Blood Memory

by Margaret Coel

  “Nick.”

  “None of this is making sense. Professional shooters can hit the target. The bastard hit Maury instead of me. He hit that poor guy in the cable van instead of me.”

  “The rifling on the bullets is the same,” Bustamante said. “It’s the same man.” He leaned across the table, coming closer. “Ever heard of the Drake Wake?”

  “I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

  “When I was a kid, Dad took me and my brother Donnie to Boulder for the University of Colorado-Drake football game. CU had an awe-some team. They were beating everybody. Drake was going nowhere that season. Of course CU was favored to win.”

  “But Drake won.” She had the faintest memory of Dad talking about that game. She took a small bite of the toast and willed it to stay down.

  “Drake won because the CU team got overconfident and lazy and didn’t play their best game. They didn’t believe they had to. They let down, but the Drake team didn’t let down for a minute. The CU campus and the whole town went into mourning.”

  He sat back and took a long drink of coffee. “Female reporter at a major newspaper, regular routine. Walks her dog every night. A bit like a plastic duck in a shooting gallery. He could have taken you out on the street. Why didn’t he? It was so easy, he wanted to make it more interesting, so he followed you home, intending to break into the town house. But Maury showed up, which was more than he could have hoped for. He would have shot both of you, and we would have been chasing our tails trying to figure out which one of you had been the target, or whether the killer had randomly picked your house. But he wasn’t at the top of his game. I mean, who was the opponent? Drake? And that was his mistake, not giving you enough credit. Before he broke in, he gave you enough time to call Maury and the police. Out on the highway, he was set to pull the trigger when you veered off the road and the van sped ahead. He underestimated you.”

  He put up his hand before she could say anything. “I’ve talked to the detectives working the other cases. They have an FBI profile on this guy. Probably came out of the military, some kind of special forces. Possibly trained as a sniper. Found civilian life boring, so he joined one of the security companies with government contracts in places like Iraq. Call them mercenaries or rent-a-cops, it doesn’t matter. The men are highly trained professional shooters.” He took another sip of coffee, studying the table a moment. “Profile says he probably got tired of dodging car bombs in Baghdad and became a private contractor. How he finds clients, we don’t know. We can only surmise that clients have figured out a way to find people like him, possibly through some rogue guy at one of the security companies. Somebody hired him to kill you.”

  “It’s not Lawrence,” Catherine said. “How would he find somebody like that? I know, I know,” she hurried on before he could interrupt. “That’s another question you intend to ask. I told you before. This has to do with the story I’m working on. Somebody wants me dead before I can fill in the gaps and write the whole story.”

  She started to tell him about the windfall coming to Arcott Enterprises and Denver Land Company if Congress settled the Arapaho and Cheyenne land claims. He raised his hand again. “I read your articles. Arcott Enterprises plans to construct and operate a casino for a fee. Perfectly legitimate. Denver Land can trade the acres to the government for more valuable land somewhere else. That’s up to Congress.”

  He waited a couple of beats. “What are they afraid you might find? And why you? Other reporters are also covering the proposal.”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “Have you heard from him again?”

  She fished through her bag, pulled out the note Erik had left at the hotel, and pushed it along the table.

  Bustamante read it, then he said, “I’ve spoken to the district attorney. Since you’re the witness to a murder, you are eligible for the witness protection program. You’ll be sent to another city until we make an arrest.”

  “He’d find me,” Catherine said. “He found me at the hotel. He can find me anywhere. I can’t spend the rest of my life running.” She pushed away the plate with half a slice of toast still left. Nausea had invaded her stomach again. “He’s trying to take everything from me. Maury. My home. My dog. My job. I’m trying to hold on, Nick. Don’t you see? I’m trying to hold on to something. I have to stay with this story. He can’t take everything.”

  “He wants to take your life, Catherine.”

  “I’m not sure of who I am anymore.”

  “What do you mean? So you cut your hair and dyed it. It can grow back to the way it was.” He tilted his head sideways and looked at her a moment. She could feel his eyes burning into her. “What is it?”

  “Nothing,” she said and she gave a little wave. He was still watching her. “Something I found in my research into Sand Creek. A white man on the plains named Thomas Fitzpatrick could have married an Arapaho woman. My natural mother was Arapaho and her name had been Fitzpatrick.”

  “So you came across an ancestor.”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t know anything about my mother’s family. I don’t know where I came from. I don’t know my own heritage.”

  “Is that what this is all about? You’re determined to stay with the story to find out about your own heritage?”

  That was it, she realized, and the calm way in which Nick Bustamante had phrased it, dissolved the whole craziness and left in its place something that seemed obvious. If she could sort out the past, then maybe she could find the strength to hold on to the present. No matter the color or length of her hair, no matter how much was lost, she would know for certain who she was.

  “He won’t drive me away,” she said. “We have to lure him to someplace where I’ll be. You can arrest him then.”

  “Do you know what you’re saying? He’s a professional shooter, a sniper. He can pick you off a block away. From a rooftop or a second-floor window, if he knows where you are.”

  “So I keep running and hiding and waiting for him to find me?”

  “There might be another way.” Bustamante let his eyes roam over the parking lot for a long moment.

  “Tell me, Nick.”

  She locked her eyes on his, and he went on: “Think like he thinks. His other plans didn’t work. He’s tired of chasing you around the city. What would you do in his place?”

  Catherine was quite a moment. “Try to get me to come to him.”

  “Exactly. He’ll set up a meeting. You’ll think you’re going to meet someone you know and trust, but it will be him.”

  “He could shoot me from a block away, like you said.”

  “But he’ll be off his guard. He won’t think you suspect anything. Instead of shooting you when you were walking the dog, he decided to indulge his sadistic streak. I think he’ll do that again. He’ll want to get up close and personal. We’ll have plainclothes all around when you go to the meeting. I won’t be more than a few feet away. You think you could do it?”

  Catherine nodded. “He killed Maury.”

  “Okay. Anybody called to set up a meeting with you?”

  She told him about meeting this afternoon with Professor Morrow at CU-Denver.

  “Call the school,” he said. “Don’t use the callback number.”

  Catherine dragged the cell out of her bag, found the number for CU-Denver in her phone book, and pressed the key. She went through two automatic voices before a male voice came on the other end. “Professor Morrow?” she said.

  “Yes. Who’s calling?”

  “Catherine McLeod,” she said. “I’m calling to confirm our meeting this afternoon at three.”

  “Yes, Ms. McLeod. I’m looking forward to talking with you.”

  She said she would see him then and pressed the end key. “I think it’s legitimate,” she said.

  Bustamante was nodding and half smiling, the corners of his mouth barely turning up. “You’re a very brave woman, Catherine McLeod,” he said.

  “You’re wrong,” she sai
d.

  The B&B was quiet, apart from the soft burr of the air-conditioning and the creak of the stairs under her footsteps. Catherine let herself into her room and sat down at the desk. The sun streamed slantwise through the curtains, a hazy column of light falling over the carpet. She took her cell out of her bag and placed it next to the laptop. She placed her hands over them—the cool, hard metal. Cell and laptop. The last connections to her life.

  She opened the laptop and clicked on mail. She realized she was holding her breath, and she licked her lips. They tasted faintly of tea. The usual e-mails materialized on the screen, nothing from him, whoever he was. A professional killer, Bustamante said. An assassin. She forced herself to take in a long breath.

  Bustamante had dropped her at the bed-and-breakfast ten minutes ago. The owner had been waiting in the entry, all eagerness and smiles. “Coffee?” “No, thank you.” “Interview go well?” “Very well, thank you.” The woman had seen everything, Catherine realized—the police car, the blue sedan, Bustamante coming up the walk. She was like a caged animal, stuck in a B&B every day, far away from her normal environment, eager to pick up any scraps about what it was like out there. Not unlike herself, Catherine thought. Hiding from her own life, pushed farther and farther back into a cage.

  She glanced through the messages. At least two dozen comments from readers following the casino story. Most had read between the lines and gotten the point she’d hoped to make: two companies positioned to make windfall profits if Congress approved a settlement with the tribes. “Who’s behind this casino plan, anyway? The Indians or the companies?” “Looks like the tribes are about to be cheated again. Is this a bad, nineteenth-century joke?”

  All the comments echoed one another. She could hear the voice of one of her journalism professors, a hardened veteran of the newspaper business, booming in her ears. Give the readers information. They’ll reach their own conclusions. Maybe they’ll agree with yours, maybe they won’t. Doesn’t matter. Just make sure you give them all the information and you get it right.

  But she didn’t have all the information. She picked up the cell and pressed the number for Norman Whitehorse. His voice mail clicked on, and she said, “We need to talk. Where can I meet you?”

  She ended the call and tapped out the number for the Journal. Three, four rings, and finally, the receptionist’s familiar voice: “Catherine, is that you?”

  “It’s me. I need to speak to Violet.”

  “We’re all worried about you. It’s terrible about your friend.”

  Catherine was quiet a moment. “Yes, terrible,” she managed. “Is Violet in today?”

  “Think I saw her come in,” she said, notes of disappointment ringing through her tone, as if she’d wanted to go on about Maury and the killer and how Catherine still couldn’t come to the office. “Hold on,” she said.

  The cell went dead for a moment, then Violet was on, her voice as clear and crisp as if she were in the room. “It’s terrible about Maury. Everybody’s really sad. You said he was a great guy.”

  “He was.”

  “You shouldn’t blame yourself. I mean, it wasn’t your fault.”

  “Listen, Violet,” Catherine said, not wanting to be sucked down again into the well of guilt and grief. “I need the title records for the five hundred acres owned by Denver Land Company.” Title records could have the names of the owners, she was thinking.

  “I don’t know about today. It’s Saturday. County clerk offices are closed.”

  “As soon as you can get them,” Catherine said.

  She started to thank her, moving her finger to the end key, when Violet said: “Marjorie’s been trying to reach you. So has Jason. He’s doing a follow-up to your story. You checked your voice mail?”

  Catherine closed her eyes a moment and tilted her head back against the chair. She hadn’t wanted to check her voice mail this morning. She hadn’t wanted the sound of his voice cutting through the blur of pain and nausea.

  “Catherine?”

  “I’ll call her later,” Catherine said, wanting now only to end the call. She had no intention of returning any of Jason’s calls. And she knew what Marjorie would say. The killer was still walking around. She should back off the story, go visit a friend in L.A. or New York or Timbuktu, go into the witness protection program. Give up. Let the killer rob her of what was left of her life and turn her into a ghost of herself, a walking and breathing ghost.

  And Maury’s killer would go on. She pressed the end key and listened for a second to the deadened silence before she spun the cell across the desk.

  26

  Catherine waited for the walk light on the other side of Speer Boulevard. Through the traffic, she could see a few weekend students walking along the sidewalks of the grassy campus. The light changed, tires squealed, and she set off with several students, backpacks bouncing on their backs.

  She had parked in a lot a few blocks away and walked through Larimer Square, slightly out of breath, her mouth dry and the headache crouching like a beast ready to pounce again. She had always liked Larimer Square, the oldest buildings in the city lining the street, two stories high and bricked with the irregular bricks from the city’s first kilns. A sense of the past floated like a ghost around the traffic and the crowds heading into the trendy restaurants and shops. And somewhere she had read that Chief Left Hand had gone to the Apollo Theater on Larimer Street, watched a performance, then jumped onto the stage and given a speech. He had told the audience to take their gold and leave the Arapaho lands. He spoke fluent English. The newcomers knew him and respected him.

  They killed him at Sand Creek.

  Catherine thought about that as she made her way down the empty Saturday corridors of the North Building and up the stairs to the fifth floor. She found the King Center. The door was locked. This was a bad idea, she was thinking. Almost no one around, apart from the few students emerging out of the stairwell and disappearing around a corner, voices echoing into the silence.

  She walked down the hall past the closed doors, checking the names printed on white cards below the pebbled glass windows and knocked on the door with Professor Morrow’s name on the card. Silence. She kept going to the end of the corridor and flattened herself into a corner next to the window. The traffic on Speer Boulevard streamed below. A scattering of students moved through campus. He’ll try to lure you somewhere, Bustamante had said, and he’ll be waiting.

  There was nothing unusual below: brown sedans driving past now and then, but they kept going. And what did it matter? He would no longer be driving a brown sedan. He could be in any of the vehicles. He could be anywhere. But there was no one with yellow hair walking about the campus or coming down the corridor. Still, she held her bag against her stomach and worked her fingers into the leather.

  A middle-aged man stepped off the elevator and headed toward the door down from the History Department. Black, straight hair that brushed the collar of a blue shirt, blue jeans, and boots that clumped on the hard floor. Except for the stack of books and folders clutched at his side, he could play the role of a cowboy on any stage. Or an Indian, she thought. She watched as he fished a key out of his jeans pocket and let himself into the office. A couple of students were getting off the elevator now, but they walked around a corner. No one else heading for the office.

  Catherine pushed herself off the wall, walked over, and knocked on the closed door.

  “Come in.” The voice inside was low pitched and smooth, the bass voice of a singer. She stepped into the small office and left the door ajar behind her. It was like wandering into a cave of books: books filed on the shelves against the walls, stacked on the floor and the pair of chairs, stacked across one side of the desk, and only the smallest window letting in a slice of daylight. Sam Morrow stood between the desk and a worn, leather chair, peering down at the pages of an opened book.

  “I’m Catherine McLeod,” she said. “We have an appointment.”

  “Yes, yes.” He waved at one of
the chairs covered with books, not lifting his eyes from the pages. Catherine picked up the books, laid them on the floor next to another stack, and sat down. She took her notepad and pen from her bag and waited. He was in his forties, she guessed, dark complexion and black eyebrows running together in concentration, hard-set jaw. A couple of seconds passed before he straightened his back and turned toward her. “Rechecking a few facts before we talk,” he said. “You’ve taken on a controversial subject.”

  “I don’t understand,” Catherine said.

  “The Sand Creek Massacre?” He sank into the chair behind him. “There are scholars who disagree with the term.”

  Catherine waited for him to go on. “They cite certain evidence— reports and documents, oral histories.” He set a fist in the spine of the opened book. “The early 1860s were a tumultuous time here,” he said, tilting his head toward the window and the city beyond. “Cheyennes, Arapahos, even Sioux, attacking settlements and wagon trains. In August of 1864, Indians shut down the Platte River Road. Imagine what that must have been like for the settlers camped along Cherry Creek. No farms, no ranches for beef. Everything had to be brought by wagon from Omaha or St. Louis. Flour, sugar, fruits, vegetables, meat. Tools of all kinds, bolts of cloth for shirts and pants, leather for boots. Horses and mules and wagons. All coming from far away, and the flow of supplies stopped by bands of hostile Indians.”

  “They were being driven off their own lands.” Catherine could see the stories unfolding across the pages she had read. “The newcomers were slaughtering the buffalo, driving off what was left of the herds so that the warriors had to ride for days to get food for the villages.” She leaned forward. “The people were hungry, the children were sick. The soldiers attacked villages indiscriminately and killed people who had nothing to do with the hostiles. They killed families of Arapahos and Cheyennes at Sand Creek who were there with the peace chiefs.”

  “A tumultuous time.” The professor crossed his hands over his stomach and gave her a smile. “Some believe the Indians got what they deserved.”