“I’m aware,” he said.
“You do?”
He nodded, “I do. And now I know where he is. I’m going to get him back . . . tonight.”
“I’m going with you,” she continued.
“No. I’m dropping you off at the hospital and I’m doing this alone,” he said. “I’m making my move now before Hank Rattling Thunder realizes his man failed to get you. They have no idea I’m alive. My timeline for a surprise attack is thin.”
“Shouldn’t we call Andrews?” Lindsay asked.
“No,” Rainhorse replied. “This matter must be handled quietly . . . and tonight—now. Jackie is being held in a remote location. If the FBI comes swooping in with their SWAT tanks and helicopters, HRT’s men will kill Jackie for certain. I plan to go in quietly, kill the men guarding Jackie and save him.”
“Andrews told me . . .”
“Lindsay, I need you to trust me,” Rainhorse interrupted. “This is the only way Jackie lives through this.”
Lindsay thought for a moment, “How far away is he?”
“He is being held at an abandoned barn on the old Crow Foot Ranch,” Rainhorse said. “It’s a ninety-minute drive.”
“I know the place,” Lindsay affirmed. “It’s near Biem.”
“Right. About fifteen miles away.”
“Jackson, Biem is south of here. Sheridan Memorial in Plentywood is north. We’re going the wrong way.”
“This I know, but I need to get you to the hospital.”
“Bullshit, Jackson. You’ll waste two hours taking me to the hospital and backtracking. I’m okay. I’m coming with you.”
Rainhorse sighed, “No . . . you are not.”
“Jackson, he’s my son.”
“And my godson,” he added. “I can do this, Lindsay, but I can’t be worried about you and him both.”
“You’re wasting time, turn around. You said yourself, the key here is the element of surprise. The longer we wait, the greater chance HRT will realize Drooling Bear didn’t kill me.”
“Dancing Bear,” Rainhorse corrected.
“Whatever, you know I’m right.”
Rainhorse paused in reflection. Lindsay continued.
“I’m coming with you.”
“You are not.”
“Look, I’ve been on enough adventures with you to know my place. I know I can’t follow you in. I’ll wait in the car, I won’t budge, I promise.”
Rainhorse paused, “But you are hurt. You’re head . . .”
“I was groggy for a while, yes, but my head is fine now,” she lied. The truth was, her head still hurt like hell and her arm was numb with pain.
“It is not a good idea.”
“What if he’s scared? You’ll need me there to take care of him.”
Rainhorse looked at her momentarily and then turned his eyes forward again.
“What if something goes wrong?” she continued. “You’ll need me to phone the FBI.”
“You are really okay?” he asked.
“I’m really ok,” she lied again.
Rainhorse slammed on the brakes. The old pickup skidded. He turned the car around and turned south on Highway 16. He pointed at her. His face bore a stern expression.
“The first time you do not do as I ask, I will . . .”
“You’ll what? Spank me? Send me to bed without supper?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Drop me off the side of the road in the middle of the night?” She shook her head, “I don’t think so, but you don’t have to worry. There’s more on the line than my life. I’m not the same sixteen-year-old girl you met in Chicago eleven years ago. I’m a twenty-seven-year-old CEO, wife and mother. I know you can do this, and I can’t tell you how grateful I am to have you here. I will follow your instructions, I promise.”
“Good,” he reaffirmed. “I give the orders here. I’m Batman. You’re Robin. Get it?”
“Did you just make a cultural reference?”
“Don’t change the subject. Do you understand?”
Lindsay straightened her right palm and pulled it to her forehead in a faux salute, “I got it, but when this is over, you and I are going to have a very long, serious conversation, though.”
He shrugged and sighed, “I expect no less.”
“As long as you understand it.”
“Do you happen to have anything of Jackie’s on you?” he wondered.
“Like what?”
“An article of clothing, perhaps.”
“Jackson, I don’t carry my son’s spare clothes in my purse.”
“Lindsay, this is important.”
Lindsay fished through her purse. She pulled out a tiny palm-sized cotton teddy bear. “Hmm this is Jackie’s ‘Boo.’ Will this work?”
“Does the child play with it?”
“The child’s name is Jackie, and yes, he plays with it all the time.”
“Good.”
He pulled his cell phone and dialed.
“Who are you calling?” Lindsay asked.
“A friend,” Rainhorse said. “A man I met through the Brotherhood Protectors.”
He hit the speakerphone button. The call was answered on the fourth ring.
“Kujo?”
“Rain?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know what time it is?”
“I do. Remember the help I told you I needed?”
“Yes, of course. I’m on the res now, standing by.”
“I need help tonight—now.”
“Now? Do you know what time it is? Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack.”
“Ok. Where do you want me?”
“Meet me in the parking lot of the Pleasant Prairie Lutheran Church in an hour. It’s just northwest of Biem.”
“Biem? I’ll have to drive ninety-miles an hour to get there that quickly.”
“Then get moving,” Rainhorse ordered. “Wake Six up and bring him with you.”
“You got it. See you in an hour.”
Rainhorse disconnected the call, “Tighten your seat belt and hang on,” he said to Lindsay. He pressed harder on the gas pedal.
“Who’s Kujo?”
“A friend.”
“Who’s Six?”
“Another friend.”
“What are you doing?” Lindsay asked.
“I have to get this car off the road,” he answered. “There is a small dirt road just ahead. The FBI will figure out what happened to you and begin looking for us on this road. The detour will save us fifteen minutes.”
Lindsay unbuckled her seat belt and slid across the old-style bench seat of the ancient beat-up pickup. She grabbed Rainhorse’s right arm and pulled it around her. She slid her arms around him and nestled her head on his chest, squeezing him tightly. Rainhorse placed his right hand on her upper arm and squeezed it affectionately.
“I thought you were furious with me,” he confessed.
“Oh, I am, Mister, I am,” she insisted, “but at this moment all I can think about is how much I missed you and how glad I am you are here. I’ve missed you so badly.”
“I’ve missed you, too,” he admitted.
Lindsay pulled away slightly and kissed him on the cheek, “Thank you for being here. I never believed you were dead. I knew you’d come for me. I knew it.”
“I wouldn’t be any other place,” he assured.
“But don’t get too comfy,” she cautioned. “When this is over, we’re going to have a very serious talk.”
Rainhorse sighed and rolled his eyes, “Yes, Lindsay.”
Satisfied for the moment, she nestled her head against his chest once again.
Chapter 9
Special Agent Jim Andrews arrived at the scene in the second helicopter. The first chopper, carrying eight heavily armed SWAT agents and Andrews’ partner, secured the area fifteen minutes before the second helicopter arrived.
Agent William Powell met Andrews as he exited the aircraft.
“
What’s the story, Billy?” Andrews asked.
“Single shooter from twenty yards east of the highway in the tree line,” Powell began, pointing toward the grove.
“The shooter was already there waiting,” Andrews reiterated. “So, there was no pursuit?”
“No. The shooter was waiting here. It was a good spot to wait. It’s right by one of the few areas where the highway is lighted at night.”
“That means the shooter knew they were coming. It was an ambush. Go on.”
“The shooter waits for the Suburban to pass. He takes out Agent Reynolds with a single shot through the head. Agent Silver then leans over the console and tries to regain control of the vehicle. The shooter puts one into his forehead. With no one in control the Suburban’s wheels turn to the left while the vehicle is traveling well over eighty miles-per-hour. The vehicle begins an untripped roll approximately thirty yards, landing upright right where you see it.”
“Go on,” Andrews urged, looking for a third body bag that might contain Lindsay’s body. He was relieved he didn’t see one.
“Assailant then approaches the vehicle, opens the driver’s side rear door, where Lindsay Vanderbilt is sitting,” Powell continued. He paused.
“When all of a sudden . . .” Andrews urged.
“It appears Lindsay then benefitted from an unknown good Samaritan,” Powell continued.
“A good Samaritan? What makes you believe that?” Andrews asked.
“From the bullet hole in the roof, it looks like someone else showed up at the very last second. The assailant and the good Samaritan struggled. A bullet was shot through the rook during the struggle.”
“He saved Lindsay’s life.”
Powell nodded, “Sure looks that way.”
“Any ID on the assailant?”
“No wallet, no cell, no ID.”
“Then Lindsay is still alive.” Andrews noted, thinking aloud.
“It’s likely,” Powell agreed. “The back seat of the cab was protected well by the reinforced cage and there was only a tiny amount of blood in her seat, probably from minor lacerations which occurred during the roll. The good Samaritan saved her, I’m almost certain.”
“This good Samaritan . . .” Andrews repeated. “Was it another agent?”
“No, it wasn’t an agent,” Powell informed.
“How do you know?”
“Well, for one thing, there was no else here,” Powell said. “No additional body, either. But beside that, I’m certain it wasn’t an agent.”
“How so?”
“This good Samaritan engaged the assailant in hand-to-hand combat,” Powell continued.
“You don’t think a field agent could engage an assailant?” Andrews asked.
“Well, not like this,” Powell explained. “The assailant is young and athletic and built like a block of granite. He’s huge—six-foot-four, two-sixty. The good Samaritan fucked this guy up like he was a ninety-pound weakling. The assailant has a broken arm, broken leg, dislocated shoulder and a completely crushed jaw. No offense, but none of our guys could do that.”
“Okay, if not another agent, who is this good Samaritan?” Andrews asked.
“That’s the million-dollar question.”
“Sounds like the beating was personal,” Andrews noted. “Where is Lindsay now?”
“Unknown,” Powell replied. “There are fresh rubber tracks on the freeway where a second vehicle left. It appears the good Samaritan took Lindsay and headed toward Plentywood.”
“Any sign of a struggle?” Andrews wondered, “like Lindsay was being taken against her will?”
“No, but it’s not impossible she was unconscious as a result of the crash,” Powell replied.
Andrews nodded as he considered Powell’s remark, “If he’s truly a good Samaritan, he’s probably taking her to Sheridan Memorial Hospital.”
“We have helicopters headed over the freeway in both directions trying to find them now.”
“Good,” Andrews said. “Maybe the assailant can shed some light on some of this. He’s still alive, right?” Andrews asked.
“Oddly enough, the good Samaritan allowed the guy to live. When he wakes up, he will probably wish he was dead. Like I said, the good Samaritan really fu . . .”
“I want to talk to him,” Andrews interrupted.
“The EMT’s are working on him now,” Powell reported.
“Who’s the lead EMT?”
“A Dakota named Mankato,” he answered.
“Magneto?”
“No . . . Man-ka-to. It means Blue Earth.”
“Wow. Check out the big brain on Billy Powell,” Andrews exclaimed.
“My wife is Dakota,” he volunteered.
“Good job, Billy. Let me know what else you find.”
“Will do.”
“Wait. One more thing. Collins is working on this now, but I want you to help him. Lindsay told me when she got the call, Sheridan Memorial Hospital showed up on her caller ID. The shooter knew agents driving Lindsay would be passing this point. That means someone had to have slipped into the hospital and made the call to Lindsay from there. There are only a few streetlights in this area. The shooter took a position to take his shots right at the spot where the streetlight illuminated the Suburban. Have all the hospital security video pulled and reviewed. The call would have been made between eleven-thirty and midnight. I want to know who made that call.”
“Roger that,” Powell acknowledged. “I’m on my way, now. Agents Gray and Bernstein can finish up here.”
“Take the chopper,” he said. “I want answers tonight.”
Powell nodded and left.
Andrews headed to the ambulance. An EMT was inside the back adjusting a monitor on the unconscious assailant.
“Are you Mankato?”
“Who wants to know?” the EMT replied. He was short and thin with long, jet black hair pulled into a ponytail.
“Special Agent Jim Andrews, FBI,” he said.
“What can I do for you?” Mankato continued.
“I have a few quick questions. How’s your patient?”
“He’s in very bad shape,” Mankato replied. “My best guess is, he’ll live but he’s going to be in the hospital for a very long time.”
And then he’ll be on death row afterward, Andrews thought but didn’t say.
“What’s his long-term prognosis?” the agent asked.
“I don’t know, I’m an EMT.”
“Yeah but you were an army medic,” Andrews said.
“How’d you know that?”
“The tattoo on your arm.”
Mankato instinctively looked on his arm.
“Still, I don’t know what his long-term prognosis is.”
“Okay, but if you had to venture a guess?” Andrews implored.
Mankato exhaled and scratched his head.
“I don’t see how he could ever walk again without a cane. He may regain some use of his right arm, but it will be limited. His jaw was shattered . . . I mean really shattered. I have no idea what the surgeons will do with that—maybe a pig bone. This beating was administrated by a very powerful man who knew exactly what he was doing.”
“What makes you say that?” Andrews questioned.
“The nature of the assailant’s injuries. The good Samaritan knew precisely how to injure him in a manner that would disable . . . maim him, but not kill. I just don’t know why. He murdered two FBI agents. Why wouldn’t the good Samaritan just kill this guy?”
“Only one reason I can think of,” Andrews answered. “He wanted information.”
Mankato thought for a moment and nodded.
“Can I talk to him?” Andrews continued.
“It needs to wait.”
“This can’t wait. I need to know where Hank Rattling Thunder is.”
“I heard he was out of prison—damn shame. A man like him belongs in jail or worse.”
“Wake this man up and help me find him.”
Mankato laughed, �
�No offense, Agent Andrews, but this man doesn’t know where HRT is.”
“And how would you know that?”
“Everyone on the res knows Hank Rattling Thunder, but no one knows where he stays or where he is at any given time, even the people who work for him. He keeps his location secret from everyone, even his top aides.”
“Someone has to know where he is,” Andrews speculated.
“If you could find his daughter . . . maybe.”
“His daughter is with him . . . at the place we don’t know about.”
“Fair point.”
“I still need to talk to this man. Can you wake him?”
“No, he’s out like a light,” Mankato said. “He was out when we got here. I’m pretty sure we can add a concussion to his list of problems. Even if I could wake him, he’d probably answer your questions by giving you a recipe for pemmican.”
“Pemmican?”
“Yeah, it’s a traditional Dakota meat dish, made with buffalo, deer or elk, usually,” Mankato described. “You don’t know much about the Dakota, do you?”
“I know enough,” Andrews said.
Mankato smiled, “Really? Like what?”
“Well, I know your name means Blue Earth.”
The smile disappeared from Mankato’s face.
“Have you lived on the res long?” Andrews continued.
“Forty-six years,” he replied.
“Wow, that’s a long time,” Andrews said. “Tell me, Mankato, have you ever seen a man beaten this badly and live?”
He shrugged, “Not very often,” he admitted. “And certainly not a man like Henry Dancing Bear.”
Andrews froze; his mouth gaped open, “Whoa, wait a minute. You know this man’s name?”
“I know him,” Mankato affirmed. “Him and his father, both. Rough characters—very rough.”
“And you didn’t think those little tidbits were worth mentioning to my partner earlier?”
Mankato sighed, “I’m sorry. Like most Dakota I have an inherent mistrust of cops.”
“I’m FBI.”
“Even worse. No offense.”
“None taken. Is Henry Dancing Bear a known associate of Hank Rattling Thunder?”
Mankato paused, then nodded, “For many years. His dad before him.”
“Where is his dad?”
“Long dead, and trust me when I tell you, there is no one on the res who is crying about it.”
A Good Samaritan Page 6