Killing Custer

by Margaret Coel

  A long moment passed, Colin sipping, not taking his eyes from her, before he said, “You here about your”—the slightest hesitation, his Adam’s apple working up and down—”boss?” he said.

  “What the hell have you done?”

  Colin took a long drink of Coke, then wedged the bottom of the can into the hard-packed ground. “I’m not following.”

  “It’s not enough you and your so-called warriors shot that crazy guy . . .”

  “Hold on.” Colin rose a little off the webbed seat and dropped back down. “You sound like the cops. Lander detective shows up here this morning with a couple of tribal cops. Minds already made up. Waiting for me to confess, give them the names of the warriors riding with me. They’re going to make our lives miserable. Drag us in for interviews, keep threatening to have paroles revoked or bring charges for crimes we didn’t commit. I’m telling you what I told them. My boys had nothing to do with that white man getting shot.”

  “Nobody believes that, Colin. You told me you had it all planned. You were going to show Custer and the Seventh Cavalry something. You didn’t tell me you planned to kill him!”

  He pulled his lips into a tight line and fixed his eyes on her, as if he might imprint the words into her skull. “I never ordered anybody killed. What we did was symbolic. A dare run. We galloped around the Seventh Cavalry, surrounded them before they knew what was happening, same as at the Little Bighorn. Warriors appeared all of a sudden, rose up out of the grass. Custer knew he and his cavalry were dead men. We wanted to show them we’re still here. We’re still strong. We defeated Custer.”

  “You’re lying.” For an instant, Angela thought he might rise up again. Toss the chair across the dirt yard, stomp off into the barn, and leave her sitting here with no answers, nothing. He had a quick temper. It had exploded on her more than once, but now she could see him struggling with himself, a dark flush in his cheeks.

  She pushed on. “You told me you would be in charge, like Crazy Horse. You gave the orders. Kill. Kill. Kill.”

  “Crazy Horse wasn’t stupid,” he said. “Nobody’s stupid enough to shoot some guy in front of hundreds of people. You know what I think? The shooter was up there.” He jammed a fist at the sky. “Shooting out of a window. Easy for the police to say killer must be an Indian. They have a real narrow theory that works for them.” He leaned forward, so close she could smell the Coke-sweet odor of his breath. “You don’t give a damn about that Custer fellow. You think I have something to do with your boyfriend going missing.”

  “They were friends, Skip and the guy that got killed. He came around the office a few times. They got into an argument. Cops are going to put it together, start thinking somebody was after both of them. Soon as they find out about us, they’re going to say you wanted Skip out of the way. Dead, like Custer.”

  “You forget, Angela. There’s no us. Not anymore.”

  She looked out across the pasture. The wind made the soft noise of a calf sucking a teat. Colin was right. There was no longer anything between them. What had she heard on the moccasin telegraph? He’d been seen around the rez with different women. What did she care? She had Skip.

  Except that Skip was gone.

  She bit at her lower lip and looked back at Colin. Full of himself, legs spread apart, boots dug into the dirt. “What is it?”

  Colin took a few seconds before he said: “You ask me, you’re in a lot of trouble. Did he finally dump you? That would make the cops think you had something to do with his disappearance.”

  “He didn’t dump me.”

  “He was planning to.”

  “You’re lying.”

  Colin leaned forward and clasped his hands between his knees. “You want the truth? After you broke things off and took up with Skip Burrows, I started paying attention. Checking up on him. I did it for you, Angela. You ask me, he’s a big phony. Everybody’s good friend. Just don’t turn your back on him. Followed him to Riverton a couple times, straight to the house of a white filly. You want her name?”

  “Shut up! Shut up!” Angela jumped out of the chair and stomped to the corner of the house. She forced herself to turn back. Is that where Skip had gone after he left her last night? Head buried in the pillow against the sounds of his footsteps in the alley, the faraway roar of the BMW’s motor.

  “The Realtor?” she managed.

  “You sure you want to know?”

  “Maybe she knows where he is.”

  “Deborah Boynton. Works in a real-estate office off Federal. Red hair and green eyes that stop traffic. You’d better forget her. If she knows anything about Skip disappearing, you don’t want to get involved.”

  “You don’t get it,” Angela said. “I love Skip. I’ll do anything to help him.” She swung around and hurried to the hatchback. In ten minutes she was driving east on Seventeen-Mile Road with the sun lingering over the mountains behind her, the plains lit in gold and magenta, Riverton ahead.

  * * *

  ANGELA TURNED INTO the narrow parking lot in front of the strip mall with doors and plate-glass windows stuck in a yellowish frame building. Slowing across the lot, peering at the signs on the plate glass. Nails, Tai Chi, Best Tacos in Town, Coffee and Donuts, Barber, Take-Out Chinese, Hometown Realtors. Even before she got out of the hatchback, she could see the real-estate office was closed. Photos of houses and apartment buildings plastered on the plate– glass window stood out in relief against the dark interior. Painted across the glass door was Open 8 a.m. to 5 p.m.

  She stepped in close and started banging on the door. The glass shimmered under her fist. She peered inside willing someone to emerge from the shadows in back, wind past the wood reception counter and metal chairs lined against the side walls, and fling open the door. Deborah Boynton? the person would say. Not here. No one’s here. Gone home for the day. And where’s home? she would ask. Well, that depends on who wants to know.

  “I want to know.” Angela realized she was screaming at the glass door and the emptiness on the other side. She leaned her forehead against the glass. Why hadn’t she asked Colin where this white woman lived? Her legs felt like liquid. She had to prop herself against the doorjamb to keep from falling. What good was any of this? What did it matter who the white woman was or where she lived? Skip mattered.

  She pushed herself off the prickly wood jamb and headed back to the car, feeling wobbly and disoriented in the dusk coming on, drifting across the parking lot like a dust storm. She pulled into the thin line of traffic on Federal and turned south onto Highway 789, driving past the warehouses, garages, and drive-through liquor stores swallowed in shadows.

  Her thoughts were filled with Skip. Sunday evening at her apartment, so tall and forceful and handsome she had thought her heart might stop beating, standing in the middle of what passed for a living room in the day and the bedroom with the sofa bed pulled out at night, saying something about having to turn in early, a busy day tomorrow, something might come up. She remembered having a hard time following the words. She typed his memos and letters, prepared the legal documents and all those stupid reports. Everything. She didn’t remember anything unusual that might have come up, except that his army buddy had been killed. Skip had brushed his lips against her cheek and said . . . What was it he had said? The last words he had spoken to her: Remember the good times, little girl.

  What had come up? A change in plans he hadn’t thought to mention? An ex-girlfriend named Deborah Boynton back in the picture? Angela had never stopped wondering if Skip might be seeing her. She had tried to believe him when he told her it was over.

  For a moment after he left, she’d had to stop herself from running down the outside steps, banging behind her the carry-on she had taken to Jackson, racing the half block to where Skip usually left the car, and climbing into the passenger seat, Skip at the wheel, taking them away. What else could matter?

  The lights of Lander twin
kled ahead. She drove toward Main Street and turned right, the car heading toward her place on its own, like a horse returning to the barn. Then she passed her turn and kept going toward the white-brick, two-story building at the end of town. The last place Skip had been.

  The building looked dark and deserted, a lone streetlamp flaring over a corner of the parking lot. She turned into the empty stretch of asphalt that melted into the shadows. It was when she pulled a U-turn to drive back into the street that she saw the light flickering in the office windows.

  She slammed on the brakes, jumped out, and ran to the door, struggling to pull her keys from the inside pocket of her bag as she ran. She jammed the key into the lock, pushed the door open, and darted down the dark corridor for the office. “Skip!” she shouted. “Skip. Skip. Skip.”

  The key wedged itself into the lock, past the strip of yellow police tape, and she pounded on the door. Shouting, her own voice rising around her. The door swung open and she threw herself inside, barely aware of the dim emptiness engulfing her, the shadow of her own desk floating like a ghost against the light from the street that filtered past the window. Barely aware of the large, black force at the edge of her vision until it crashed against her, driving her into the hard surface of the floor. She could hear the crack of her ribs. She couldn’t breathe, and the blackness enveloped her like a heavy blanket.

  10

  BLUE-UNIFORMED OFFICERS MILLED about the office. Overhead, fluorescent lights buzzed and blinked. Angela sat at her desk listening to the pounding in her head. No, she had told the officers, she did not need an ambulance. She had managed to pick herself off the floor to the noise of boots retreating in the corridor, the door still open. She had found her bag sprawled under the desk, dragged out her cell, and called 911. Then sirens had blared in the distance and intruded upon the quiet.

  “This is still a crime scene.” The detective in blue jeans, leather vest, and white shirt, walked out of Skip’s office. He had introduced himself as Detective Madden. “Why were you here? Again?” He had asked the same question at least three times.

  “I told you,” Angela said. “I saw a light in the windows. I thought Skip was back.”

  “You were just driving by and you saw a light.” He shrugged. “Did you get a look at the man who hit you?”

  “He wore a black ski mask.” Angela shook her head. “It happened so fast. He must have yanked the door open, because I stumbled inside and he hit me. I blacked out. When I came to, I was on the floor. I heard him running away.”

  “What made you think Skip was here?” Detective Madden ignored the two uniforms on their haunches, peering at the piles of papers around them.

  “I hoped it was Skip. I thought maybe they let him go . . .”

  Madden lifted one hand, as if that might make sense. “Could be the same guy here this morning. Trashed the place. Didn’t find what he wanted on the computers, so he came back.”

  “He took Skip!” She realized she was shouting. “All that blood, Skip could be dead by now. Why aren’t you out looking for him?”

  “What do you suppose the intruder was looking for?” Madden said, ignoring the outburst. He moved his big head side to side, taking in the papers cluttering the floor and trailing from Skip’s office. More papers and file folders than littered the floor this morning. The intruder had emptied more drawers.

  “How should I know?” Her heart had turned into a drum.

  “You’re Skip’s secretary. You handle mail, letters, e-mails, files. Correct? Type the office business into the computer?”

  Angela waited a beat, willing the pounding in her temples to stop. “I type what he tells me to type. I’m not a lawyer. Most of it doesn’t make any sense to me.” She tilted her head toward the computer. “Some things he handles himself, what he calls confidential lawyer-client stuff. I do routine stuff: documents he files with the courts, thank-you-for-your-business letters, a bunch of reports. I answer the phone, make appointments, and try to keep Skip on schedule. Visitors are always dropping in.” She could feel the balloon of tears expanding behind her eyes, and she swiveled toward the window and tried to focus on the dim haze of the streetlight in the blackness. Skip was out there somewhere, in the blackness.

  When she turned back, Detective Madden had pulled a chair over closer. He sat hunched over, big red fists clasped on her desk. “What else did you do for Skip Burrows?”

  Angela felt her breath stop in her throat. The pounding in her head speeded up. She stared at the bulky, big-chested man taking up most of the space in front of her, the curve of his shoulders, the office blurring at the edges. They had been so careful. Parking down the street, taking trips out of town. Except that people did know, she realized. That busybody landlady probably knew. Colin. Everybody on the moccasin telegraph. It was a joke, when she thought about it. All that sneaking around, and for what? People in town were talking anyway. She closed her eyes and stared at the image of Skip, hurt, bleeding, forced out the window, landing in the prickly bush below, thrown into the BMW.

  Madden pushed on, saying something about an intimate relationship that might throw light on Skip’s disappearance.

  “I don’t understand,” she heard herself say. “I don’t know anything about his disappearance.”

  “You were in an intimate relationship?”

  She waited a long moment before she nodded.

  “The landlady says you left Friday night and didn’t return until last night. Where did you spend the weekend?”

  “Jackson,” she said. “Skip had business there.”

  “Did he tell you what it was?”

  Angela dipped her face into her hands a minute, then made herself look up at the detective. “It wasn’t my business. I did what he told me. Why are you asking me these questions? Why aren’t you looking for him?”

  “According to the landlady, your boyfriend left sooner than usual last night. Makes me think you might have had an argument. Maybe he broke things off. Is that what happened?” Madden hurried on. “Told you he didn’t need you anymore? Didn’t want you anymore? That would be harsh, break a girl’s heart.”

  “Shut up!” Angela jumped up and kicked the chair back. “It’s not true!”

  “Maybe you called Colin Morningside, your old boyfriend.” He shrugged. “What would make me think that? Because you had a habit of calling him from time to time. I have the record of calls on your mobile. Maybe you talked him into teaching your lover a lesson.”

  “You’re crazy.” The other officers strolled out of Skip’s office and stood like statues behind Madden.

  The detective got to his feet and moved to the edge of the desk, blocking her path to the door. “You know what I think? I think your Arapaho boyfriend believes he’s Crazy Horse. I think he knows what happened to Garrett at the parade yesterday. I think he planned the whole thing. And I’m having a hard time swallowing your story. Like trying to swallow a fat robin that keeps flapping its wings. You don’t know anything. Skip Burrows’s secretary and lover completely in the dark, marching to orders.” He leaned toward her. The sour, coffee-soaked odor of his breath hit her in the face. “I think you know what happened to the money.”

  Angela held herself perfectly still. Her breath lodged in her throat.

  “Skip cleaned out his bank account Friday. Four hundred thousand, a nice haul. Arranged ahead of time to get cash. What did he intend to do with all that cash? I think that, after he broke up with you, you called Colin and told him about the money. Maybe you saw it. Maybe Skip told you about it.” He shrugged. “I don’t know, but I’m going to find out. Problem is, there wasn’t any money in this office. Officers were here most the day looking through drawers and files. You and Colin planning to divide the money?”

  Angela could feel the hot flush in her cheeks. Four hundred thousand dollars! She had caught a glimpse of money—piles and piles of money—when he had opened the brief
case in the trunk. As if he wanted to make sure the money was still there. But four hundred thousand! She couldn’t imagine that kind of money. She remembered Skip going out Friday afternoon. So like him, go for a cup of coffee and return hours later full of gossip. When he came back, he was carrying the briefcase. She could see Skip strolling across her office, calling out, “Anybody looking for me?” She had followed him into his office. Two clients had called for appointments. The crazy Custer guy, Garrett, had called and wanted to know when Skip would be back, but she had evaded the question. One thing she had learned working for Skip was how to evade questions.

  She made herself look straight at the detective. The man’s eyes were lit with accusations. Somebody knew Skip had that kind of money on him and had come looking for him. And Detective Madden thought she was involved. “I don’t have to answer your questions.” She spoke slowly, pounding in each word. Another thing she had learned from Skip: Nobody had to talk to the cops. Tell them so and make them understand. “I’m leaving now,” she said. “You can talk to my lawyer.”

  For the briefest moment, she thought he wasn’t going to move, then he hoisted himself to one side and she brushed past him toward the two uniforms stationed like guards on either side of her path across the carpet. She made no effort to avoid the papers that crunched under her feet. Skip, how upset he would be to see his organized files littering the floor. She yanked open the door and flung herself into the corridor. The tears had started spilling down her cheeks, blurring her vision. This was worse than she had feared. She hadn’t known Skip had withdrawn money from the bank. A man walking around with four hundred thousand dollars, like a neon sign flashing: take me, take me. She wiped at her eyes, let herself out the main door, and hurried toward the hatchback, tripping on the lip of the sidewalk, wiping at her eyes to see where she was going. Skip. Skip. Where are you? What were you doing?