“Is that what you believe?” She was oddly aware of the pressure of the pen in her hand.
For a moment, she thought he was about to say yes, that he would cite some document as evidence. She was a reporter. She would have to include the document in her story. And she didn’t know how she could then look into the eyes of the elders.
“The historical records speak for themselves,” Morrow said. “Sand Creek was a horrific attack on Indians who believed themselves safe. The atrocities were unconscionable. Nevertheless, there are scholars who will oppose additional settlements for the tribes,” he said. “Quite apart from any consideration of a casino.”
“Is that why you called me?” she said, scribbling notes on the pad.
He shook his head. “Those scholars are entitled to their opinions. The academy does not agree, and in my opinion, neither will Congress. In the Treaty of the Little Arkansas and the Treaty of Medicine Lodge, both held after Sand Creek, the government acknowledged the injustices against the tribes. We can be reasonably sure the transcriptions are accurate. The translator was Margaret Fitzpatrick—”
Catherine cut in: “Margaret Fitzpatrick? Who was she?”
“The widow of the government agent, Thomas Fitzpatrick. Actually her name was Wilmarth. Fitzpatrick had died and she’d remarried by the time of the treaties. The tribes respected her because she was the oldest daughter of Mahom, Chief Left Hand’s sister. And because she was Fitzpatrick’s widow. He had been a good friend to the Indians.”
And these were her Arapaho ancestors, Catherine was thinking. Mahom, the sister of Chief Left Hand. And her daughter, Margaret Fitzpatrick. “She was a squaw,” she said.
“Fitzpatrick never treated her like a squaw. The historical record shows that he treated her with respect. Sent her to St. Louis to be educated. She used her education to help her people. Too often the interpreters interpreted agreements with the Indians the way the whites wanted. The Arapahos insisted on Margaret as the official interpreter for the treaties. They knew she would speak the truth.”
She could feel him watching her. There was so much she would have liked to ask about Margaret Fitzpatrick. But that was her story, not the story she was covering. When she didn’t say anything, he said, “The point is, the government acknowledged the injustices and the loss of lands shortly after Sand Creek. Three government commissions investigated the attack, and all condemned it. People cheered Chivington and his troops in the streets of Denver, but around the country, people were outraged. Nevertheless, people who believe Sand Creek was justified will line up with the governor to oppose any additional settlement.”
“The elders say that Sand Creek was an act of genocide. Do you agree?”
“I believe the bulk of historical evidence supports that claim. But what happened at Sand Creek shouldn’t be confused with any claims the tribes make on their ancestral lands. The loss of their lands and the massacre are separate events. The descendants of people killed at Sand Creek are entitled to pursue their own land claims as reparations, but that’s a different matter. The tribes have already been compensated for the loss of their lands. It may have taken Congress a hundred years to approve a settlement, but the Arapahos and Cheyennes received $15 million in 1965.”
Catherine felt slightly dizzy as she made her way down the stairs, through the glass doors, and into the heat rising off the concrete walkways. The headache crouched like a mountain lion in her head, ready to pounce. This was new, everything that Professor Morrow had said. The claim of genocide and the claim on the tribal lands were separate issues, and yet the tribes had linked them together, counting on Sand Creek to make the casino a reality. Maybe Arcott had hit upon the scheme, but Norman Whitehorse and the elders had gone along.
She hurried down the sidewalk, shading the cell with her hand, forcing herself to skim the list of messages. Traffic streamed past—the hum of tires and the faint odors of exhaust and boiling asphalt. For a second, she had to close her eyes against the earth heaving around her and the white clouds tumbling through the sky. She bent her head closer to the cell. A text message from Norman. “Nd talk private. Confluence Park. 4:00 p.m.”
She tapped out the keys: C U Th.
Then she went into her voice mail. Another message from Lawrence: “Call me. We have to talk.” And a message from Marjorie. “Stop avoiding me, Catherine. Get back to me immediately.”
She forced herself to call Lawrence. He would never stop calling until she returned his calls. It surprised her how quickly he answered. “For Christ’s sake, Catherine, what the hell’s going on?”
She knew then that Bustamante had asked Lawrence Stern to come to police headquarters with the courthouses nearby and every chance of one of his attorney friends taking in the whole charade. “Someone’s trying to kill me,” she said.
“I understand that.” She could hear the incredulity in his voice, imagine the way he was shaking his head. “Surely there’s some explanation for . . .” He hesitated. “This craziness. Listen, I want to see you. I’m worried about you, and I want to talk with you. Have dinner with me tonight, Catherine.”
Before she could say anything, he went on: “I’m not taking no for an answer. We have to talk.” Then he was giving her the name of a restaurant—“Just opened, quaint little place, excellent food, quiet street off Thirteenth Avenue”—and telling her he’d made reservations for eight o’clock. She heard herself agree. She’d meet him there, she said, and they would sit at a quiet table near the back where they could talk privately.
She crossed Speer Boulevard and headed down Larimer Street, tapping Marjorie’s number as she went.
27
“Listen, Catherine.” A sharpness cut through Marjorie’s voice. “It’s not safe for you out there. Maury Beekner’s dead. The cops have been here all morning asking the same questions—who’s trying to kill you and why?”
Catherine pressed the cell hard against her ear and dodged past the couple window shopping on Larimer Street. “I can take care of myself, Marjorie.” A horn blasted, and a sedan took a sharp right into the outside lane. “Don’t worry about me.”
“Don’t worry about you? My God, you’re a journalist and somebody wants you dead? This is news, Catherine. Jason needs to talk to you. He’s been trying to reach you all day. I can put him on now. We’re running the story on the front page of tomorrow’s paper.”
“Don’t do that! The killer doesn’t know!” Catherine heard herself shouting. She pushed ahead of the crowd at the corner and crossed Fifteenth Street on the red light, slowing for an oncoming pickup, running ahead of the sedan that screamed toward her, brakes squealing, horn honking. “If you run the story, he’ll know that I know he’s trying to kill me because of what I’m writing.”
“Well, what the hell are you writing? I haven’t seen anything in the casino stories that would make someone want to kill you. Certainly not for anything you’ve written about the Sand Creek Massacre. Please, it happened in the nineteenth century, for godssakes.”
Catherine dodged the thick black wire that ran around the parking lot and wove past the parked vehicles toward the rental car on the far side. “I’m on to something,” Catherine said. “He’s trying to stop me from making it public.”
“What? What are you on to?”
“I don’t know yet, but I’m getting close. I can feel it.” She fumbled inside the bag for the keys and pressed the unlock button. “Listen, Marjorie,” she said. “There’s a briefing Monday in Washington. I have to be there.” She started the engine and turned on the air-conditioning. A stream of cool air blasted through the heat inside the car.
“What? No way. You’d be too exposed, too vulnerable. The man who’s trying to kill you could be there, too.”
“He doesn’t know what I look like now,” Catherine said. She hoped that was true. “This is my story.”
“I’ll send Jason. You can get him up to speed on the story.”
“No! Marjorie, this is my story. I’m on my way to s
ee Norman Whitehorse. I intend to find out how the tribes got involved in the first place. I want to know if the Northern Arapahos and Cheyennes are in agreement with the tribes in Oklahoma. I want to know what kind of deal Arcott and Denver Land Company have cut for themselves in the casino. You’ll have the story in time for tomorrow’s paper.”
“We have to be careful,” Marjorie said. “Arcott and the lawyer for the company—”
“Jordan Rummage.”
“—will sue if we run anything that casts an unfavorable light on them. You’d better have the evidence.”
“I’m working on it,” Catherine said. “I’ll fly to Washington first thing Monday, cover the briefing, and fly back that night.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Marjorie, I have to do this.” Catherine pressed her thumb on the end key and steered the car across the lot and out into the traffic heading west. The numbers glowed yellow in the dashboard: 3:50 p.m. Ten minutes before the meeting with Norman. She took the viaduct across the Platte River and swung left. As she circled back toward the park where Cherry Creek flowed into the Platte, she could see kayakers paddling the rapids, bicyclists, and runners on the river walk, kids tossing Frisbees on the grassy slopes, a family spreading a blanket for a picnic. This place, this spit of land between the creek and the river, close to the log cabins and tents that the gold seekers had pitched on a rutted dirt path that would become Larimer Street, was once the site of an Arapaho village. Her people had lived here, she thought, her own people. She blinked at the salty tears stinging her eyes and blurring the road that curved ahead. She had never thought that she had her own people.
She drove past two small parking lots—both full—and kept going. The trolley that ran along the South Platte clanged past, faces of the passengers framed in the open windows. She found a space in the strip lot wedged between the walkway and the trolley tracks and started walking toward the park. The sun was still hot, a yellow glow in the sky that made the mountains loom closer, as if she might walk a little farther and lose herself among the rocky slopes. She reached the concrete landing above the steps that led down to the confluence of the rivers. The sounds of children—laughter and squealing—floated toward her from the grassy slopes. On a platform adjacent to the banks of the South Platte, men were setting up microphones and speakers. There would be a concert this evening, crowds of people would be here. Already more picnickers were staking out places on the slope. It would be a lovely summer evening, she thought. The sun would set, the sky would turn crimson, and coolness would invade the air. A normal evening, people doing normal things.
She stood on the landing and searched the faces of the kayakers and runners passing below, the men hauling coolers toward blankets spread on the slope. She couldn’t spot Norman anywhere.
She moved back along the metal railing and folded herself into the shade near one of the posts, still watching people moving about, but watching them differently now, she realized, the way the hunted watch the hunter. She pulled her shoulder bag around, found her cell, and tapped out Norman’s number. She hadn’t talked to Norman, hadn’t heard his voice setting up the meeting. God. She’d relied on a text message! She listened to the ringing, frozen in space. The voice mail kicked in: Sorry, you’ve missed me. Leave your name and number. She hit the end key and slipped the cell back into her bag. She kept the bag in front of her. And that made her give a gasp of laughter, as if the thin leather bag could stop a bullet. He was down there somewhere, pulling the oars in a kayak, locking his bicycle to a stairway railing. He was the one waiting for her, not Norman Whitehorse.
She realized the phone was jingling, and she dug into the bag again until her fingers curled around the familiar metal shape. YellowBull, the readout said. She opened the phone and cradled it against her ear. “This is Catherine,” she said. She waited for the sound of the elder’s voice.
There was a long pause, then Norman’s voice came on: “Sorry I couldn’t get back to you earlier today.”
“Why are you using Harold YellowBull’s cell?” She could feel the knot tightening in her stomach.
“Listen, Catherine. It’s been hectic as hell. Along with everything else, somebody lifted my cell out of the car this afternoon. Everything’s moving pretty fast. Congress has scheduled a briefing Monday. We’re heading to Washington. Meet with some congressmen tomorrow. Try to get their support.”
“Where are you now?” Her own voice sounded strained and breathless, far away, as if it belonged to someone else.
“Airport. Plane leaves in a little while. I intended to call you, Catherine. Sorry . . .”
She snapped the phone shut, spun around, and headed back along the concrete walkway. The trolley rumbled behind her. She dodged the families heading toward the park, the baby strollers and dogs on leases and toddlers dawdling behind, the sound of Bustamante’s voice in her ear. He can pick you off a block away. From a rooftop or a second-floor window. You’ll never hear the shot. There were buildings around, windows that looked out over the park. He could be crouched in one of the windows waiting until she came into view. My God, he could try to shoot her here, with families strolling by. He’d missed before, and he’d killed Maury. He’d killed the cable van driver. He might kill one of the children.
She veered off the sidewalk, crossed the strip of grass, and darted across the tracks in front of the trolley. The bell clanged, brakes squealed. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw orange sparks sprinkling the air. The trolley grinding to a halt. The momentum propelled her down a little slope, and then she was sliding sideways, grasping at the bushes and clumps of grass that pricked her hands. A sharp pain exploded in her knee as she came down hard on the sidewalk. She pushed herself to her feet, rubbed at the pain circling cyclonelike down her calf and up into her thigh, then made herself hurry on. The trolley screamed in outrage on the track above, but it had started moving again. She could feel the hard stares of the passengers peering down on her.
She kept going. As soon as the trolley passed, she dragged herself up the slope and across the tracks into the parking lot. Hunched over, one hand gripping her knee, she hobbled between the parked cars toward the Taurus. Then she was plunging around the curve, back out onto Speer and heading west up the hill into Highlands. She wove through the traffic, changing lanes, steering with one hand, rubbing her knee with the other. Knowing only one thing: she had to get away from Confluence Park.
He could be behind her. Oh, he was clever, Erik the professional killer. He had known she would agree to a meeting with Norman. He had found a way to get Norman’s cell. But he didn’t know which lot she would park in, from which direction she would approach the park. And that had been a mistake, she realized. He could have text messaged her to meet him in a specific lot and shot her there. But he hadn’t.
He was still playing with her. The Drake Wake, Bustamante had called it. A certain attitude that kept him from admitting she was his equal, that she could sense his presence—as real as if she had reached out and touched the dried texture of his skin. He hadn’t known, he hadn’t understood, and neither had she, she realized, that her people had been hunted before, hiding in the villages with troops bearing down, sabers and rifles flashing in the sun, artillery clanking. And whatever had allowed them to survive—some instinct, some fierce and implacable force to live—that was in her.
She turned right into a residential neighborhood and drove around several blocks, up and down alleys, all the time watching the rearview mirror and the side mirrors. An occasional car lumbered into view, then disappeared. There was no one following her. She was in a maze of bungalows, oak trees, groomed lawns, and parked cars, like the people fleeing Sand Creek, running up the creek bed, darting through a maze of dried brush and rocks and little caves dug out by hand in the sandy slopes where they sheltered for a moment before running on. They had survived. Her ancestors had been among the survivors.
She pulled against the curb ahead of a pickup and ran the palms of her hands across
her cheeks. Her palms were wet, as if she’d held them under a running faucet. Oh, she was so brave, telling herself she would survive. What a bunch of crap. So many hadn’t survived. Chief Left Hand, savvy and smart and on to white people. Hadn’t he visited their ranches, sat at their kitchen tables and drunk their coffee, given interviews to their newspaper reporters? They had killed him. But his sister, Mahom, and her young children had survived. It was her oldest daughter, Margaret, who had been married to Thomas Fitzpatrick.
She turned off the air-conditioning. She was trembling with cold, and yet the sun shimmered on the hood and burst past the windshield. She could barely feel the brief waves of warmth lapping toward the cubes of ice that her arms and legs had become. Her knee felt numb with cold, and for that she was grateful. She found her cell and called Bustamante, holding her breath, half expecting the voice of an answering machine.
“What’s happened?” It was Bustamante’s voice over the hum of the engine and the air conditioner.
“He was at Confluence Park,” she said. Then she blurted out the whole story, the text message and the way she had followed directions. Stupid. Stupid.
“Where are you?”
She closed her eyes and tried to picture the street signs when she’d come around the corner. Thirty-sixth Avenue. Perry? Osceola? Somewhere along the street.
“Stay where you are,” he said. “Unless . . .” He broke off, but the unspoken message was as loud as if he’d shouted into her ear. Unless you spot him.
She kept the engine running, her eyes darting from the windows to the mirrors, taking in everything. The blue sedan pulling up across the street, the man hoisting a briefcase out of the backseat, slamming the doors and—a quick glance her way—heading up the sidewalk and disappearing inside the redbrick bungalow. The woman pushing a stroller along the sidewalk, bumping it over the curb and crossing the street. The sound of a dog yapping in a yard somewhere far away.
Blood Memory Page 25