospital simply because they felt like it.”

  “Yeah, and the lady bartender scared the shit out of them with a shotgun. Real badasses.”

  Frank felt his face burning. People believed what they wanted, especially cops who were sure that they were trained and impartial observers, readers of human character, able spot a phony, a slimeball, or a liar. Self-assurance hardened their prejudices. Well, to hell with them. Maybe his motives hadn’t been pure, but Roy Miller and his companions were very bad people.

  Frank looked around the room. There was Lieutenant Dewey from the Inyo County Sheriff’s Department, Jack Mitchell from Fish and Game, and Dave Meecham. Even Meecham’s face registered pained skepticism.

  “I did what I thought was necessary at the time. It became clear to me that I wasn’t going to make a round-trip. Miller all but told me I was a done deal. I believed him. When Hickey and I went into the mine, I did what I had to be sure I didn’t stay there. Jason’s death was an accident. He fell over backward from the recoil of a .458 Winchester, which he fired at me. I made my way down the canyon, disabled their van, left water, and called my superior, Chief Ranger Meecham. That’s it.”

  “That’s it, huh?” Dewey stared at Frank. “Let’s see what my boys say, Flynn. And it still doesn’t explain why you were at Laguna’s in the first place. Feeding his cat? Pretty damn lame.”

  “I’d like to know that myself, Frank.” Mitchell leaned forward, his tanned young face serious. He and Frank had become friendly over the last year, ever since Mitchell became the local Fish and Game agent. Frank had shown him some of the back country, the bighorns. He knew how Frank felt about poachers.

  “I recognized Eddie Laguna’s picture. I went to urge him to turn himself in voluntarily before his picture made the paper. I’ve known him for a long time. I figured it might go easier with him.”

  Mitchell and Meecham exchanged brief looks.

  Dewey jumped in. “You like to poke your nose into other jurisdictions, don’t you, Flynn? What’s the deal here? Stick to taking care of rocks and tourists.” Dewey didn’t bother to conceal his contempt. Frank watched Dave Meecham’s face cloud over.

  “You think that was a useful observation, Bob? Public relations isn’t your long suit.” Meecham held up his hand. “That’s it. This isn’t an official inquiry; it’s a courtesy offered by one law-enforcement agency to another. And now it’s over. You have anything else to take up with one of my people, go through channels.”

  “You can count on it.” Dewey’s voice was hard with anger. The charged silence filled the room. Dewey looked down at the backs of his large, bony hands, which were clamped on his knees. The creased khakis rode high on his legs, exposing a couple of inches of hairless white skin.

  Dewey sighed and grimaced with the effort of apology. “Oh hell, Dave, no offense intended. He’s your man. It’s just that wanna-bes are a pain in the ass.”

  Meecham shook his head, laughing without humor. “Talk to you later, Bob.” They all had risen, anxious to escape the tension. Meecham turned to the Fish and Game agent. “Stick around for a minute, would you, Mitchell? Some things to clear up.”

  The beeping of Dewey’s phone sent hands reaching for cell phones, hoping it was their call, until Dewey flipped open his phone, turning away from the others.

  “This is Dewey.” The angular head nodded slowly up and down in unconscious acknowledgment. “Where?” Dewey’s body tensed and his head stilled. “Okay. Have Harris wait there. I’ll call the coroner and see if we can get an ME out there.”

  Dewey turned back to the group. He looked at Frank while he addressed the others. “They found the body of a Randall Clark on the power-line road. His windpipe was crushed. Looks like your Roy Miller’s a killer after all.”

  Frank looked stricken. “Damn, this is my fault.” They were staring at him.

  “What the hell are you talking about, Flynn?” Dewey’s face registered bafflement.

  Meecham looked at Dewey. “He left him water, Bob. Didn’t want the son of a bitch to die of thirst.”

  Dewey stretched to his full six-three. Frank could imagine the popping and clicking of sinews and joints. He looked at Frank as if seeing him for the first time. “Okay, Flynn. There’s already an APB out on him. I figure we’ll have him in the next twenty-four hours.” The morning sun filtered through the cottonwoods, filling the office with pale yellow light gently tinged with green. “The water was the right thing. There’s no way you could’ve known.”

  “Thanks.” Frank held his gaze. “And Lieutenant, Miller’s gone. You can count on it. He and his brothers, and the other man, Hickey, lived somewhere along the Mojave River in Oro Grande. At least that’s what Mitch Cooper told me. He used to be one of them.”

  “Where can I find this Mitch Cooper?”

  “Can’t. He burned to death in the fire over at the Ophir mine near Randsburg. Somebody tied him and his girlfriend up and set fire to the trailer. It’s in Kern County, just over the line.”

  Dewey shook his head. “We’ll pull out all the stops, Flynn. There’s just one of him.”

  “Yeah, he’ll be traveling light.”

  30

  Under the cottonwoods surrounding the Independence Court House, Frank sat at a picnic table warped and bleached from the desert sun. It didn’t take long for man-made things to melt away into the grays and browns of the Mojave and the Owens River Valley.

  He felt like a man emerging from a nightmare. People like the Millers lived in a world of careless violence, and somehow he had been caught up in it. He had killed deliberately and felt little remorse, at least not for the dead man, although maybe for himself, for having had to take a life. Two if you counted Jason Miller. Frank did; he had caused the fall. Everything had become cluttered. He needed time to sort things out, and time was running short.

  Right now, catching the poacher didn’t seem so very important. Of course, there was the picture Linda had taken of the arrogant bastard, rifle in hand, but the picture of the poacher standing near a downed bighorn wasn’t the same thing as catching him with one in possession. He couldn’t testify
that he’d seen Sorensen shoot the ram, because he hadn’t. Neither had Linda. So all they had was a solid accusation. Great. And that damned Eddie had evidently skipped out. He shook his head in acknowledgment of his fruitless efforts to make things come out right. So much for being a good guy.

  The light was autumn soft, the air still and warm. Indian summer. He smiled unconsciously. A couple of ravens hopped across the scruffy lawn, looking for a handout. Their bright black eyes gleamed with intelligence. Frank fished around in his shirt pocket and found a peanut. He held it up for the birds to see. The bolder of the pair hopped up on the opposite end of the table, its bill partially open, head cocked to one side. They watched each other intently, man and bird.

  Ravens possessed an uncanny awareness of things; more than clever, they were alert to their surroundings, to human beings and their actions. Biologists thought they hunted with wolves in symbiotic harmony, dipping down with folded wing and calling out when they spotted game, then feasting after the kill. Some of the older Paiute and Shoshone said they did the same in the days when the people of the desert depended on finding game to live, following hunting parties into the desert, acting as eyes for the hunters. Frank pushed the peanut to a position halfway between them. The bird took two quick steps toward it, its glossy black feathers reflecting bits of rainbow. It looked directly into Frank’s face, then took the peanut in its beak and swept away from the table in a low glide, followed by its mate. He wished he had more peanuts.

  The sound of his cell phone startled him from his reverie. Meecham had made it more than clear that he was never to be without it, off or on duty. Always available. Crap.

  “Flynn.”

  “Hey, Frank. Great party. How’s your hangover?”

  It was Jimmy Tecopa. By the time Frank had reached the Joshua Tree Athletic Club after his sojourn in Surprise Canyon, everyone was half in the bag. He’d drunk too much himself, but not as much as the rest, surely not as much as Jan and Jimmy, who had been on watch since late that afternoon, when Linda began trying to locate him.

  “Frank?”

  “My head’s fine. Better than yours, I’ll bet. You should stay away from the firewater, Jimmy. Nobody likes a drunken Indian.”

  “The pot calling the kettle black, or brown, I guess. And my head’s fine. Been drinking Alka-Seltzer and Coronas. And oh my God, Frank, that first beer.”

  “Yeah, almost worth the hangover.” He paused. “So why’re you calling? Not just to bullshit.”

  “Talking to you is always a treat, Frank. On the other hand, thought you’d like to know that while we were celebrating your escape from the bad guys, old Eddie Laguna drops into the Paiute Palace and drops more than a thousand bucks playing poker.”

  “What?”

  “More than a thousand. Susan tried to steer him in another direction, but he had a head of steam up.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Aren’t you going to ask where the money came from?”

  “I think I have an idea.”

  “Oh.” Jimmy sounded disappointed. “Well anyhow, he drops a bundle, then tries to cash a check for fifteen thousand dollars. Hell, we wouldn’t cash a banknote for fifteen thousand. Truth is, we rarely have that much on hand. The Paiute Palace isn’t Vegas. So Susan tells him she can’t cash the check. He wants to know why not, and she explains it’s a two-party check and that it’s too big. She said he seemed kind of crestfallen, and maybe relieved, maybe glad he couldn’t get his hands on the cash, I guess.”

  “He just can’t get it right, Jimmy. I’m not even sure he knows how it goes wrong.”

  “Like the rest of us, Frank. Easier to see how others screw it up.”

  “For sure, amigo.” It seemed like the conversation ought to be over, but something was hanging. “Say, do you know who the check was from?”

  “Thought you’d never ask.” Frank could hear the smile in Jimmy’s voice. “I was beginning to worry that my tax dollars were being squandered on an incompetent.”

  “So do you know?”

  “Yeah, matter of fact, I do.”

  “You gonna tell me, or do I have to go over there and beat on a drum until your head splits?”

  “Okay, okay, don’t go badge-heavy on me. Yeah, Susan got a look at the check, and being the smart girl she is, she wrote down the name. It was Michael Sorensen. Check indicated he was a doctor. Mean anything to you?”

  “As a matter of fact, a whole lot. Thanks, Jimmy, and thank Susan for me.”

  “You’re welcome, but I think Susan would appreciate hearing it from you in person.”

  “You’re right. And thanks again. Next beer’s on me.”

  “That sounds about right. Gotta go. I’m on at three. Need to clean up, eat, and take a nap.”

  Eddie’s old Ford was parked next to the trailer, its nose pushed under the sagging roof cover, the bumper resting against the flaking green paint. Evidently, the driver had just sort of aimed toward the trailer and managed to stop before ramming the side. Frank sincerely hoped Eddie wasn’t too hungover to talk, but if he was, Frank was prepared to perform a radical cure, give the good cop a holiday, be the bad cop.

  He banged on the screen door, making it clatter against the aluminum frame. Nothing. He pulled the screen open and pounded on the door, which drifted open, revealing Eddie’s hovel in renewed filth. The stench of vomit filled his nostrils, which didn’t do much for his hangover. Eddie lay on the couch, naked from the waist down, his torso clad in a worn and grubby T-shirt, yellowed at the armpits with layers of dried sweat. Not exactly every young American girl’s dream. Frank went into the kitchen and picked up a pot three-quarters full of greasy water, returned to the couch, and poured it over Eddie’s face. Eddie’s reaction was surprisingly instant. He sat bolt upright, thrashing his hands in front of him.

  “Shit.” Eddie wiped his dripping face with his hands, peering up at Frank. “Whatcha do that for, for Christ’s sake?” He mopped at his face with his T-shirt. After poking through the heaped cigarette butts in the ashtray, he selected one that had some length and carefully straightened it out against his bare thigh. Frank couldn’t believe it. Eddie seemed completely relaxed.

  Eddie discarded several empty matchbooks until he found one with matches. The first match burned down and went out before he could nurse the flame. The second sputtered to life, and Eddie squinted away from the smoke as he lit the butt. He took a big drag, held it in his lungs, and blew the nearly transparent smoke over his shoulder, away from Frank’s face.

  “Man, that’s better. Uh, sorry, Frank. I know you don’t smoke.”

  “Jesus, what difference does it make? This place reeks of stale tobacco and puke.”

  Eddie looked unabashed. He absently scratched at his genitals. “Had a rough night.” He grinned. “How about a beer?”

  “Pass.” Frank watched in some amazement as Eddie went to the refrigerator, the skin hanging in loose folds on his skinny butt, and withdrew a tall Bud Lite. The man didn’t seem to care that he was clad only in a T-shirt, or that he had a lot of explaining to do. The fact that he was a liar and petty crook, and that he’d lied to Frank, the cop with a heart of gold, clearly didn’t bother him at all. Frank felt his attempt at righteous anger dissipate. Hell, he felt some envy for Eddie’s absence of shame. He’d never known that sort of freedom, wasn’t likely to, either. Eddie returned to the couch and sat at the near end, grinning at Frank.

  “So I figured you’d be pissed off, but after I tell you what happened, we’ll do a dance.”

  “Not unless you put on some pants. Put some pants on, for Christ’s sake.”

  Eddie looked down at himself, as if realizing for the first time he was without the necessary clothing. “Oh yeah, sure.” He picked up a pair of soiled jeans and pulled them up, his penis sticking out of the fly. He tugged one pocket inside out. “Hey, Frank, ever see a one-eared elephant?”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. You think you’re back in high school?” Eddie looked befuddled. “High school
?”

  “Forget it. Just put your pecker in your pants and sit down.”

  Eddie sat back down and began grubbing through the cigarette butts again.

  “Damn it, Eddie, let that go. Why the hell are you here and not under arrest? And don’t tell me they released you on your own recognizance or some such bullshit. I already took some heat for not turning you in. I tried to give you a break, Eddie, and now you’ve made a problem for me. I look like a dumb ass among my peers.”

  Eddie studied his feet. Finally, some shame. Maybe the little shit wasn’t beyond redemption.

  “Look, Frank, I had a chance to collect the money I had coming, set up Mr. Big Shot, and still keep my word to you—only that sort of got delayed. Sorry about that.” He gave Frank a practiced sorrowful look.

  Frank returned his best hard-cop look, but he knew it wasn’t really there on his face, in his eyes.

  “Eddie, you almost got me killed, you know that?”

  “What?”

  “It’s a long story. Later. Right now, I want to know what the hell you were doing instead of meeting Sorensen in Surprise Canyon. I figure you met him, but sure as hell not in Surprise Canyon. So tell me the whole thing. And Eddie, not one zig or zag from the truth, not one. Just tell it the way it happened.”

  Eddie managed to light another cigarette butt, this one so short that he had to tip his face away to keep from burning his nose. He took a long swallow of beer and sighed with satisfaction. Frank thought he looked particularly smug.

  “Yeah, I met him, the son of a bitch, only Saturday evening at six o’clock, not Sunday morning like I let you think.”

  “Like you told me. Like you told me the ram’s head and the rifle were in the mine.”

  “Well, I already had the head and rifle, and I figured Mr. Big would pay me the money he owed me, but I also figured he’d try and cheat me. But I was ready for him.” Eddie grinned.