Threepersons Hunt

by Brian Garfield

  Watchman glanced at the Volkswagen beside him. “The truth is I don’t think you’re guilty of anything except brass. I don’t see where you had much reason to want Calisher dead, I don’t see how you could have killed Maria, and I don’t know where you’d have found the kind of money Maria was living on. But somebody saw a blue VW parked outside her house that morning and I still need an explanation for that.”

  “I’ll damn sure find out what I can, if Joe doesn’t bushwhack me first.”

  “I don’t think it’s you he’s after.”

  “Jesus I hope you’re right.”

  6.

  Watchman got out of the car and heard Victorio shut the other door. Two white-garbed nuns in sailboat hats walked out of the trading post and got into a huge station wagon and drove away. The wagon’s place was taken almost immediately by the white Ford of the Indian Agency Police Force. Pete Porvo got out and walked into the trading post and Watchman turned that way; he felt Victorio’s presence at his heels.

  He hadn’t put his boot onto the first step yet when a ruined pickup came staggering down the highway and he stopped and put his eyes on it while it went past. Jimmy Oto was driving; Oto’s hard glance fixed itself onto Watchman and stayed there, the head turning, until the grey truck almost went off the road. Then Oto was gone and Victorio behind him said, “Him you want to stay away from in dark alleys.”

  “We’ve met.”

  “You’re lucky you’ve still got your teeth then.”

  Watchman pushed into the gloom of the store. He found Porvo at the sandwich counter. The high small eyes whipped across Watchman’s face and settled on Victorio.

  Watchman said, “Any sign of that Land Cruiser?”

  “Nope.”

  Victorio said, “We just came in from Rufus’ place.”

  “That right?”

  Watchman said, “I understand you spotted Joe last night.”

  “What about it?” Porvo stood phlegmatically rocking heel-to-toe.

  “Did you try to stop him?”

  Porvo’s eyes crinkled to show he knew Watchman was kidding him. “Come on.”

  “How about it, Pete?”

  Porvo’s face changed. “What the hell are you trying to pull?”

  “I just want to know what you did, Pete. Did you yell out to him? Did you fire a warning shot and tell him to halt?”

  “You’re crazy. By the time I got the car stopped he was back out of sight in the woods someplace. You think yelling and shooting’s going to do any good?”

  “Did you take a flashlight and run in there after him?”

  “The son of a bitch was toting a rifle. You want me to go in after him with a flashlight?”

  Victorio was looking on, puzzled. Watchman said, “You had him in sight, you let him go. It was the middle of the night. So if he was close enough for you to recognize him he might have been close enough to stop. That’s all I’m asking you.”

  “If I could’ve stopped him I would have. That satisfy you?”

  “It’ll do for right now. I had a shot at him myself, I know how it goes.”

  Victorio said, “You did?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  Porvo finished his sandwich and crumpled the wax paper as if it were Watchman’s throat. “Look, porcupine, I don’t need Navajos telling me how to do my job.”

  “Take it easy. My dad was an Agency cop.”

  “This still ain’t Window Rock. This is my bailiwick, Watchman. I wouldn’t mind for you to get in some real trouble sticking your Navajo nose in it.”

  “I didn’t come up here to muss up your turf, Pete. All I want is Joe Threepersons.”

  “Look,” Porvo said, “I believe in my job here. It’s a lot better to keep house inside the tribe than have outside agitators come in here and stomp law-and-order all over us. Now I told you before—I find Joe, I’ll give him to you. In the meantime you can quit pushing your weight around here.” He turned on his heel and marched out of the building.

  Watchman turned mildly to Victorio. “You want some lunch?”

  “You’re just a beaming ray of sunshine, aren’t you?”

  “Deep water is for those who can swim. I think Porvo’s making a mistake, taking this too lightly. The next time he comes across Joe he might get shot before he decides whether he should wave hello or pull his gun.”

  “You’re expecting too much. Pete’s an Agency cop, his jurisdiction’s limited to traffic cases and misdemeanors that don’t carry a penalty of more than six months in jail. The big stuff they leave to the County Sheriff. You can’t expect him to know his way around a murder case.”

  “I can expect him to know his way around this Reservation. If anybody’d know where to look for Joe it would be that cop. I’d like to find a way to reach him.”

  “You won’t do it by insulting him. Pete’s kind of proud. He likes that uniform and he likes to think he can fill it.”

  Watchman considered the selection of sandwiches. “Maybe you’re right. But with his kind you don’t grovel. I figure he understands authority. It’s probably the only way I can break through that Navajo-hate of his.”

  “Just don’t expect too much,” Victorio said again. “I mean you are a Navajo after all. Try the corn beef, it ain’t too bad.”

  They took the sandwiches out on the porch and ate standing up in the shade beside the phone booth. Watchman said, “This Jimmy Oto. Tell me about him.”

  “What’s he got to do with anything?”

  “I don’t know yet. Maybe nothing. But he was pretty anxious to scare me off the Reservation last night. He had some anxious-looking friends with him.”

  “That rat pack of his, I guess. I wouldn’t pay him too much mind. He likes to ripple his muscles.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “He used to be a pal of Joe’s. I don’t know if he still is. Maria couldn’t stand him, wouldn’t let Joe hang around with him.”

  “I understand he hasn’t got a job.”

  “Well he’s on welfare, I think, some kind of relief. He’s sort of got a job, if you could call it that. You know about Harlan Natagee and that red-power movement of his?”

  “Nothing except the name.”

  “They’re kind of extremist. That’s a big family, the Natagees. Frank Natagee, he’s the chairman of the Tribal Council.”

  “Then that’s where I heard the name.”

  “Well Harlan is Frank Natagee’s brother. They don’t speak to each other. Harlan’s sort of the black sheep of the family. Some folks say he’s a sorcerer.”

  “A witch.”

  “Yes. Harlan used to live over in Oklahoma for a while. He made a lot of money, trading oil leases or something like that. Came back here eight or ten years ago with a pile of money and sank a lot of it into stuff like the sawmill and the cattle co-ops. He’s helped the tribe a lot but folks walk wide around him. You could call him the local homegrown robber baron. Full of crazy notions how to deal with Anglos. I kind of think he wouldn’t mind restoring the good old white institution of scalping.”

  “How much support does he have?”

  “Not a hell of a lot. He’s got his pack of kids and a few half-grown toughs like Jimmy Oto—they do what Harlan tells them.”

  “Like for instance?”

  “Well Charlie Rand’s had a few troubles up on his ranch—brush fires, busted fences, that kind of harassment. Everybody knows it’s Harlan’s rat pack doing it.”

  “Just like everybody knows it was Rand who broke into your offices.”

  Victorio gave him an amused look. “Yeah.”

  “Then if Jimmy Oto’s trying to warn me off, he’s doing it on orders from Harlan Natagee?”

  “Maybe. Don’t forget Jimmy and Joe Threepersons were buddies. It could be just that.” Victorio squinted out toward the mountains; after a moment he said, “I think I get the drift of what you’re thinking. A lot of folks keep thinking Maria was witched. Harlan’s got that reputation.”

 
; “What would he have against Maria?”

  “I wouldn’t know. Anyhow I don’t put much store in that old crap.”

  “Sometimes it’s real enough.”

  “You’re full of surprises,” Victorio told him.

  “I didn’t grow up white,” Watchman answered. He heard the rattle of a woodpecker and looked for it but he couldn’t spot it at first and that annoyed him; there had been a time when by auditory evidence alone he’d have known exactly where it was.

  Victorio said something but Watchman didn’t answer; he was chasing a line of thought. Joe was out there in a Land Cruiser with his .375 looking for somebody to shoot at—that was what it came down to. And Watchman couldn’t think of any way to find him until Joe was ready to be found. The combined Apache Reservation covered nearly four million acres and it was all craggy country, beat up into a froth of forests and mountains and badlands. Watchman knew he could spend weeks searching every road for tread-spoor to prove where, and if, the Land Cruiser had left the road. And by that time any tracks would be blown over or washed out anyway. He was on wheels, he could be anywhere.

  Watchman had a junk heap of stray pieces whose shapes suggested a design but there weren’t enough pieces yet. Joe knew his target and Watchman didn’t know. There didn’t seem to be any way to get there first.

  Watchman surveyed the dry hills. He had an, image of Joe in some cottonwood draw sighting in the Bushnell ’scope.

  A door squeaked and in a moment four men came walking around the far corner of the council house and turned toward the parking lot. There was a good deal of evident tension among them. Watchman recognized Charles Rand and Dwight Kendrick.

  Tom Victorio said, “Charlie Rand’s the one with the big hat.”

  “We’ve met.”

  The party reached the Bentley and Charles Rand turned to speak to the fat man at his elbow; Watchman heard about one word in five. Rand stood talking, flicking his trouser thigh with a quirt. His sunglasses reflected points of light. Self-assuredness hung like flags from his back-thrust shoulders and the restively moving square bricks of his hands, and from the quirt that moved like a baton.

  “The fat guy’s Dwight Kendrick’s opposite number.”

  “Rand’s lawyer?”

  “Name of Owen Masterman.” Victorio rubbed the inner corners of his eyes. “In a minute he’ll start sneering and curling the ends of his mustache.”

  Masterman had no mustache. He had once been a good-looking man and would be again if he lost forty pounds. He wore dark-rim eyeglasses and his reddish hair fluffed out fashionably over the collar of his seersucker suit. There was something shabby about his aspect, as if he were consciously molding his appearance on the image of Clarence Darrow. The face belonged to a man who had seen everything and wished he hadn’t. Watchman had a feeling he wasn’t as flabby as he seemed. There were secret muscles hidden under the fatty tissues.

  Rand said something that made the Indian behind Kendrick step forward and draw himself up like a pigeon. “Frank Natagee,” Victorio murmured and Watchman nodded. The chairman of the Tribal Council raised his voice and Watchman heard him clearly:

  “Don’t talk about taxes and free rides any more to us. The Anglos did not give this land to our tribe. The tribe gave the land to the Anglos. The day we give up our tax exemptions will be the day you give us back the land.”

  Watchman saw Rand snort but didn’t hear his reply; whatever his failings the arrogant industrialist wasn’t a loudmouth. Masterman’s fat scarlet face, dripping sweat, turned toward Kendrick as if in appeal but Kendrick said harshly, “Haven’t you got enough on your plate?” and it made Charles Rand swing toward him lifting the quirt as if to strike him. Kendrick abruptly avoided Rand’s eyes and Rand swiveled with an abrupt snap of his meaty shoulders and reached for the door handle of the Bentley. Masterman walked away around the back of the car while Kendrick stood there smiling dispiritedly.

  Frank Natagee spoke and Kendrick shrugged without replying. Rand started the car and as soon as Masterman heaved himself into the seat Rand backed up and swung the wheel. The front tires crunched stones as the power steering wrenched them around. Kendrick stepped back just in time; the yawl growled angrily past him throwing dust.

  Kendrick and Frank Natagee walked back toward the council house. They stopped by the mesquite tree at the corner and Watchman heard the Indian say, “Want us all to assimilate. What if the Russians took over this country, how long would it take Charles Rand to turn Communist?” A grin streaked the broad grave face and Natagee slapped Kendrick amiably before he strode past the tree and disappeared.

  Victorio dropped off the porch and Watchman followed him; he wanted a word with Dwight Kendrick.

  The tall lawyer ran fingers through his pale hair. “Hoo boy.”

  “Told you it’d be a waste of time,” Victorio said. “He didn’t give an inch, did he.”

  “He never will until we find a lever to push him with.” Kendrick glanced at Watchman. “He can keep buying delays forever. Hell it’s a game to him, the money doesn’t matter, it’s just a way to keep score—chips to play the game with.”

  “We’re buying too many delays ourselves,” Victorio said. “We could have had him in court a month ago.”

  “Or he could have had us. It would have been on his terms.”

  “We’ve got a stronger case than he’s got.”

  “Tom, you’ve never faced Owen Masterman in a courtroom.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  Kendrick said, “I imagine one fine day you’ll find that out.” Watchman was still standing there and Kendrick addressed him: “Did you want something?”

  “I did. I still do. A couple of questions.”

  Kendrick looked at his watch and shot his cuff; he glanced over his shoulder as if to make sure the council house hadn’t gone away somewhere. It was an unsubtle hint. But he said, “Go ahead.”

  “I understand you’re married to Charles Rand’s ex-wife.”

  “Ex-wife by two. What about it?”

  “How many wives has he had?”

  “I’m sure he’s given up counting. Gwen was two wives ago.”

  “They were still married to each other at the time of the Calisher murder?”

  “Yes. I assume you’re leading somewhere with this line of questioning? Because otherwise it’s in dismal taste.”

  “I’m just wondering if there was anything between your wife—Rand’s wife at the time—and Ross Calisher. It’s not a delicate question, I’m sorry: it’s not a delicate case.”

  Kendick said, “There was nothing between Gwen and Ross Calisher. Not to put too fine a point on it, Calisher was beneath Gwen’s contempt. He was a rustic, a hillbilly hick with manure on his boots and he didn’t have the social graces of a skid-row derelict. He only had two virtues that I can think of, his animal husbandry and his loyalty to Charles Rand. He worshipped Rand. He was far too loyal to entertain even the fantasy of an affair with Charles Rand’s wife. She’d have been untouchable, literally. Now what’s this line of questioning in aid of? Are you still riding that hobbyhorse about Joe’s innocence? I thought your job was to track him down, not play detective.”

  “I’d like to find out who his enemies are,” Watchman said. “That could lead us to him.”

  Kendrick contrived a headshaking laugh. “I don’t suppose it’s occurred to you that the fact that Joe looks guilty doesn’t prove he was innocent.”

  “I thought he was your client.”

  “I should think even you would find it hard to get past the fact that he confessed with the murder weapon in his hand. I had a lot of trouble keeping Joe out of the gas chamber—they were still executing Indians here. After all he wasn’t psychotic, he wasn’t a compulsive confesser.”

  “Did you talk to Angelina at the time?”

  “Joe’s sister? Of course I did.”

  “She didn’t say anything about his innocence?”

  “Not that I recall. She kep
t pleading with me to do everything I could to save him. She seemed more concerned than his wife was.”

  “But she didn’t say anything about an alibi?”

  “Alibi?” Kendrick smiled ruefully. “What’s she been handing you?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Watchman said. “Right now the point is Joe seems to think he’s got a grievance. He’s got his hands on a long-distance magnum rifle with a ’scope sight and I believe he thinks he’s got a reason to use it on somebody. I’d like to find out who his target is before it’s too late.”

  “I doubt I can help you.”

  Watchman studied him. “It’s not the kind of thing you can hold back out of professional ethics or statutory privilege. Not any more. If you know anything about this you might save somebody’s life by telling me what it is.”

  Kendrick’s mouth twisted a little. He twined his fingers together and studied the design they made. “I don’t know who Joe might have a grudge against. It could be anybody.”

  Watchman said, “All right. Try another one. Where did Maria Threepersons get the money she was living on?”

  Kendrick frowned. “What made you ask me that?”

  “What made you freeze?”

  Victorio’s dark eyes shifted toward Kendrick with new interest. Watchman knew he had something.

  Kendrick’s long fingers fanned the air by his chest. Finally he said, “The money came from me.”

  7.

  “If this thing blows up it’ll come out in the end anyway,” Kendrick went on. “You’d find out I signed the checks.”

  Victorio was watching him with obvious bewilderment. Kendrick waved his sinuous hands at them both. “The money was put in trust for Maria Threepersons. I was the executor of the trust. Now that she’s dead I suppose it dissolves and goes back to the original donor.”

  “I want his name,” Watchman said.

  “I can’t give you that. Under the terms of the trust I’m expressly forbidden to divulge that. I’m sorry.”

  “Then get in touch with him. Tell him to come forward.”