As Reba monitored George’s reaction, she told her father-in-law that she would need some water. Oscar went outside and retrieved the metal pan she’d dropped earlier and refilled it with fresh water from the yard pump. Reba dipped one of the rags into the water and washed George’s dirt-smeared and bloody face and neck. Soon, George declared that he was healed and tried to sit up. She gave his shoulders a gentle push. “No, George, you need to rest,” she said, settling him back onto the cot. Next, she removed the sodden bandage from his head and examined the gash carefully. She took a jar of herbal paste from her bag and applied it to the wound and then wrapped the other rag she’d brought with her around his head. She secured it with a knot tied at the front.
Every now and then Reba stole a glance at the shuyapu while she worked. She decided that he had a kind face for a government man. Although he wasn’t smiling as he talked to Chief Thompson, she had seen laugh wrinkles at the corner of his blue eyes. She didn’t like his short hair, but knew that was the way of white men. She ran a finger over one of her dark braids and concluded that the ways of her people were much better. Wearing long hair showed the Creator that they had not changed since the beginning of time when He placed them on the rocks to fish. A short-haired man cannot catch big salmon.
Several minutes later, Chief Thompson and the man stood and shook hands. The meeting of hands was a good sign. With their talk concluded, they walked over to George’s cot. The chief introduced Reba and, after exchanging a few words with George, left the Long House. The government man—Sam Matthews as the chief had called him—didn’t seem in any hurry to leave. He knelt beside George and asked him how he was feeling. George closed his eyes and didn’t answer. “He’ll be all right, now that he’s had his medicine,” Reba said.
“I saw you inject him with some kind of needle.”
“Insulin.”
Sam Matthews’ eyes widened. “He’s diabetic?”
Reba nodded. “Since he was a youngster. I started administering his insulin after his wife died a few years ago.”
“That explains a lot. I thought his shaking and slurred speech was caused by the accident or possibly too much liquor.”
Alcoholism was a problem with many villagers, but not George. “White people think all Indians are drunkards,” she shot back.
“Whoa, there,” Matthews said. “That’s not entirely accurate.”
Reba considered his reaction. She had offended him. “I’m sorry,” she said.
He smiled. “It’s okay. I’m sure there’s some truth to what you say, but not in my case.”
His words sounded sincere. She felt reassured enough to ask him the questions that had been uppermost in her mind since he’d arrived at the village. “Please tell me what happened to George. How did you find him?”
“He stole a truck and drove it into a tree.”
She knew that couldn’t be true. “Didn’t Chief Thompson tell you? George wouldn’t steal a truck. His vision is too poor to drive.”
“The diabetes?”
“Yes. And he doesn’t drink, either. I don’t understand why his clothes smell that way.”
“We found an empty wine bottle near the truck,” he said. “So, we naturally assumed . . .”
“We?”
Sam Matthews didn’t answer. Reba decided he was judging whether he’d disclosed too much to her, a mere woman. She felt a surge of anger warm her face. Were his smile and considerate words covering up something? Could she really trust a government man with the truth? But, she reasoned, Chief Thompson had seemed to accept him. “What did you tell our chief?” she asked.
“Look,” he said. “Don’t be alarmed, but based on what I’ve learned here, I think the circumstances surrounding George’s accident are highly suspicious. I’ve warned Chief Thompson that Sheriff Pritchard will be coming to the village sometime later today.”
Reba’s heart sank. If the sheriff were involved, there would be trouble—for George, Danny and possibly the entire village. She glanced at George sleeping unaware on the cot. “Why is the sheriff coming here?” Reba asked.
“He’s investigating the accident and theft of the truck. It’s his job.”
“And you?” she asked. “What’s your job?”
He was quiet again. This shuyapu chose his words carefully. “My job is to make sure the sheriff gets his facts straight. To that end, I have a couple of questions for you.”
Reba didn’t want to answer any questions but he had answered hers so she heard herself say, “Go ahead.”
“Do you know of any reason why George might have been on the road to Baker Bluff today?”
“I don’t know this place, this bluff you speak of.”
“It’s a big meadow overlooking the river about ten miles from here.”
The white man was mistaken. “George would not have gone such a distance. The only place he goes with any regularity is into town. He cannot fish because of his medical condition, but he likes to feel useful. He takes orders for salmon from the locals.”
“I thought you said he didn’t drive. How does he get to town and back? It’s a long way to walk.”
Did he think she was not telling the truth? “He hitches a ride with whoever happens to be going that way. My son takes him a lot.”
“I see,” Matthews said, stroking his chin. “One more thing. Does George have any enemies?”
Reba considered the question for a moment. Of course, George had enemies. They all had enemies. “You mean enemies besides your government?”
“My government?”
Was he blind to the obvious? “The dam,” she said simply.
Reba didn’t know how to interpret the nod he gave her. Did he agree with her assessment or was he just placating her? She decided it was probably a little of both when he answered, “You have a point.” He said he didn’t have any more questions for now. “Chief Thompson is aware that the sheriff intends to come to the village. It’s very important that no one disturbs George. No one, including the sheriff, should question him regarding the accident if I’m not present. He’s still incoherent and needs rest. Do you understand my meaning?”
“Yes,” Reba said. This white man surprised her. He seemed to grasp how risky their situation was with the sheriff. It was an unusual development and she wondered what his intentions really were.
“Good,” he said, flashing another engaging smile. “I’ll be back in time for the feast this evening.”
Chief Thompson had apparently invited him to the Memory Feast. She hoped that he hadn’t been misled by the man’s kind eyes and reassuring manner. Unlike her people, shuyapus often said one thing and did another. The worst accusation you could make against a Wy-am-pum was to say he lied like a white man. As she smoothed the blanket over George’s shoulders, she recalled the warning her husband had given her so many years ago. “You can never really know a shuyapu’s true heart.”
Chapter Fourteen
Tony and Clarice stayed at Dizzy’s long enough to cool off with a pitcher of beer. It looked like half the town had the same idea. Even the teetotalers had ducked in to get out of the heat. Under normal circumstances, the buzz from the elbow-to-elbow, beer swilling crowd would have energized Tony. He’d finalized more than one deal at Dizzy’s and considered the tavern a gold mine for referrals, but there’d be no deals made today. From the moment Clarice had dragged him away from Ellie to tell him that her so-called solution for saving the Baker Bluff deal had gone belly-up, he was too angry to even think about working the room. He should’ve known that any plan involving a drunk like Injun George wouldn’t succeed. Clarice believed she could come up with an even better plan but Tony didn’t share her confidence. As far as
he was concerned, his dream was as wrecked as his truck.
It was still early in the day, but Dizzy’s looked and sounded like a rowdy Saturday night. “What did you say?” asked Tony. Clarice downed the last of her beer and slapped a dollar bill on the table. “I said it’s too noisy in here! Let’s go to the office.” Clarice held onto her straw purse with one hand and clung to Tony’s arm with the other as they pushed their way through the raucous crowd.
At the realty office, they found the shades drawn, a “CLOSED” sign hanging in the window, and the door locked. “What the hell’s going on?” Tony asked, pounding his fist on the door.
“We’re closed,” came a muffled voice from inside.
“Like hell you are,” Tony shouted, pounding on the door again. “Open this door NOW.” Tony cursed a steady stream when he didn’t get a further response from the person inside.
“Don’t you have a key?” asked Clarice.
“Not on me,” Tony said, patting his pockets and cursing loudly.
The door opened a crack. “Oh, hi,” said Nick, peering through the opening. “It’s you.”
Tony pushed open the door wide enough to enter and elbowed Nick out of the way. “Damn right, it’s me.”
“I . . . I was just leaving,” Nick said, clutching a folded newspaper to his chest.
Tony snatched the “CLOSED” sign out of the window and tossed it on his desk. “Where’s Mildred?” he asked, looking around the darkened office.
Nick stuttered, “Uh . . . well, she . . . Mildred, she got sick and had to go home. Jensen and Hoffman left earlier and since you weren’t here, I thought I should close up.”
“Since when did I give you permission to run things around here? You leave when I say you can leave.”
“For Christ’s sake,” Clarice said. “Let the kid go. It’s better to have the place all to ourselves anyway.”
Tony scowled as he nudged his cousin’s shoulder. “I should bust your chops but the lady is right. Hit the road.”
“Yes, sir,” Nick said. He held the newspaper in front of him like a shield as he stepped around Clarice and Tony.
“Is that today’s paper you have there?” Clarice asked.
Nick turned to face her. “Uh, maybe. I mean, no. I don’t think so.”
“Give it to me,” she demanded with outstretched fingers. “I need to check something.”
Nick stared at her polished red nails as if they were claws and shook his head. “No, I can’t.”
“What’s wrong with you?” snapped Tony. “Hand over the damn paper.” When Nick refused a second time, Tony snatched the newspaper out of his grasp. Two bound leather ledgers fell to the floor with a dull thud. Tony broke the shocked silence that followed. “Son of a bitch! What the hell are you doing with our record books?”
“I just—”
“What did you hope to find out, you sneaky prick?”
Nick backed up a few steps. “Nothing. I mean, I can explain.”
Tony overtook his cousin’s clumsy retreat. “Explain this,” he said, punching Nick in the nose. His fist made a hollow sound when it hit followed by the crunch of cartilage breaking. Red mist sprayed from Nick’s nose as he fell to his knees.
“I didn’t want them! The records were Uncle Thol’s idea,” Nick frantically lisped, dabbing at his nose with his shirt sleeve. “He thought—”
“You’re a lying fuck,” Tony growled. Grabbing the front of Nick’s shirt, he jerked him to his feet. “You sent Mildred and the others home so you could find those ledgers. And I damn well know why. You were going to blackmail us, you conniving bastard. Always asking questions, wanting to know what the Destiny Group was, watching every move I made. You—”
“No!” You’ve got it all wrong. Uncle Thol wanted the records, not me. I’m telling the truth!”
“Liar!”
“Back off, Tony,” Clarice said. “I want to hear what Nick has to say about your uncle.”
“It doesn’t matter what he has to say.”
“Think about it, Tony. Are you certain your uncle had no other motive in mind for sending Nick here? A more compelling reason than to learn about the wonderful world of real estate? I’ve never met the man, but I doubt he became as financially successful as he is without some larceny in his soul. Even if that’s not the case and he’s a straight-arrow, any astute businessman would eventually question whether your sales figures were on the up and up.” She pointed to the ledgers lying on the floor. “And those records Nick tried to steal are just the proof he would need.”
“Thass right,” Nick said, nodding vigorously while pinching his nose to stop the bleeding. “Uncle Thol thpected that you were cheating him and he wanted me to bring him evidence of it. Thass the only reason he thent me here.”
“Great,” Tony snorted. “Just what I need right now: A snitch.” Tony resumed his attack on Nick, pummeling him until his cousin fell to the floor. Then he kicked him in the kidneys for being such a weakling. “Come on, kid,” Tony taunted when Nick began dry-heaving. “Don’t make this so easy for me.” He held out a hand to help Nick stand up. “I’ll even give you a moment to catch your breath. Then you can take your best shot.”
“No,” Clarice said. “That’s enough.”
“What do you think, cousin?” asked Tony. Had enough?” Nick grimaced and flailed his arms at Tony, but couldn’t make contact. “Guess not,” Tony said, slamming a fist into Nick’s blood-splattered face.
“I said to stop,” Clarice said, grabbing Tony’s arm.
With Tony temporarily distracted by Clarice, Nick made his move. He rammed a fist into Tony’s stomach with such force that Clarice’s grip on Tony’s arm gave way. She quickly stepped to the side as Nick nailed him in the chin with an uppercut followed by several punches to the side of his head.
When Nick’s blows finally ceased, Tony staggered to a chair and sat down. He wiped the blood out of his eyes with the back of his hand. “Too easy for you?” Nick mocked, confidently striding toward Tony’s chair. Tony closed his eyes and raised both arms in front of his face to ward off another series of punches. Instead of another round of pounding, there was a curious popping sound. Tony opened his eyes just as Nick fell face down in front of his chair.
Tony scrambled to his feet and stared in wide-eyed disbelief at the silver pistol Clarice held in her right hand. “You shot him!”
“No shit, Sherlock.” Clarice dropped the gun into her straw purse and knelt beside an immobile Nick. She felt his neck for a pulse and then shook her head.
Sweat rolled down Tony’s face, plastering greasy hair to bloodied forehead. His life had spun so far out of control that he didn’t even care that he’d begun to cry in front of Clarice. “Why, Clarice?” he sobbed. “Why’d you have to kill him?”
“Why do you think?” she snarled. “He was going to tell your uncle everything—with or without the ledgers. It seems he’s been keeping his eyes and ears open a lot more than we realized. Our plans would’ve been just a memory when that kid got through spilling his guts. Besides, he was knocking the shit out of you.”
“I . . . I can’t believe you shot him,” Tony said, shaking his throbbing head. “Nick got in a few lucky punches, but I could’ve taken him down.”
“Of course you could, darling, but look at it this way: he definitely won’t be squealing to your Uncle Sol.”
“But he was family! Oh, man . . . what’re we going to do now? The screw-up at Baker Bluff was one thing, but this . . . oh God, oh God.”
“Pull yourself together, Tony. It’s not the end of the world, but we need to act fast. Lock the door while I call the sheriff.”
“T
he sheriff?” Clarice always seemed to be two steps ahead of him, but she’d completely lost him now.
She exhaled in a forceful rush. “Jesus, do I have to think of everything? Put the “CLOSED” sign back in the window and lock the goddamn door!”
Tony’s entire body ached and his face was a bloody mess. He couldn’t think straight. Couldn’t do anything but follow Clarice’s orders. With shaking hands, he did as she had asked and then collapsed in a chair as far away from Nick’s body as possible.
Clarice’s phone call to the sheriff was brief. When she hung up she said, “I know you’re hurting, but we have a lot to do.” She went into the restroom and returned with some towels and bandages. Handing them to Tony, she told him to wipe his face and put a bandage on the cuts. “I’ll take care of the ledgers and mop the floor,” she said, “but when Pritchard gets here, you’ll need to quit moaning and groaning and deal with the situation.”
“You’re one heartless broad,” he whined, draping a towel over his wounded head. “I’ll be lucky if you don’t kill me before this is over.”
Clarice’s take-charge attitude softened and she walked over to where he sat. Pressing his towel-draped head against her chest like a mother comforting a child, she said, “It’ll be okay, sweetie.” After a moment, she gently applied the bandages for him. “I know things are a little dicey right now, but we have to stick to our plan.”
“I know, I know. But Jesus Christ . . . Nick is the one who wound up dead, not some dumb redskin. How in the world are we going to explain this to Uncle Sol?
“Don’t worry about your uncle. We can still salvage the bluff deal and cover up Nick’s death at the same time—what’s more, Pritchard will help us do it. He owes us.”
He owed them all right. If Pritchard hadn’t let Sam Matthews tag along with him when he went to “investigate” the accident, old George would be dead right now. It was supposed to have been so simple. Get him drunk and set the accident in motion. Clarice had supplied the booze while Tony got George behind the wheel and pointed the truck in the direction of the cliff. He hadn’t made it that far, but the tree and fire should’ve worked just as well. What Pritchard was thinking by dragging a witness-turned-hero out to the scene was beyond belief. “Well,” Tony said, “he better come through this time or—” A loud knocking at the door cut him off.
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