by Carol Coffey
Han Pauls looked towards his home as if about to take Locklear inside.
“Come back to the store,” he said then. “We can talk there.”
Locklear walked behind the old man as he shuffled along the side entrance to the store. He reckoned Pauls was over eighty years old but he was still not taking any chances by walking in front of a man who could have a weapon hidden on his person or hidden somewhere along the side entrance to the store. He entered the store in the same way, after Pauls.
Locklear looked in the back to ensure there was no-one else there but the back room, which was a nothing more than a small dusty storeroom, was empty.
Locklear stopped at the photo of Pauls with Barack Obama.
“What was he like?” he asked.
Han took a seat inside the store’s front door.
“He was the only president to deliver on a pledge to settle the Native American legal action on our lands and the resources on those lands.”
Locklear nodded.
“You got ID?” Han asked.
Locklear took out his driving licence and showed it to him.
“I meant your PD ID.”
Locklear shrugged. “Station captain took it off me. It’s a long story.”
“I see.” After a pause he asked, “Where are you from?”
“Everywhere,” Locklear replied.
“Do I know you? I think I’ve seen you before.”
“I’m getting that a lot lately.”
Han fixed his tiny brown eyes on Locklear from his seat.
Locklear, uncomfortable with the old man’s stare, tried to think of something to say.
“I used to be a police officer in Rapid City but that was a long time ago.”
Han shook his head. “No, that’s not it.”
Locklear shrugged.
Han continued to look perturbed by Locklear’s presence.
“I know someone whose family is from here,” Locklear said. “O’Brien. He’s a cop at my station. He’ll vouch for me if you want to call him.”
“I know O’Brien. He was a young cop here for a short time. Smart guy.”
“O’Brien was stationed here?” Locklear asked, surprised by the revelation.
“I’d have thought you would have known that.” Another pause. “What does he look like?”
Locklear grinned at the test. “He’s a weird-looking guy. Tall, thin. Pale face, jet-black hair. And I know he’s a member of your movement.”
“Anything else?”
“He has a scar on his cheek where he got a mole or maybe a birthmark removed.”
“It was a bullet. A flesh wound. Lucky for him it didn’t enter his skull.”
“Someone shot him? When?”
Han didn’t answer.
“What work does your movement do?” Locklear asked.
“Everything.”
“Meaning?”
“We do everything we can to fight for the rights of our people. Economic rights, cultural rights, legal rights, the right to manage our own land and fight for the restoration of our lands and we file legal suits over broken treaties.”
“You do all that from here?” Locklear asked as he surveyed the small rundown store which did not appear to even have a computer.
“It’s a nationwide movement. We are just a small sister-branch of a much larger organisation.”
“And you achieve all this how?”
“Demonstrations. Legal challenges. Marches. We do whatever we can to make our demands known.”
“Does that include violence?”
Han looked up from his seat. “No. We advocate achieving our goals through peaceful means.”
“Tell me what you can about Whitefeather.”
“He’s dead,” Han replied.
“I know that!” Locklear snapped.
“Then what does it matter? He’s with his ancestors now. This life’s journey no longer matters for him.”
“A friend of mine is being blamed for the murder of a man in Richmond, a man that Whitefeather threatened.”
“And you think Whitefeather killed him?” Han laughed.
Locklear did not reply.
“Albert was an angry man – but murder? He wasn’t capable of that.”
“What was he capable of?” Locklear asked.
Han stood and shifted slowly behind his counter. Locklear watched as he lifted a bottle of water from a shelf and drank it down quickly.
“Albert saw a lot in Iraq. He had a propensity for violence that we didn’t advocate in the organisation. We started to receive a lot of complaints about him.”
“About what exactly?”
“Intimidation. Trying to get access to various Government offices to protest without authorisation. Threatening staff in those organisations. His behaviour became a problem and reflected negatively on the movement.”
“How did your organisation afford to fly Albert to the various places he went to support the movement?”
Han lifted a dreamcatcher from the shelf and blew the dust from its web.
“We didn’t.”
“Albert’s landlady said he was frequently away on protests or attending meetings in other states.”
“Whitefeather wasn’t representing this movement. He was expelled from the organisation more than eighteen months ago.”
“Why?”
Han lifted another item from a shelf and stared at it as though he had never seen it before. He shook his head wearily at the tacky six-inch plastic statue of a brave in Native American clothing wielding a spear. Locklear glanced at the item and wondered why a man like Han Pauls would sell such things while simultaneously fighting for respect for indigenous people.
“Sometimes our organisation attracted men and women with more fundamentalist views than those held by the movement,” he said. “They were usually younger, less patient folk who became frustrated by the slow progress of the movement.”
“And Whitefeather was one of these?”
Han Pauls did not answer.
“What about Daccota Looks-Twice? Was he also expelled?”
Pauls looked alarmed by the question. “Do you know Looks-Twice?” He squinted at Locklear as if to get a better look at him.
“No. Eddie Grass mentioned him to me.”
“Eddie spoke out of turn.”
“Why?”
“Daccota Looks-Twice was once an important member of our community. A tribal police officer. He made mistakes. He is no longer associated with the movement.”
“I asked you if he was expelled.”
“There was a disagreement about how to handle some archaeology digs just outside Pine Ridge. Daccota’s land adjoined the area the dig was situated on. He said the university people came onto his land and had disturbed his ancestors’ graves and took sacred items that they found. He threatened people and he was facing charges from the police who said the university staff insisted they had stayed within the boundaries of government-owned land. There was no evidence that they had come onto his land. I think the townspeople believed him and some may even have agreed with what he did. The case went to court and Looks-Twice was bound to the peace for five years. Two days later, he shot a cop.”
“Did the cop live?”
“Yes. It was O’Brien that he shot. Beat him up first and then shot him. Left him for dead on a dirt road. Lucky for him a passer-by stopped and took him to hospital. Looks-Twice wasn’t so lucky. He fired the gun with one hand. Recoil made the gun shoot out of his hand and caused a nasty facial wound. Looks like someone etched an arrow across his forehead. O’Brien refused to file charges. Looks-Twice left the movement before he was asked to.”
Locklear thought about Jim Hunter and wondered if the young student was related to Looks-Twice.
“Did he have any children?”
“No. He didn’t marry. Daccota has had a difficult life. He endured a lot of tragedy. I hear that he is no longer in touch with his extended family. He’s more or less cut himself off from the community
. My heart is with him. He made mistakes but he has my sympathies.”
“Where would I find him?”
“I’d advise against you going near him and I really mean that. Way he is now, he’d shoot anyone coming up onto his land and ask questions later.”
“I think I can handle myself,” Locklear retorted.
Han smiled wearily. “He lives about ten miles outside of Pine Ridge off Route 18. Turn off after the Shell station and follow the road up about two miles. You’ll hear his dogs before you see the house so be careful and don’t go there alone.”
Locklear inhaled and wondered if he would wait for Mendoza to return before making a trip to meet Looks-Twice or if it would be better for him to go now in the hope that it would move the investigation forward.
“How much do you know about Pine Ridge or indeed about life on any reservation?” Pauls asked.
“Apart from what’s obvious?”
“Used to be we were a proud race, a self-reliant race. We hunted and killed our own food. The land we lived on provided what we needed. Then the whites came and took that land from us. They killed the buffalo and drove us onto reservations. They took our weapons and killed many of our people. To what was left of our people, they gave food we did not know how to cook. They gave us clothes we did not know how to make. They gave us money and said ‘this is your new life’. They gave us their alcohol and fed poison into the veins of our children. Now, we live lives without meaning, without honour or pride or hope. There is no work, nothing to hunt. The suicide rate among our young people is 150% higher than the national average. We rely on government commodities and wait in line for our food to be trucked in from faraway places. We cannot grow anything in this wasted dry land. There are not enough homes for people to live in and without jobs we are reliant on the government to put roofs over our heads, to feed us, to treat us like their children. We are like dogs, waiting on scraps from the white people’s table. Our people are left with only two choices. To lie panting in the heat waiting for those scraps or to leave this place to go to cities and live where the concrete rises up into the sky, where it runs along the ground and we must live inside this concrete, one person on top of the other, in buildings so tall they block out the Mother Sun until the spirit of our people dies in places they do not belong.”
Locklear leant against the wall and folded his arms. Paul’s description of the city resonated with him. He had always hated living in the city and ached to feel soil beneath his feet, to touch it, breathe in the air and feel at one with nature.
“But we are fighting back. I am old but there are younger men and women here. They are returning to Pine Ridge with education and with new ideas. They are setting up businesses, giving jobs to our own native children. The children are being taught in our traditions. No more are our children being taken from their families to turn them into white people. We have a long way to go and I will not live to see it, but I will die knowing that there is hope on the horizon.”
“I want to know more about Whitefeather. I want to know about his relationship with a Richmond Professor named Alec Holton. And I want to know who paid for him to travel around getting into mischief.”
“I am sure I know you,” Han said again.
“You don’t,” Locklear replied. “Now ... Whitefeather?”
Han lifted a plastic bottle of water and threw one in Locklear’s direction. He took a seat at the front door and grappled with the tight lid on the bottle. Locklear took it from him and opened it. He handed it back to him.
“Thank you. My bones are old,” Han said. “I told you Albert became difficult. He started to show up at places without the approval of our committee. He began to harass the Dean at USD and another lecturer there. He was staking out digs without being asked to. He became a nuisance. The police became involved. Albert was bringing the movement into disrepute. We had a vote and he was expelled from the group.”
“Who sits on this committee?” Locklear asked.
“Local people.”
“When do you meet?”
Han stared hard at Locklear and moved his lips.
Locklear inhaled. He knew Han was deciding what information he would provide but for now he’d go along with his short answers in the hope of getting information on Whitefeather.
“Tonight.”
“Where?”
“At my place, out back. We used to meet in the Community Center but Whitefeather set it alight one night. Needs rebuilding. We don’t have the money to do it.”
“I’d like to be there.”
“Only members can attend.”
“Then I’d like to join,” Locklear teased.
“Then, let me put it more plainly. Only local Natives or Native Americans whose family come from Pine Ridge can join.”
Locklear scoffed. “Seriously?
Han raised his hands upwards in apology. Locklear wasn’t sure if the gesture was sincere.
“It’s not my rule. I stepped down as chairperson for personal reasons. My health was poor and I ... had other duties. I didn’t have enough time to give the movement and Looks-Twice became the chairperson. We were getting a few newcomers who didn’t have any Native blood in them at all. Looks-Twice, well, he didn’t trust them or their motives so he passed a motion which prevented them from joining.”
Locklear exhaled. “Who is the new chairperson?”
“Ohiyes’a. He’s a cousin of O’Brien.”
Locklear thought about this for a moment. “How well did Whitefeather know Alec Holton? And did you know Holton?”
“I never spoke to him much. It was Albert he became friends with. Albert trusted him. Even let him attend some of the meetings here, back before Looks-Twice prohibited it.”
“But he didn’t stick to his word?”
“Like many white men, he betrayed us.”
“How?”
“Holton said he was going to ensure that the universities returned the sacred items and the bones of our ancestors taken from the earth – that he would return them to us for burial. Instead of this, he stole them.”
“Do you have any idea why he did that?”
“We had parted company by then. Whitefeather had disgraced himself so he was no longer attending meetings here. No-one saw Albert or Holton again.”
“You said that some of your members were impatient with the movement. It’s obvious that Whitefeather was one of those. What other members left and where did they go?”
“I don’t know where they went,” Han replied sharply.
“I think you do,” Locklear replied.
“Some Natives wanted to take things into their own hands. They wanted to take back what was theirs. They started to break the law.”
Locklear felt his breathing quicken as Mendoza’s words came back to him – her uneasy suggestion that the missing artefacts had been stolen by members of the indigenous population themselves. But, if she was right, that didn’t explain Lewis and Torres’ account of items being stolen from Iraqi museums or Tommy Rosenberg’s frequent travels to and from Iran. Locklear briefly wondered if he had landed in the middle of a tug-of-war game where two groups were stealing the same items back and forth.
“So they set up their own group,” Locklear guessed aloud. “A group which is playing a dangerous game in which there are no rules and membership includes the risk of going to prison.”
“Yes.”
“Where would I find them?”
Han laughed. “They’re not exactly in the phone directory. You don’t find them. They find you. They have people everywhere. They are an international organisation, sergeant. Highly organised. Good at finding young, intelligent, maladjusted men and women with high ideals and use them to do their dirty work. Their mission is, I accept, noble in that they want to return artefacts stolen around the world to their rightful place. America is a good hunting ground for them. We have people from every religion and ethnicity in this country who will put their lives and their freedom at risk to help the cause.
”
Locklear remained silent, letting Han talk.
“They’ve also come up against some very dangerous people who will do anything to protect their crimes. As the group have grown so too has its willingness to do anything to protect artefacts from getting into the hands of these people who have no claim to them.”
“People who intend to sell those items on the black market?”
“Yes.”
“What is this group called?”
Han swallowed nervously. “I have a son who depends on me. He devoted his life to the military. Served for thirty-five years. He returned from Iraq in a wheelchair. He’s in the hospital right now. My wife is dead. My daughters live far away. He depends on me to care for him.”
“The police can protect you. You won’t be in any danger.”
Han let out a short, nervous laugh. Locklear recognised the pitying expression on his face as though the old man felt the Richmond cop had no idea what he had got himself involved in.
“I told you. They are everywhere. Even here, in this small reservation that no-one really cares about.”
“Name?”
“INTENT. It’s called INTENT.”
Before Locklear drove away from the store, Pauls was already dialling a number. It was a phone call to a person he had not had any reason to contact for many years and its purpose was to try to protect the visiting cop from danger and keep him safe until he left the town of Pine Ridge for good.
Chapter 21
In Washington DC, Mendoza settled in to her table which was situated in the right-hand corner at the back of Toscano restaurant. She chose the seat facing the door which would give her a good view of the other customers as she waited for Horowitz to arrive. There was also a security camera above her head and, while she wasn’t expecting trouble from a mild-mannered journalist, she felt the spot she chose would provide her with added safety, if needed. Her head had only stopped throbbing an hour before after she had ordered a large pot of coffee and pastries to her room. She couldn’t face seeing the reception staff again and had slithered out through the side door of the hotel on flat, comfortable shoes as she left for her meeting with Holton’s ex-partner.