That was how he used to be and he was not like that anymore. He could not claw back to that. You had to feel that you were free, to act so, and he shrank into smallness away from her now. He had nothing for her. Nowadays she made him desperate for the sleep he never got. What did he offer her but pain and terror? She should be with someone like herself, someone certain.
The stone and timber of the Vehedi manor and its guesthouse melded into the blue spruce climbing the hills behind it, softening into the night sky. Precise white stars dropped from the black and disappeared in the trees.
He followed stone steps that curved around the thick deep spruce trees rising around the mountainside. The stone of the steps gave way to the gnarled roots of timber exposed in the ground below on a path that curled through wildflowers.
Crows danced from treetop to treetop mocking in excited chatter. In a clearing, a large pond sat quiet among granite boulders that had tumbled to their rest a century ago.
She wore a white nightgown and walked before him in the moonlit path. He followed, watching the tree line for predators. Her lips were red with a crooked smile, and her eyes glowed bright against the moon. Along the still pool, her soft brown hair tied in the back by a silk ribbon. He followed her. The scent of the rank stillness of the pond reached him, its thick greenish brown slime firm and still. Growing herds of elk had destroyed the pond’s edges, their muck leaving the pond a thick, lifeless bog.
A great western toad leapt from the green discharge into the reeds. The wolf had returned and restored balance. The herd of elk had left in fear. The pond would again be full of life one day. The birds would survive on carrion from the wolf, and more animals would flourish once elk hooves no longer crushed life away under massive, disease-addled herds. Wolves had not been here yet, leaving elk to ruin it.
He entered a cave’s mouth between two large pines. Lara lay on the earthy floor and he stood over her black hair, white skin and dark lips. As he neared her, her head shook side to side as if entering a bad dream. The eyeballs beneath her white lids flickered, afraid of his nearness. He was not a forest hunter arriving to save her. He was an animal from below the forest floor. Her eyes raced. In her dream, she was fleeing through the heavy trees along the stone faces of sheer cliffs.
There was a hole in the earth floor. He crawled into a tunnel of mud and hard rock, and worked himself forward through the damp. Pushing his arms in a breaststroke, he birthed through the dank soil, and fell onto the stone floor of a lair. A wooden coffin sat on a large stone dais and he went toward it.
Candles lit the room around him dripping wax onto damp rock. She lay in a casket among picked flowers from the mountainside, her brown body was nude and she wore necklaces and pendants of foreign peoples, desert empires and mountain tribes. Tight around her neck was a deerskin strap weaved with porcupine quills elongating her slender neck. She was dead but not at peace. Fear animated her face. He was not her protector yet he had been here before, had he led her to a dank pit where she could not breathe.
He watched himself as some creature standing over her dais. He saw himself leer over her casket at her nudeness, her vulnerability excited him against his wishes and he was in a black robe, and he had a black beard and his features were bulbous and large, lined with overgrown black hair. His eyes protruded down at her small brown body. His too large teeth meant that he could not close his mouth. He was rotten, from the dank earthen pit where he lived among the stolen girls, where he came at night to leer over his favorite, and rub his long hairy hands above her body, dumb and excited, an ape-man.
The girl’s face shone in the black like a mask, illuminated for an instant in front of the mansion. He sat up, fully awoken now. She had been a flash, a figment, and his eyes came back to the green lights of his truck dash.
He shook his head and slapped himself. A thin white line began to rise beside the home, a bright white climbing. It was a garage door opening. A small car sprang from the slit of light. He fired the engine of his three-quarter ton diesel and threw on his blue and red lights.
The car was gone out the paved drive and whipped hard onto the road catching a dirt edge at the dense tree line, red taillights flickering through the trees up the road around a curve. He plowed through standing dust in pursuit.
He yelled into his shoulder radio, “In pursuit of a Porsche 911 coupe heading north bound on Indian Paintbrush road near Wilson. I need someone positioned to the south, she’s going to try and leave the county.”
His windows were open and his diesel engine’s turbo whined into the trees.
The red taillights of the black Porsche flickered through the pines near a large estate home and curved with the winding road, disappearing over a hill far to his right. He sped up then suddenly slowed at a sharp turn.
He accelerated, pushing the heavy truck down the narrow tree lined road.
“I am approaching Teton Pass Bridge. She will have to cross the river into Jackson,” Deputy Ridge called from his unmarked unit.
“She is not headed to the river she is south bound,” the winding back road looped through trees among acreages alongside the Snake River toward the mountain pass and out of the valley. His truck caught air over a hill in time to see her taillights swing through a sharp turn banked by a shelf of sagebrush. He was losing her. He sped his large diesel truck into the turn and slammed the accelerator, his turbo engine droned as he gained speed quickly.
“Deputy Ridge you have to get down the highway ahead of her. You cannot cross the river to get on the 189 until well south. We can hem her in here.”
His red and blue lights whipped the tree lines.
The Porsche was taking turns fast and separating from him. It took an S curve that spanned a hill rolling to the river and picked up speed as it descended. The back road crossed a smaller trail and she took the back trail, the Porsche careening its way alongside the Snake River’s meandering path. The dirt trail was old and rarely used, traveled by fishermen wading into to the river to fly fish or launch a boat or raft. Native prairie grasses grew up through its center. It was narrow enough that his truck swept the overgrowth on both shoulders. The heavy front end of his truck plunged through dust she left behind her as she pulled away.
“I don’t know where she’s going she’s gonna run out of road.”
A Jackson Police unit responded. He was at the town limits heading south on the main highway but could see lights below at the river.
“We’re way ahead of you, we’re well south of town,” the sheriff responded.
“Copy that,” a Wyoming state police unit signaled. “This is Highway Patrol we are coming to your position north bound on 189.”
Sheriff Hargrove lost sight of the Porsche. On a straightaway piece of the trail, he began to pick up speed. A deer’s eyes flashed as it jumped through the arc of light, he did not have a chance to break, and it landed in stride on the other side of the trail.
Then he saw the Porsche.
“The subject has left the road.”
The small coupe rumbled and bounced over sage off-road, straightening as it neared the river to head south again.
“I am in pursuit off road.”
He left the trail down a path used as a boat launch, the sports coupe churned its way through loam, and he saw what the driver wanted. A flat abandoned railway bed stood out like a shelf along the river, the car took a small bank with speed and corrected on the shelf, there was an abandoned railway bridge spanning the river. Now within a hundred feet of its taillights, he was making up ground on the rougher terrain. The interstate highway ran above them along the hill and as the small car climbed, its rear wheels kicked out columns of brown soil into the air up the rough incline, dust billowed over the highway as the Porsche came up onto the asphalt highway and fishtailed.
Sheriff Hargrove took the hill at speed; his headlights lit the clouds of dust in the night. His truck bounced over some brush, as he got onto the highway he called, “Subject is on Interstate Highway 189 south
bound at high speed.”
“Roger that.”
The response was from Highway Patrol, south of the sheriff, they would be coming into the car headlong in seconds.
South of the pass toward Hoback, the strobing lights of Highway Patrol units pulsed up the highway.
As he slowed near the scene, he held his breathe hoping the Porsche was right side up. It was. The car had careened to a stop just before two Highway Patrol units. Black rubber stripped the highway where she had ridden the brakes to the roadblock. Highway Patrol officers took lengthy steps behind their pistols toward the car’s open door. He got out and placed his right hand on his pistol and she emerged from the low car with her arms raised. She went down on her knees and the rapidly pulsing red and blue lights strobed over her on the highway’s slick black top.
A tall muscular Highway Patrol Captain positioned her arms behind her back and she touched her forehead on the asphalt. The Jackson Police unit joined the scene behind him, and more lights spilled into the torrent of pulsing brightness.
Standing above the girl, he pulled her black t-shirt up, pulled her jeans down below the elastic of her underwear, exposing a .380 Berretta pistol. He put it in his back pocket and swept his hands over her body, around her waistband, and down her legs. The neck of her t-shirt crudely enlarged, exposed more of her fragile body, her black bra and the sides of her small breasts. Her black hair pooled around her on the highway, the lights from the police cruisers washed over her small frame, and reflected in her shining hair. She was some tiny fragment, debris discarded.
Sheriff Hargrove pulled her by the hair, forcing her to look up at him. Her shining black eyes were smoky and wet above a freshly broken nose; her scalp line was lumped by blows. Pulling her handcuffed wrists back over her head, he stood her up and she stumbled forward. The large Patrol captain stepped in and placed a heavy wool blanket around her shoulders, pulling her away from the sheriff.
“The state thanks you for your effort sheriff.” The Patrol Captain said. He began walking her to his cruiser.
“We have other weapons in the car,” A highway patrolman called. “She has a canister of bear spray and quite a bit of cash here.”
The captain put her against his patrol car, red and blue flashing across the dark pools of her eyes. She tilted her head and regarded the sheriff, her thoughts held far away. She was thin. Large bruising colored her shadowy cheekbone, her torn black t-shirt read Hillary 2008.
“Can you tell me why you are wearing a pistol?” Sheriff Hargrove asked.
“Why do you think?” she faced the towering patrol Captain. “The gun is permitted.”
“You’re in Teton County,” the sheriff said to the captain. “This is my jurisdiction. You will release this woman into my custody now.”
“Sorry Sheriff Hargrove,” the Captain said. “But we are standing on a state highway, this is the jurisdiction of the Wyoming Highway Patrol and this woman is a witness under our protection.”
“Captain, you will stand down, this suspect is Avina Zadeh, wanted for the murders of Catherine Kinderdine and Lara Mazer. We are charging her with homicide, reckless endangerment and felony evasion. That is most likely a stolen car. I’m taking her into my custody now.”
The sheriff advanced toward her and the captain took a step between them.
“Sheriff, this witness is in the custody of the Wyoming Highway Patrol. The Attorney General has directed us to bring her into our custody. She is state’s witness in a state case.”
“What state case?”
“She has information that may help us identify the killer of Catherine Kinderdine. We are taking her into our protection.”
“Protection from whom exactly?” the sheriff said.
The Captain did not answer.
“I’m taking my prisoner.” He placed his right hand on the handle of his Colt .45. The second trooper came forward and the sheriff took him into his broader frame of vision, and snapped off the strap on his Colt.
“Sheriff, we’re taking this girl into state custody.”
“The hell she is. I’m responsible for the safe transport of this girl,” the sheriff said. “I’ve seen plenty of combat, enough combat for you all combined.”
“You’re not taking this woman sheriff,” the patrol Captain said. “And you’re not the only combat veteran on this highway right now.”
“Damn right I’m taking this girl, I’m responsible for her.” The sheriff pulled his pistol from his hip and held it down his leg. “I have seen enough civilian women killed by poor security and half-assed operations and I’ve seen what you ought to be glad you haven’t. This woman is safe with me. I’m not letting her out of my sight.”
Highway Patrol officers circled toward him through their cars. Officer Newberry stood to the rear looking back and forth between the sheriff and the captain, his mouth agape.
They waited for Sheriff Hargrove to make the next move.
A patrolman behind a cruiser glanced to his captain for a command, the captain waited, standing between the sheriff and the witness.
Finally, the sheriff said, “You want to tell me whose command you’re under? Never mind,” he said. “I know who is behind this.”
He set his sidearm back into its holster.
“I know who is behind all of this,” he waved at the strobing lights of the patrol units. “Special Agent Adaline Brouwer,” he said.
The skinny, beaten girl leaned back on the patrol car, studying him quizzically. He looked up at the stars.
He had to smile.
49.
Barney Oldman met her at the Casino entrance and she followed him up red-carpeted stairs curving over the main games room where video lottery terminals and vintage slot machines bleeped loudly down long rows and coins rang onto tin. Gamers milled about in a buffet line loading plates with Chinese food. Story high murals of Indian chiefs lined the walls, painted in psychedelic colors and abstract forms.
They entered a security room lined with flat screen television monitors and an armed casino employee got up and left.
“You’ve got a good crowd.”
“Casinos are busy places,” Oldman said.
“Ray told you about Crystal Augustine?”
Oldman glanced down quickly and then looked up into her face.
“Crystal was a good employee and a good person, and she was a friend of mine. Everything we have is at your disposal. We want you to find who did this. We want this person caught more than you do. You can believe that.”
Oldman took off his blazer and slung it across the back of a chair. He wore a black t-shirt and black jeans. She immediately recognized two tattoos. On his left inner forearm, a long eagle feather from elbow to wrist in the shape of a knife’s blade, the mark of the Crow Indian street gang Crow Blood of the Crow Agency Indian Reservation on the Montana side. Crow Blood had a working arrangement with Shoshone and Arapaho gangs on Wind River, developed through the penitentiaries. It was the work of the man standing before her. On his right arm was a black ink illustration of the historic, Romanesque Montana State Prison at Deer Lodge, where Jackals chapter leaders vouched for him and where the enterprising Oldman pitched opportunities to the seasoned criminals and imprisoned native elders. At Deer Lodge, the young brave built a truce between rival street gangs, having grown up between the two big reservations, Wind River in Wyoming and Crow Agency in Montana. Somehow, Oldman put them all in syndication with the Jackals of Denver.
He retrieved the security footage from the night before.
“Last night Crystal was bartending in the Texas Hold’em room. I have the recording prepared for you. I will take you through it. There’s something I want you to see.”
Poker players filled two tables during Augustine’s shift in the back poker room and those tables stayed largely full during the course of the night. A man in a white Stetson cowboy hat came into the room, his back to the camera. The victims had trusted their assailant, going with him somewhere remote. She watched the
cowboy enter and fear struck her cold. She did not recognize the man in the Stetson, and hid a sigh of relief. Next to him sat an obese man in a t-shirt and sweat pants that folded his poker hand, got up from the table, and returned immediately, bathroom break.
The twenty-two-year-old Augustine worked behind the bar. A tight crisp white button up shirt formed to her body and a tight black pencil skirt curved to her hips.
“Did you interact with her last night? Did anything seem to be bothering her?”
“I barely spoke to her, and she didn’t hang around. Occasionally a few of us will have a beer or two after close. But not last night. Everyone was tight with Crystal; she was friendly with everyone. She had the old school respect about her. You know what I mean?”
By 11:00 p.m., the game consisted of poker room regulars. Cowboy hat wins a large chip count on a skinny twenty something’s all-in move. The skinny kid leaves. Toward midnight, the tables lose more players. The dealers switch out with new dealers on graveyard shift. Cowboy hat partially cashes out his chips but keeps enough stacks to be a problem for other players.
Crystal Augustine brings out two waters, a Jack and Cola, and a refill of Mountain Dew from her spray gun for the fat man. Another server, Native American and female, roughly Crystal’s age, races behind the bar. The two chat. The second girl stretched and pulled her long black hair into an elastic scrunch. The two laugh at something on a smart phone that Augustine pulled from the cash pouch on her pelvis, and they continue to talk, the second girl chatting rapidly. Augustine nods and smiles, gesturing vigorously with her hands. The second girl is shorter and plumper than the Basketball playing Augustine, and she’s much more animated. Before the girl leaves the room, with a tray of drinks over her shoulder, she and Augustine bump fists.
“Who is the waitress with her?”
“California Blackburn, her friend. They’re on the same shift so they can hang out, they both do their work.”
Dream of the Wolf Page 23