Vicky had to glance away from the cold certainty in the blue eyes. She could imagine what had attracted Ben to this woman: her beauty and position. It would be like coming home from the rodeo with the championship trophy, and Ben was always the champion.
But what had attracted this white woman to Ben?
She knew. Oh, she knew. She and Marcia Bishop had fallen in love with the same man—the handsome, charming, confident Indian chief. The difference between them was that Vicky had fallen out of love with him.
“Did you know him long?” she said after a moment.
“Eight months. We met at the county rodeo last fall. Sure I can’t get you something to drink?”
“A glass of water would be nice.” Vicky tried for a smile. Her tongue clung to the roof of her mouth. The air felt close and warm.
The woman rose from the chair and let herself through the door at the far end of the room. A few seconds later she crossed the room and handed Vicky a crystal glass filled almost to the brim with water and ice and a slice of lemon. She sat back down. “It’s only fair you should know that Ben and I were going to be married,” she said.
Vicky took a long drink. She could still see Ben across from her, hear his voice begging her to come back to him. And after all the years, she finally understood. Ben was a chief, and a chief needed his wife and family and respectability. All of that had nothing to do with the parade of women through his life.
She was barely aware of the white woman prattling on about how the Holden clan hadn’t approved, she being a white woman. Didn’t want her at the wake last night. Well, Vicky must know all about that because they didn’t want her there either, but they’d both gone, hadn’t they? And Ben was being interred at this moment, on the Holden ranch, and think of it, neither of them were welcome on the ranch.
She drew in a long breath. “We would have been married by now, if you hadn’t returned to Lander.”
Vicky tried to focus on what the woman was saying. “What possible difference could my return have made?”
Marcia laughed and shook her head. “You’re very clever, Vicky. You think I don’t know? Ben told me everything: how you could never accept the fact that it was over between you; how you insisted on getting back with him. He wanted to, shall we say, let you down easy. You were the mother of his children, he kept reminding me, and he hoped to remain on good terms for the kids’ sake. So naturally I agreed to postpone our plans. He was very fond of you, Vicky, I’m sure. I don’t mean to be cruel, but you must accept the fact that it was over between you.”
Vicky made herself take a sip of water. “I didn’t come here to discuss my relationship with Ben,” she managed. “I’m trying to find the Lakota ranch hands he fired last week. I’m hoping you can help me.”
“Are you certain that’s what brought you here?”
“I don’t understand,” Vicky said.
A dilemma seemed to be playing out behind the blue eyes, as if the woman couldn’t decide whether to press on. Finally, she said, “You should know that the FBI agent has already called. He’s bound to come around soon. I was hoping you’d show up first.”
Vicky set the glass on the table and waited.
Finally, the woman said, “Ben and I were in Cheyenne at a horse show when he got an e-mail. Some emergency, he said, so we drove back Monday morning. I’ve been waiting to hear your explanation.” Mockery seeped into the woman’s tone. “Naturally you’ll want to convince me that you know nothing about the e-mail and that the so-called emergency had nothing to do with Ben’s murder before I speak with the fed and tell him everything. I’m surprised you didn’t show up sooner.”
“You’re mistaken if you think I had anything to do with Ben’s murder,” Vicky said. “You must tell Gianelli the truth.”
“The truth?” Marcia lifted her chin and stared at her out of half-closed eyes. “That you were insanely jealous? That you couldn’t stand the idea of Ben with a white woman? That if you couldn’t have him back, no one would have him? I intend to tell the truth. You can count on it.”
For a moment, Marcia Bishop seemed to blur into the bright light at the windows, and Vicky realized that Ben had convinced everyone—this blurred woman, Hugh Holden, even Lucas and Susan—that she was the one who had tormented him. He had given her the perfect motive.
Beyond the blurred woman, Vicky could see the cottonwood branches moving in the breeze, a colt trotting after a mare in the corral. She felt like a wild animal caught in a trap on a normal, peaceful day, the iron jaws tightening around her. The harder she tried to escape, the more she howled into the wind, the tighter the jaws became.
She blinked and tried to bring the woman back into focus. “What about the ranch hands?” she said. “Where are they?”
“They had nothing to do with his murder.”
“How can you be certain?”
Vicky instantly regretted the question. How could the Lakotas have killed Ben when she was the murderer? She hurried on: “Ben saw them before he was killed.”
“That’s what you’d like the FBI to believe, I’m sure.”
“Please, Marcia,” Vicky said. “They stole money from the ranch and Ben went after them. He might have said something—please try to remember—about where they were hiding.”
“Ben was right. You really never understood him.”
“What?”
“You think he cared about the money?” She leaned forward. “It was the dynamite, Vicky. A hell of a lot of dynamite. Enough to blow up the reservation.”
“Dynamite! No one at the ranch mentioned dynamite.”
Marcia Bishop propelled herself upright, walked to the window, and stared outside. “No one else knows. Ben kept control of the dynamite. He’s the only one who knew the amount in the magazine.”
Vicky got to her feet. A picture was emerging in her mind, like blocks of color scrolling onto a monitor. It was Ben who had the permit to buy dynamite to blast out tree stumps, build new roads and ponds. Ben who kept the dynamite in the magazine, locked and secure. He wouldn’t have wanted anyone to know it had been stolen.
“You have to tell Gianelli.” Vicky heard the stunned note in her voice.
“I have no intention of telling anyone.” The other woman turned toward her. Light shone through the white-blond hair and flashed in the blue eyes. “I’ll deny everything I’ve said. I’ll say you made it up out of desperation to save yourself. Let the Lakotas blow the reservation into the dinosaur age. What do I care? You killed Ben. You destroyed everything. You deserve whatever happens.”
21
The road wound down the mountain slope through sparse stands of evergreens. An occasional branch scraped at the side of the Bronco. Lander lay in the sunshine below, gray ribbon streets and roofs floating through trees. To the north, tiny, blocklike houses and clumps of buildings dotted the open spaces of the reservation. And somewhere, two Lakotas with dynamite. God. God. God.
She felt the rear tires skid in the gravel. Dust floated in the rush of air over the half-opened windows. It was so like Ben to take charge. He wouldn’t have wanted the moccasin telegraph spreading the news that Lakotas had stolen dynamite from the Arapaho Ranch. He would have gone after them. He would have gotten the dynamite back. He was a chief. He protected the people. He gave his life . . .
It made sense, except . . .
Except for something else in the woman’s eyes—the dark shadow of hatred, pure and unrelenting. Vicky couldn’t get it out of her mind. She had a sense—odd, she thought—that Marcia Bishop loved and hated Ben at the same time. Promising to marry her, yet calling his ex-wife and taking her to dinner. The woman could have followed Ben to the Peppermill. All her suspicions—surely, she’d had suspicions—would have been confirmed. The woman could have seen her with Ben.
Possible, Vicky thought. Marcia had known what she looked like. “We were both at the wake,” the woman had said, and she’d called Vicky by name this morning.
Vicky slowed through the resident
ial neighborhood on the west side of Lander, allowing this new picture to develop in her mind. How else could Marcia have known her? Unless . . . The picture still emerging, taking on a new and unexpected shape. Unless Ben had carried her photo.
It could be true, and the realization brought new waves of sadness and regret at the way things had turned out. My God, Ben might have been still carrying her photo after all the years.
She gripped the steering wheel, steadying herself. Her nails dug into her palms. She would call Gianelli the minute she reached the office. The agent had to convince Marcia Bishop to tell everything she knew. And Gianelli could check the dynamite records at the ranch. He’d see that there were other people with motives to kill Ben Holden.
She pulled into the curb in front of her office and watched the green Chevrolet truck in the rearview mirror draw in behind her. Adam Lone Eagle loomed in the windshield a moment, then ducked out the door. He walked toward her as she was getting out of the Bronco.
“Vicky, we have to talk,” he said. His tie was loosened below the opened neck of his light blue shirt. The cuffs were rolled back, exposing the hard line of muscles in his forearm. His eyes were as black and opaque as pebbles in a river.
Vicky shoved her door closed and told herself to stay calm. The lawyer had made the two-hour drive from Casper when he might have called. Her heart was pounding. She felt as if a flash flood had roared over her.
“We can talk inside.” She started around the front of the Bronco, but the pressure of his hand—hard and definite—stopped her, and she turned toward him.
“There’s a place I always like to visit when I’m in the area,” he said. “It’s beautiful, calm, and peaceful. Do you mind if we go there?” He turned without waiting for an answer and walked back to the truck.
She followed and let herself into the passenger seat. The minute he turned the ignition, the sounds of Count Basie surrounded her, the rhythms low and insistent. “You like jazz,” he said.
“Is that what you came here to talk about?”
“No.”
“Then, what?”
He threw her a sideways glance, a little smile. “Be patient,” he said. “Wait for the right time.”
Vicky left her eyes on the man a moment. She liked that in him, the patience. It called her to the old ways and to herself.
She turned and looked out the window. The rhythm of drums and blare of saxophones occupied the space between them, like another passenger. Outside the downtown store-fronts blurred past, the sun winking in the plate glass windows. She understood that he would tell her what he’d come to tell her when the time was ready.
They were out of town now, heading east. Count Basie gave way to Ella Fitzgerald. The sign alongside the road read: ENTERING THE WIND RIVER RESERVATION. A couple of miles passed, then another sign: SCENIC VIEW. Adam turned into the wide pullout.
The minute the truck stopped, Vicky got out and walked across the gravel to the horizontal metal bar that marked the drop-off. The plains stretched below—vast, quiet, and secluded. Buttes and arroyos melded together in shadows that created a sense of flatness and sameness that, she knew, was not the reality, only the shadow of reality.
“Makes you think of the ancestors.” Adam gripped the metal bar next to her and leaned into the view. “You can almost see warriors riding out on the hunt. Problem is”—he turned toward her—“the warriors are gone, and so is the buffalo. The people aren’t in charge anymore. We have to live by their rules.” He gestured with his head toward the dark blue shadow of Lander in the distance.
“You’d better tell me what happened,” Vicky said. The sun burned through her blouse, but her skin felt cold and clammy.
“I talked to Gianelli this morning. He has the report on the twenty-two pistol that killed your ex-husband. He’s linked the murder to you.”
“What!”
“The gun was registered to the deceased Lester White Plume.”
Vicky felt frozen in place, her mind trying to absorb what she’d heard. Uncle Lester’s gun. She could see the black gun cradled among the white socks and underwear in Aunt Rose’s dresser drawer. When was that? A month ago, after she’d gotten back from Denver? “You don’t have to worry about me none,” Aunt Rose had assured her. “I’ll be just fine. I still got Lester’s gun.”
“There’s more, Vicky,” Adam said. “The gun was obviously wiped clean, but the lab picked up a partial fingerprint on the barrel. It’s yours.”
Vicky looked around for someplace to sit down, but there was no place except the graveled earth rising toward her. She was only half aware of Adam’s grip on her arm.
“Well, Gianelli has everything now,” she managed. “Motive, opportunity, gun, fingerprint. I’ll be indicted.” This was why Adam had brought her out here. To give her the news in a place of the ancestors, where she could draw the strength she was going to need from their spirits. A sense of gratitude toward the man mixed with the fear and anger that clasped her like a vise.
She turned toward the shadows moving over the plains. “Someone wanted me to look guilty. Whoever killed Ben stole the gun from my aunt, then left it on Rendezvous Road knowing it would be traced to me.”
“Who, Vicky? Who could have taken the gun?”
“Dozens of people.” Vicky pushed back from the metal bar and walked over to the truck, then back to the bar. Back and forth, back and forth, kicking at the gravel. “Aunt Rose took in all kinds of people. Teenagers in trouble, people just out of jail. Her heart’s as big as that.” She waved toward the space below. “Gianelli has to check out her recent house-guests.”
“He thinks he has the murderer.” Adam’s voice was low.
She stopped pacing and faced him. “And you, Adam? What do you think? Oh, forgive me.” She threw up one hand. “I forgot that you don’t care whether your client is guilty or innocent as long as you win the case.”
Adam reached out and took her arm. “I think the fed is full of shit, and I told him so. I told him there has to be another explanation.” His fingers dug into her flesh. “Listen to me, Vicky. It’s likely the grand jury in Casper will indict you. Maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day. If it happens, I’ve asked Gianelli to let you surrender. I don’t want him bursting into your office, handcuffing you, and dragging you to the county jail. He agreed. If you have any unfinished business, you should take care of it. I’m sure I can get you released on bond, but—”
“Stop it, Adam.” Vicky ducked free of his hand and turned away. She crossed her arms, struggling to contain the terror and confusion coming at her like a storm blowing over the plains. She’d stumbled into another reality, incomprehensible. Beyond the metal bar was the real world—the world of the ancestors in another time, another life. A part of her—the part untouched by the white world—would have been at home there.
A crow flapped over a butte and cawed into the wind.
She had to think! The Lakota ranch hands had a motive; they’d stolen the dynamite. But other people could have wanted Ben dead. Marcia Bishop? The white woman could have stalked Ben and shot him in a fit of jealousy.
She locked eyes with Adam and told him about Marcia Bishop and the dynamite.
“Dynamite!” The lawyer’s eyebrows cocked upward in an arch of surprise.
“Ben was determined to get it back. He would have made trouble for the Lakotas.”
Adam was shaking his head. “They’ve taken off, Vicky, disappeared into thin air. I talked to some folks at Pine Ridge. Nobody’s seen them. He-Dog’s aunt thinks he could sill be on the Wind River Reservation, but there’s no sign of him here.”
Vicky stared out at the plains. She prayed silently to the spirits of the ancestors. “Help me.”
Then she turned back to the lawyer waiting a few feet behind her. “There are Indians from other tribes at the shadow ranch. The Lakotas could be hiding there.”
“Thirty Indians . . .” Still shaking his head. “Gianelli has IDs on every one. They aren’t there, Vicky.” Adam lea
ned closer. She could smell the trace of aftershave, the faint whiff of perspiration. “Let’s say you’re right. How did the Lakotas get your aunt’s gun? She’s an old woman, right? Is it likely that she took in a couple of male Lakotas?”
Vicky didn’t think so. And yet, if they had stayed at the house, they would have heard about her and Ben. Aunt Rose: passing the time of day over a cup of coffee, making small talk. Her niece had been married to the foreman at the Arapaho Ranch, did they know? A very important man. Would have been a chief in the Old Time. Had a bad breakup, those two.
“What about Marcia Bishop?” Vicky heard the desperation in her voice. Nothing was making sense. “She could have gotten a hold of the gun somehow.”
Adam didn’t say anything, and she knew he’d heard the desperation.
“Take me back to the office,” she said, starting for the truck. She flung open the door and got inside.
Adam came around the other side and crawled in behind the wheel. “Listen, Vicky, I want you to take care of your own affairs.”
“This is my affair.”
“I’m your lawyer. Let me handle this.” He hesitated, some new idea taking shape behind the black eyes. “I’m going to lay it on the line, Vicky. You’ve got a reputation for getting involved in matters you have no business getting involved in. You’ve put yourself in dangerous situations. You had to shoot a man.”
Vicky flinched. She felt the warm flush in her cheeks, the stab of pain that always came with the memory. She tried to concentrate on what the man was saying: If the Lakotas got wind that she was looking for them, they’d come after her. She should concentrate on putting her affairs in order. Didn’t she have a report on Bull Lake Dam to finish for the JBC? She should do normal things. He would take care of the rest.
He started the engine and wheeled back onto the road. Gravel peppered the undercarriage for several moments.
“I’m dead serious, Vicky.” He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “You do things my way, or you find another attorney.”
The Shadow Dancer (A Wind River Reservation Myste) Page 16