Blood Memory

by Margaret Coel

  “I’ll see him,” she heard herself say.

  Another corridor, then past other closed doors, down the elevator in the rear of the building, and through an underground parking garage to another elevator that took them up into a room inside the jail. About twelve feet wide, Catherine guessed, and twenty feet deep with chairs arranged in front of a platform. Bustamante said something to the two officers inside the door, then nodded her to one of the chairs. “Ready?” he said.

  Catherine dropped onto the hard chair. The room darkened, then a bright light beamed on the platform and seven men walked out, like actors making an entrance from stage right. They stood in a line and blinked out into the darkness. On the white wall behind were black lines that measured height. They were all about six feet, all wearing the same baggy jail uniforms. Catherine realized that she could see them, but they could not see her.

  Bustamante stood with the other officers next to the door. Even from three feet away, she could sense that he was waiting, that anything she might recognize could be important—the mole on the side of one of the men’s neck, perhaps, except that she had never seen it before. The sharp knobs on another man’s hands, but Erik had worn gloves at the town house. He had been dressed in black.

  There was nothing familiar about any of the men on the platform. She shook her head toward Bustamante, and he gave some inaudible command and the men began a slow, lumbering exit to stage right.

  “Everything happened so fast,” she said.

  Bustamante sat down beside her. “What about yesterday?”

  Catherine turned toward him. “He was inside the sedan. Just somebody. I couldn’t make out his face.” The ceiling lights had come up, and Catherine could see the patience in Bustamante’s eyes. She looked back at the vacant platform, in shadows now, and remembering now. Remembering the flash of metal inside the sedan—and something else. A moving blur of color.

  She had seen something.

  She could feel Bustamante waiting, but she took her time before she said, “It’s not the rapist. The man in the sedan had blond hair. Yellowish blond hair. I caught a glimpse. And the night at the town house, I think I saw blond hair at his neck when his cap slipped.”

  He’s still out there. He’s still out there. The words drummed inside her head in rhythm to their footsteps as they took the elevator down into the underground garage and rode the other elevator back up into the corridors of the police building. “Where are you staying?” Bustamante said.

  “Where I feel safe.”

  “I can’t help you if you won’t trust me.”

  When she didn’t say anything, he said, “I intend to have another talk with your ex-husband.”

  “I told you, this has something to do with the Sand Creek Massacre and the plan to build a casino,” she said.

  “What makes you so sure?”

  Catherine was quiet again. So many gaps in the story, so many anonymous, shadowy figures behind the scenes. Investors and landowners who might stand to benefit from an Arapaho and Cheyenne casino. But something else was hovering in the background—a hundred-and-fifty-year-old massacre.

  Bustamante pushed the button for the elevator to the main lobby. There was a ding, and the doors opened. Catherine moved inside and swung back toward the man still in the corridor. “I’ll call you when I figure it out,” she said into the closing doors. She wasn’t sure whether he said that she should be careful, or whether she had just imagined it.

  She felt the downward pull and with it, a kind of excitement that always came over her when she realized that she was on to a bigger story than she had thought, that she had only started to explore the dark, hidden places.

  Outside in the shade falling over the building, Catherine pulled out her cell and pressed the numbers for Philip’s cell. It rang a long time. When the ringing finally stopped, she felt her muscles tense, waiting for the recorded voice—leave your name and number—but it was Philip himself on the other end, weary sounding and sleep drugged. “Hello,” he said.

  “How’s Maury doing?”

  “Holding his own when I left the hospital this morning.” He paused a moment, swallowing back tears, Catherine thought. “Maury’s strong. I have to believe he’ll be okay.”

  “You must be exhausted.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Philip said, the old edginess returning, the reminder that she was the one responsible. The guilt rubbed at her like sandpaper.

  “I’ll call you later,” she said, but she realized that the connection had been dropped and she was speaking into an inert piece of plastic.

  There was a text message from Marcy Norton, the governor’s press secretary. “10:30. Gov office.”

  Catherine glanced at her watch. She had twenty minutes to get to the capitol. Then she checked her voice mail. A call from Marie. Catherine called her back and assured her everything was fine. She shouldn’t worry. Marie said that Rex was doing okay at the breeder’s house, but he missed her. He didn’t have much appetite. Catherine squeezed her eyes shut at this and fought against the idea that her life was gone forever, that things would never be the same, she and Rex out for a walk in the coolness of the evenings, moonlight washing the sidewalks.

  She said she would call tomorrow and pressed the end key.

  There was another voice mail. She realized her hand was shaking as she pressed the phone against her ear and waited for the low, familiar voice: “I look forward to our next rendezvous. Say good-bye, Catherine.”

  Catherine pressed the keys that sent the message on to Bustamante. Then she slipped the phone inside her bag, her hand still shaking. She hurried down the concrete steps and started toward Colfax Avenue, checking the faces of the lawyers and bail bondsmen and other pedestrians coming and going, wondering if Erik were that straw-haired man, or the lanky, blond-headed fellow approaching, or that blond man across the street. She could see the golden dome of the capitol gleaming against the sky. She started running.

  The granite-slabbed, neoclassical capitol building occupied the hilltop above Civic Center Park, an expanse of lawn and shade and stone walkways. Adjacent to the park was a collection of official-looking buildings, state offices, and museums, the Denver Public Library and the Denver Art Museum. The whole area exuded a sense of history, Catherine thought. Even the trees in the park. The black walnuts, she’d read somewhere, descended from saplings transplanted a century ago from Lincoln’s home in Illinois.

  She walked up the sidewalk that bordered the park, scanning the groups of tourists and homeless men milling about. The yellow-haired man was still out there somewhere. The thought sent a shiver rippling through her. Cars and buses churned past on Colfax, depositing faint smells of exhaust in their wake. The sun was warm on her bare arms. Ahead, the golden dome of the capitol seemed to sway with the clouds floating through the blue sky.

  She entered the capitol on the west side and went through security—place bag in the plastic tub, please; step through here, please—and then she was in the lower level. She hurried up the staircase, heels ringing on the marble steps. Light glinted on the brass railings. Everything about the building summoned the past—the paintings and sculpture, the pink marble walls, the marble floors polished and worn by the footsteps of Colorado’s founding fathers. She could almost imagine the voices from the past blending into the conversations of the tourists grouped in the rotunda, heads tilted back, eyes fixed on the interior of the dome shining overhead.

  She headed down a wide corridor, pushed open the heavy oak door with “Governor” in black lettering on the pebbled glass, and stepped into a large, paneled waiting room. The redheaded receptionist glanced up over the computer on the desk inside the door, and Catherine told her that she had an appointment with the governor. “I’ll get Marcy,” the receptionist said, picking up the phone.

  In a moment, Marcy Norton was in the doorway on the far side of the waiting room, motioning her forward. About thirty, stylish blond hair, an air of efficiency about her, Marcy Norton had taken
the job of press secretary about the same time that Catherine had gone back to work at the Journal. They had stumbled through the first weeks of their jobs together, which had created a kind of bond. More than once, Marcy had squeezed out a few minutes from the governor’s schedule for an interview that gave Catherine a scoop ahead of the rest of the press.

  “Changed our hair?” Marcy said. Little motes of surprise danced in her eyes. “You don’t look like yourself. Is everything okay?”

  Catherine tried for a dismissive smile. My God, nothing was okay.

  They were walking down a corridor past a warren of cubicles, people moving about and phones ringing. Marcy stopped at the door beyond the cubicles. She knocked once, then pushed the door open. “Catherine McLeod’s here,” she said, leaning inside. “Sorry, Catherine. Ten minutes is all.”

  Catherine walked into the spacious office with a desk that curved in a half circle, light sweeping over the surface, and Governor Mark Lyle, a large man with black curly hair and glasses perched partway down his nose, hunched over the papers spread in front of him. It was a long moment before he glanced over the top of the glasses and motioned her toward a vacant chair.

  “Nice to see you again.” He gave her a practiced smile. Always a politician, Catherine thought, on the campaign trail, shaking hands with the voters. He had on a white shirt, sleeves rolled over thick forearms, red tie loosened around the open collar. A dark blue suit jacket was draped over the back of his chair. The cowboy, Lawrence and his friends called the governor, from out in the state somewhere. A nobody who had bumbled into the governor’s seat and had the temerity to aspire to Russell’s seat in the Senate. “We’ll get to the cowboy,” she’d heard Lawrence say on the phone one evening when it looked like a business deal was about to stall, but as far as she could tell, they had never been able to get to the cowboy. Governor Lyle had a reputation for not bending the rules or caving in to the demands of any interest group.

  “Any more leads on this cockamamie casino proposal?” he said.

  “Leads?”

  He pulled a folded copy of this morning’s Journal from under a stack of papers and waved it across the desk. “You exposed Arcott’s technique. Get in bed with a senator and see that he attaches a rider to some innocuous bill so that Congress ends up settling the land claims for various tribes. And what do you know, the tribes build casinos on their newfound land, Arcott being the builder and operator. Reservation shopping is what I call it. Worked in other states and now he’s hoping it will work in Colorado.”

  Catherine smoothed the top page of the notebook that she had pulled out of her bag. “What about Senator Russell? Does he intend to attach a rider that will push the settlement through Congress?”

  “He’s stated publicly that he supports the proposal. What has he told you?”

  “His office hasn’t returned my calls.”

  Governor Lyle gave a cough of laughter. “Maybe he thinks you’re not the friendly press.” He folded his arms over the papers strewn in front of him and leaned toward her. “I have no intention of leaving the matter to Senator Russell. I’ve asked Bill Adkins to schedule a briefing before the Senate Indian Affairs Committee. Russell won’t be able to make any moves before the briefing.”

  Well, well. This was news. Catherine jotted down: Senator William Adkins, committee briefing. “Date’s not set yet. Russell will be foaming at the mouth. That’s off the record. I intend to be at the briefing, along with the entire Colorado delegation. Everyone except Russell opposes another casino in this state.”

  He sat back and regarded her a moment. “I read your interview with the elders,” he said finally. “Who sold them on this scheme? Arcott or the company that owns the land?”

  “I’m trying to chase that down,” she said.

  “Well, seems to me, the people of this state have a right to know who’s behind the proposal. You can quote me on that.”

  Catherine stopped writing. “As soon as Congress hears about the atrocities committed at Sand Creek, there could be a rush to settle the claims. Isn’t it true the hearing could work against your position?”

  A slow smile crossed the governor’s face. “The Arapaho and Cheyenne land claims have long been settled,” he said. He waited a moment, allowing the words to hang in the air. “We’ll simply remind Congress that, in 1965, the government paid the Arapahos and Cheyennes $15 million for their ancestral lands. State attorney says the agreement is final. End of the matter.”

  The governor held up one hand, something else still on his mind. “Only reason Russell’s behind this is because he thinks it will be good for business. He’s always favored the businesses of this state, whether it comes to easing environmental restrictions or pushing through tax breaks. Check his voting record.”

  There was a knock on the door, and Marcy stepped into the office. “You’re due at the legislature, Governor,” she said.

  Catherine got to her feet. She was thinking of Russell’s record. The Journal had been the only newspaper to expose the economic consequences for ordinary families of the bills he’d muscled through Congress. Even if he had planned to run for office again, she doubted he would be reelected.

  She thanked the governor, who was lifting himself out of his chair and smoothing down his shirt sleeves at the same time. Then she retraced her route through the office, across the marble floors, and down the staircase, checking the text messages and voice mail on her cell. Nothing more from him. She made her way past the security station and out the door. It was cool in the shade of the building, a little breeze stirring the air, the leaves rustling on the trees. For the briefest moment, everything seemed almost normal. She thought about the land claims and the plan for the casino. And the entire plan based on what Norman and the elders claimed to be an act of genocide committed at Sand Creek.

  After a moment she started walking down the hill toward the Denver Public Library.

  18

  Western History occupied most of the fifth floor of the library. Hushed and solemn as a cathedral. A dozen people at long oak library tables, serious scholars, Catherine thought, heads bent over stacks of documents and opened books, brows wrinkled in concentration. She waited at the counter next to a blond-haired woman a little older than Catherine, but attractive and well dressed, gripping a yellow legal pad like her own. All bags had to be deposited in lockers inside the Western History entrance. Only notepads and pencils allowed inside.

  She would need the 1851 Fort Laramie treaty, she was thinking. She wanted to read whatever legal jargon had been used in the nineteenth century to acknowledge the Arapaho and Cheyenne ownership of one-third of Colorado.

  The librarian who assisted her every time she did research here— Andy Mays—emerged from the stacks and handed the woman a leather volume frayed at the corners. “An excellent account of the Ku Klux Klan in Colorado,” he said, his voice low. He was slightly built and tall, with wispy black hair and dark eyes that looked outsized behind the thick, rimless glasses. The woman thanked him and carried the book over to the nearest table where it dropped on the surface with a loud thud, like a clap of thunder, that lifted eyebrows around the reading room.

  “How may I assist you?” He turned to Catherine.

  “It’s me, Andy,” Catherine said.

  The man blinked and took a step backward, as if he needed more distance to bring her into focus. “My goodness,” he said. “I didn’t recognize you.” He took a couple of seconds, running the words over his lips before he went on: “Are you in trouble? I read about the intruder.”

  “Let’s just say I shouldn’t look too much like myself for a while.” Catherine tried for a reassuring smile. “I’m still working on the Sand Creek story,” she said.

  “You’re doing a fine job. I read your articles. Tribal elders don’t usually talk to outsiders. They must accept you.”

  She stopped herself from saying, They think I’m Arapaho. What difference did her ethnicity make, whatever it was? She was a reporter, and a yellow-
haired man was trying to kill her before she reported something that she didn’t even know. She asked to see a copy of the Fort Laramie Treaty and any other documents that might refer to Sand Creek.

  He headed across the reading room into a row of stacks, and she understood she was supposed to follow. He walked down the shelves, tapping a pencil in the palm of his hand. The faint smell of dust and old leather permeated the air. Finally he stopped and withdrew a four-inch-thick volume. She caught a glimpse of the title: Indian Treaties. He located two other volumes and stacked them in the crook of his arm. “You might want to look at statements from early settlers,” he said, throwing the comment over one shoulder as they walked to the end of the row and emerged in the reading room. He set the volumes on a table off by itself.

  Catherine slid onto the hard wood seat, conscious of the soft padding of Andy’s footsteps back through the stacks. Daylight streamed through the windows overhead. It was one of the features that she loved about the design of the library, a mixture of beige and reddish towers and vertical rectangles and windows that invited the daylight and the outdoors into every area.

  She opened the top volume, Indian Treaties, ran her finger down the table of contents, and turned to the Fort Laramie Treaty. The pages were thin, almost glued together from age and disuse. She skimmed through the introduction, the backstory to the treaty itself:

  Thomas Fitzpatrick, the government agent, traveled around the plains in the spring and summer of 1851 instructing the Arapaho, Cheyenne, Sioux, Assiniboine, Arikara, Gros Ventre, Crow, and Shoshone tribes to assemble at Fort Laramie on the Platte River for a treaty council with representatives of the Great White Father in Washington. By the end of the summer, ten thousand Indians were camped near the fort with thousands and thousands of horses. So many that in a short time, the horses had depleted the wild grasses and Fitzpatrick had been forced to move the council site to Horse Creek, thirty-seven miles away, where the wild grasses were plentiful.