Mesozoic Murder

by Christine Gentry

  The cowboy went berserk. “Fuck you,” he screamed, releasing Ansel’s arm and yanking her upward by the hair. He spun her clockwise, attempting to pull her into his arms. As she made the spin, Ansel’s left arm shot out and snagged the jug handle, hefted it, and swung it toward his enraged face.

  The cowboy saw what Ansel meant to do and raised the gun. He fired, but the bullet’s path intersected that of the moving jug, and an arching, pressurized gush of muriatic acid spit out the puncture hole. Then the jug connected with his head.

  The clear, concentrated hydrochloric acid slapped across the cowboy’s hat, sunglasses, nose, cheek, and chin. His yelp turned into an anguished scream. He staggered backward, releasing his grip on Ansel and the pistol. The gun thumped onto the carpet. Ansel jumped on the kitchen counter, tucking her legs beneath her to avoid the gurgling acid spraying everywhere.

  The cowboy stumbled backward over rolling oranges. He barely escaped more sizzling liquid as it ate away at the carpet near his boots while he slapped at his own melting face. Wherever his gloved hands touched acid, the burning spread, and he screamed anew. Foul streamers hissed like snakes as they ran down the man’s jacket and pants, eating through cloth and skin. The felt hat smoked. The leather gloves steamed. His sunglasses cracked. The air reeked of burnt fabric, cooked skin, hot citrus, and putrid fumes. The cowboy had the stamina of a bullock. He glared through one intact lens and located her. “You’re dead,” he croaked.

  Ansel looked at the pistol which had fallen underneath the coffee table. She couldn’t reach it, and she’d never get past him. As he stomped across the smoking rug, Ansel swivelled her buttocks and slid across the Formica counter toward the kitchen, putting a barrier between them. Everything crashed to the floor as her knees swept to the left. More bowls shattered. Fossils exploded into dust.

  The cowboy lunged at her through the pass-through. He caught her flannel shirt with one hand just as she prepared to leap. Panicked, Ansel twisted around and grabbed his hand. Beneath the glove cuff, her fingers hooked onto a chain encircling his wrist. She twisted it against his skin as hard as she could, and the thug’s despoiled face bellowed with pain. He pulled away, and the links in Ansel’s fingers snapped.

  Ansel fell off the counter, her rump hitting the ground like a bronco rider. Leaping to her feet, she reached for the cutlery in a wood block beside the refrigerator, yanked out a carving knife, and held it defensively. Little protection against a gun, but she would go down fighting.

  The cowboy ran into the living room and scrabbled along the floor for the pistol. Then he staggered toward the door. Ansel could see the huge, blood-red blisters erupting on his right forehead and cheek as he gave her one last, hate-filled look. He fumbled with the lock, whipped back the door, and disappeared moaning.

  Knife in hand, Ansel dashed to the door and set the deadbolt with shaking hands. She leaned against the wall crying and cussing. God, had Nick really been involved with this monster? As chilling as that thought was, there was no doubt the name Griffin had meant something to him.

  Ansel looked down. The knife was clasped in her right hand. A gold chain in her left. The broken links were thick and heavy. A dime-sized charm hung from them. The stylized relief of a single human eye and eyebrow decorated the metal. Ansel had never seen the design, but the bracelet gave her indisputable proof that the cowboy had been there.

  Ansel pushed the bracelet into her shirt pocket and hurried into the bedroom. The night stand stood in a corner. She squeezed by a six-foot-high, green rubber, blow-up Godzilla wearing a red cowboy bandana and plastic sunglasses to reach it.

  Setting the knife on the bed, she opened the top drawer. The holstered Colt Defender rested next to a box of .45 caliber hollow-point bullets. Ansel removed the loaded, stainless steel weapon. Its perfectly tooled metal curves and customized buffalo horn grip fit her palm like she’d been born with it in her hand.

  The odor of gun cleaner brought back memories. The last time she’d fired it had been over a year ago. She’d used it for target practice on empty bottles and vegetable cans. She’d never used the gun on a human being, but she might have to. Although the cowboy was badly injured and probably wouldn’t return tonight, it didn’t mean he wouldn’t come back later.

  Stronger locks, Ansel decided. She’d also have an alarm system installed. Until then she would keep her gun handy at all times. Every child on the western prairie learned how to handle a firearm, and Montana women weren’t squeamish about picking up a weapon. In this state PMS stood for pass my shotgun.

  Feeling better, Ansel brought the gun into the living room. She stared at the ruined carpet. The acid jug lay on its side by the breakfast nook. A huge oval of burnt carpeting made the room rank with caustic fumes, mingled with the smell of burnt oranges. If she hadn’t planned to mix acid and distilled water for cleaning brachiopods encrusted with chert, the jug would have never been on the counter. She coughed. She needed to open the windows.

  Instead Ansel pawed through her fanny pack and drew out Dorbandt’s card. She scooped up the remote and punched in the number, followed by Dorbandt’s extension.

  The phone rang. And rang. Finally there was a click and Dorbandt’s gruff voice instructed her to leave her name, number, and the time. For emergencies requiring immediate police aid, he instructed her to stay on the line to be connected with the desk sergeant. She wanted to speak with Dorbandt personally. Annoyed, she turned off the remote.

  The unexpected growl of a vehicle engine drew Ansel’s attention. Her heart skipped a beat. Had that cowboy bastard come back? Maybe with friends? Ansel turned toward the bay window. Heavy blue curtains shrouded her from view. She moved to a corner edge and peered around the drapery.

  Ansel spied a white, double-cab Ford in her driveway, and a huge smile enveloped her face. She rushed to the front door and threw it open. A tall figure with silver hair tied back into a short ponytail and dressed in a white windbreaker, Stetson, and boots stood on the steps.

  “Daddy,” Ansel yipped, engulfing him in a bear hug.

  Chase Phoenix almost dropped the rolled newspaper he was carrying. “Whoa there, mustang.” He laughed and gave her a dazzling smile. “You’re cinching my girth too tight. Let me get my breath.”

  Ansel pulled away reluctantly. He smelled deliciously of leather polish and Lava soap, two scents she’d associated since childhood with cattle ranching. “What are you doing here?”

  “I figured if Sarcee won’t come to the mountain, then the mountain will come to Sarcee.” His eyes rolled toward the Colt clasped in Ansel’s trembling hand. “What’s the Peacemaker for?”

  “It’s been quite a day.”

  Chase pulled back at arm’s length and squinted at her critically. “I’ve been worried sick about you.” Suddenly Chase lifted his head and sniffed the air. He glanced at the open doorway and his nose crinkled. “Pee Yew. What’s that smell? You cooking a sweet and sour Torosaur in there?”

  Ansel noticed the Sky Sentinel in his hands and frowned. “Daddy, we’ve got to talk.”

  Chapter 11

  “...The dead are not powerless.”

  Chief Seattle, Suguamish

  Tuesday morning temperatures on the Arrowhead had soared into the upper seventies. A stiff westerly breeze flattened the gumbo grass and rattled the chokecherry bushes. The only tree in sight, a red-stemmed willow planted one hundred twenty years before, rustled and dipped. Scarred headstones surrounded the tree, funneling the wind’s breath through a gap-toothed maw of granite. Gusts became moans.

  Ansel braced her body against the zephyrs. She had spent the night at the ranch. Before falling into a deep, dreamless sleep, she had made three telephone calls. One to Jessie Whitefish. One to Detective Dorbandt. The last to Andrew Henderson.

  The conversation with Jessie had been quick and easy. She’d just left a message with Dorbandt, and he’d returned her call. Even her carefully constructed dialog with Henderson, president of the Montana Museums Association, had gone bett
er than she expected.

  She’d explained the known facts about Nick’s murder and assured him that the Pangaea Society was just as much a victim of the incident as the MMA would be. Together, they could forge a united front and publically illustrate the merit of their impending long-term relationship with each other through the POP Center. There had only been one hitch.

  “We’ve just got to keep our fingers crossed that none of the Opel heirs use this murder as a reason to contest the memorial gift,” Henderson’s high-pitched voice announced across the wires from Billings.

  “Have you heard something to that effect?” Ansel held her breath.

  “Just some whispers. According to a clerk friend of mine at the Lacrosse County Courthouse, Opel’s only sister went in and requested a filed copy of the Durable Power of Attorney papers from the will. Seems she was interested in the Power To Make Gifts clause.”

  “Why?”

  “Could be just curiosity. Could be the makings of a family dispute over the way Preston Opel distributed his assets. Too early to tell.”

  Relatives, Ansel thought despondently, could be a burden worse than your enemies. She cast a glance around the cemetery. She always felt very far removed from her Anglo heritage, even as her father’s ancestors now encompassed her on every side. They had immigrated from Germain-en-Laye, France, in 1876. A shiver shot through her as she remembered with vivid clarity how her French blood had almost been spilled the day before.

  The graveyard began in 1878 when her great, great grandparents lost their firstborn infant to the scourge of yellow fever. Their grief had led them to choose this upraised ridge with a distant view of the Missouri River for their daughter’s final resting place. They buried Brigitte Marie Fenix with a tiny stone cross and wrought iron fencing to keep the wolves and coyotes out.

  More fencing had been installed in the early 1900s for other graves. The population explosion hadn’t lasted. Most of the Phoenix clan, whose surname had been Americanized, drifted away from Montana during the “dirty thirties” when drought scoured the land.

  Ansel sighed and stared at the only grave inside the cemetery belonging to a non-white. She was thirteen years old when piqued Anglo relatives avidly protested her mother’s interment. They wanted her body sent back to the reservation, adamant that the Phoenix family tree should be judiciously pruned of dead, Indian branches.

  Her father had been furious. As fitting revenge, Chase arranged to have the largest and fanciest memorial marker he could find installed at the front of the cemetery. Mary Two Spots Phoenix was finally laid to rest in a rectangular, above-ground granite vault with a six-foot-high white marble angel on top.

  Ansel peered up at the angel. The intricately carved seraphim with her mother’s face held her arms open and beckoning for all eternity. Her apparel was chiseled into a ceremonial, fringed buckskin dress, a beaded headband, and laced moccasins. Long tresses fell down her chest. Huge outspread wings rose from behind like a diving eagle. The celestial guardian was both beautiful and imposing. Ansel loved it.

  On the tomb’s brass memorial plate an inscription read okie niksokowa. This Blackfoot salutation meant “Greetings, Hello my relative!” Ansel had always wondered what the snooty Phoenix clan had thought about that.

  She reached out and traced the tall, Raphael-style words with one finger. “Okie Niksokowa,” she said, wishing she had her Iniskim. After almost two decades without her mother, the hole in her heart was cauterized but gaping.

  “You gonna be buried here?” queried a male voice behind her.

  Ansel continued to stare at the tomb, fingers attempting to connect with Mary’s heavenly spirit through earthly stone. She pulled her hand away and spun around. “You bet I am.”

  Jessie Whitefish looked totally relaxed. He lounged against the waist-high fence, elbows resting on the ornate crossbar. His long-fingered hands, burdened with turquoise and silver rings, hung through the spear-tipped finials. His large concha belt buckle flashed like a mirror in the sun.

  Jessie chuckled. His shoulder-length hair jumped in the wind gusting beneath his tan cowboy hat. “Gonna piss the pale faces off.”

  Ansel grinned as she walked toward the gate. “Just keeping up a family tradition.” She had known the Siouxian man for years. He owned Frog Skins, Inc., which provided custom shirts and blouses for sale at Indian festivals, rodeos, and souvenir shops. Jessie came up with his own jokes or artistic designs, silk-screened them onto clothes, and sold them to tourists for outrageous prices.

  “You shouldn’t ambush a girl like that.”

  Jessie flashed a boyish smile. “Habit. Got to keep you winyans guessing.”

  Ansel noticed Jessie’s black tee. There was a color photo of a Cavalry horse tricked out with regulation saddlery, blanket, and bridle. Block lettering asked, “Ever wonder what would happen if Indians ran the NRA?”

  “Turn around, Jessie.” He did.

  The back of his shirt read, “ka-pow-wow!”

  Ansel laughed. “Talk about pissing people off.”

  When Jessie faced her, his expression was serious. “Still can’t compete with you, Sarcee. Your father told me about you aggravating somebody with a mean streak last night.”

  “How much did he say?”

  “Only that you chased away a guy who broke into your trailer. This son of a bitch didn’t hurt you, did he?”

  “No, I’m okay. Just a little paranoid.”

  “I kinda doubted you asked me here to talk about tee shirts. What’s going on?”

  Ansel lifted the heavy black latch on the cemetery gate, and the barrier creaked on its ancient hinges. The gritty feel of rusted metal chaffed her fingertips like sandpaper. He was right. His wife, Lucy, was a distant Blackfoot relative and could be contacted by phone. She didn’t want to expose Jessie or his family to danger, but she needed his help.

  “This is just between us. Promise.”

  He nodded. “Sure.”

  Ansel opened her fanny pack. “The man who broke in last night wore this.” She passed the jewelry to him. “Do you know what that charm is?”

  Ansel watched his broad, pock-marked face. He peered intently at the eye charm. Then he bounced the bracelet’s weight in his hand as if gauging its importance with the forces of gravity. He grunted and tossed it back.

  “High dollar quality, and the charm’s custom made. Looks New Age. You know, stars, crystals, hexes. Maybe Egyptian hieroglyphic or that sort of thing.”

  “You travel all over. Have you seen it anywhere?”

  “Nope, and I’ve seen plenty of weird things. Can’t help it with the crowd I sell shirts to. Grabbing a little mystical, Indian spirit is real hip with the Path To Enlightenment crowd. Some of my best wholesale customers are real nut cases, though.”

  Ansel put the bracelet away. “Shoot. I need to know what this symbol means. I think it will help me identify Nick Capos’ killer.”

  “The murdered guy in the newspaper?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re looking for a psycho who poisons people?”

  “I’m looking, yes.”

  “You’re just as crazy as this killer. You go poking into magic and mischief, you’re asking for more trouble. A lot of people who practice arcane arts take it very seriously. They don’t want to be messed with.”

  Ansel’s eyelids narrowed. “You think I can’t help?”

  Jessie shook his head in distress. “No. I think you shouldn’t help. This is police business. Let the wasicuns handle it.”

  “It’s not just white business. It’s my business. Nick was my friend.”

  Jessie gazed at her. “You don’t get hopped up about things unless they’re personal. Was Nick more than a friend?”

  “Of course not. He was vice president of the Pangaea Society. I have to protect the organization’s reputation.”

  “You want to protect your reputation, make a statement to the papers or the news stations. You want to protect your butt, stay out of it.”

&n
bsp; Ansel’s temper flared. “I can’t. There’s a lot at stake.”

  Jessie crossed his arms and sighed. “All right. I don’t want to know any more. I hope you have sense enough to give the bracelet to the cops.”

  “I’m not ready to do that. I need you to do something else for me, Jessie.”

  “What?”

  “Find Freddy Wing. Ask him to get in touch with me.”

  “Freddy Wing?” Jessie questioned dubiously. “Last I heard, he was in New York. Has his doctor’s degree and a fancy Manhattan office where he shrinks rich people’s heads.”

  “Yes, but he’s in Montana for a visit. He called Pearl a couple weeks ago. Said he was here for a month doing research on a journal paper. He didn’t leave a number. I’d start looking on the rez, but I don’t speak the lingo. You grew up there. If Freddy’s still here, the pipeline will know about it.”

  Jessie frowned. “Wing gives me the willies.”

  Ansel knew what Jessie meant, but it didn’t change her mind. She had met Wing through Pearl, who had helped Freddy go to college on a Native American Scholarship. Even before Pearl had met her father, she had been concerned about the cultural direction of twenty-first century Native Peoples. Pearl had been Freddy’s mentor since he was ten years old. With the help of an Indian Emergency Relief Fund adoption-sponsor program, she had been his emotional and financial support.

  Freddy was very successful. He received his doctoral degree in psychiatry from the University of Montana. Now he de-programmed people involved in cultist organizations or groups. Freddy could also be a gifted shaman. Sometimes the information Indian spirits passed on to him was hair-raising.

  “I need Freddy,” Ansel insisted. “If anyone knows what this symbol means, he does. And if he doesn’t, he’ll know where I can find out. Will you help me?”

  Jessie sighed, looked toward the cemetery, and then rubbed a hand across his baby-smooth chin. When he turned, his face looked grim. “All right, I’ll do it. It may take a few days. I can’t go to Fort Peck until Thursday.”