Ice and Stone

by Marcia Muller

  “Maybe later this afternoon.”

  Song and I talked a while longer—mainly about the kidnappings and rapes of Sally Bee and Sasha Whitehorse by Gene Byram and Vic Long. She was as outraged as I was and assured me that warrants for the arrests of the two men would be issued as soon as she returned to Ames.

  2:31 p.m.

  Saskia wasn’t home. I left a message, rattled around Jane’s house for almost an hour, disturbing Cassie’s snoring dog on the braided rug. When my birth mother finally got back to me, I told her, “I’m going to be abrupt.”

  “Why, Sharon, what a surprise.”

  “What do you recall about Meruk inheritance rights? You’ve said they pass down the maternal line.”

  “Yes.”

  “What happens if the heir dies intestate?”

  “Let me look at the information I printed out.” Scrape of a drawer, rustling of paper. “Yes, here it is. If an heir dies without a will or issue, all rights revert to the tribe.”

  “And the tribe can do anything with them? Sell them to non-Natives?”

  “They have the right to sell to family members. If not, the land reverts to the Bureau of Indian Affairs or the Bureau of Land Management.”

  “You mean Natives don’t have the right to their land, even today?”

  “Correct.”

  “Then how are private owners—as I suspect they’re doing here—getting hold of them?”

  “Corruption is everywhere, my dear. Even in the BIA or BLM.”

  “Thank you! You may have just fit together the last pieces in my case!”

  “I’ll wait to hear.”

  5:32 p.m.

  Rae leaned over my shoulder as we huddled over the sectional spread out on Jane’s kitchen table. “You sure you want to do this tonight?” she asked.

  “Tomorrow might be too late. They’ve been congregated at the ranch all day.”

  “But it’ll be so dark, and the weather is beginning to look iffy—”

  “Darkness is the best cover, besides, I’ve got my night scope.” I patted the Whisper 3500 that had arrived half an hour ago. “That’ll let me see the numbers on the planes, which are the best clues to who’s there. Maybe I’ll even spot somebody I recognize. The presence of certain people will tell me if there’s something illegal going on there. Then I can photograph them and notify the authorities.”

  “What authorities?”

  “I’ve got Vivian Song, the county D.A., on alert. As well as Ike Blessing from the FBI; he’ll be arriving here”—I looked at my watch—“as soon as he can.”

  “Well, you’ve certainly got things organized.”

  “It’s necessary to this kind of operation.”

  “You sound like Hy.”

  “Maybe I’m turning into him.”

  “Uh-uh. He’s still got that edge that makes him go off half-cocked.”

  “That’s one of the reasons why he’s not here tonight.”

  She was silent for a moment, then asked, “So when are you going up there?”

  “Pretty quick. I’ve got to get ready.”

  “Can I come along? Just to the airstrip, in case you need me?”

  “Sure. But only to the airstrip.”

  I put on black jeans and a heavy sweatshirt. I wore my parka, my .38 in its pocket, sturdy work boots, and the night scope in its sling.

  “I can do it,” I told Rae calmly—all the time quaking in my boots.

  7:17 p.m.

  A military chopper hovered over the airstrip. Hal looked out into the darkness and said, “Ah, we’re about to be blessed by Blessing from the FBI.”

  I snorted, only half-amused. Blessing had informed Hal that he’d be arriving and asked that I wait for him.

  Blessing was a tall, lean Black man with deep brown skin and closely cropped gray hair. His partner, Bob Graves, was his opposite—short, white, and blond. Hal had reserved the waiting room for us, and, when he offered, Ike gratefully accepted a mug of coffee.

  “So you’re Ripinsky’s hero,” Blessing said.

  “His hero?”

  “Bravest woman he ever met.”

  “He told you that?”

  “More than once.”

  “Maybe you should tell him to tell me that.”

  “Will do. So what do we have here?”

  I explained the situation.

  He said, “I’ve got reinforcements coming in, but I still don’t have probable cause.”

  “I can get you that.” I uncased and showed him the nightscope, explained what I wanted to do.

  He was silent for a moment, sipping his coffee. “I can’t authorize that.”

  “You don’t have to. As far as you and I are concerned, you don’t know anything about it.”

  Another long silence. “You’ll need to be able to communicate—”

  “I have a cell.”

  “You’ll need a more sophisticated device than that. We have one in the chopper.” He spoke into his own cell, requested the device be brought to him. “State-of-the-art technology,” he said to me, “just push the button and speak slowly. Let me see that scope.” He took it from me, sighted through it a few times, and examined it more closely. “High quality. I see it can transmit any photographs you take to a linked device.”

  “Such as the one you’re giving me?”

  “Correct. And to the one we’ll be using here to keep in contact with you. I’ll program it in before you leave.”

  Now I was getting edgy. The feds were going to cut me loose on a very dangerous mission. I swallowed hard, said, “Then you think this will work?”

  “If you’re up to it.”

  “Oh, I am.” I think.

  “You don’t need to do this if—”

  “No, I do.”

  He studied me. “Why?”

  “I don’t want to get into a philosophical discussion right now.”

  “Something about being Indigenous? And a woman?”

  “…Both. And some other things as well.”

  “Are you sure you want to go up there alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bob or I can go with you.”

  “Wouldn’t that be involving you in the very situation you can’t authorize?”

  He shrugged. “Have it your way, but don’t take any unnecessary chances. Your husband would never forgive me.”

  10:43 p.m.

  Thickening storm clouds followed me up Powder Gap Road. I tried not to think about what lay ahead if the clouds should break open while I was hiking through rough country. The wind in the clearing was icy, whipping down from Sheik’s Peak and carrying the smell of ozone. I parked the Jeep where I had the night before, pulled the wool cap down snugly over my ears, slung the cased nightscope over my shoulder, and switched on the six-cell flashlight I’d borrowed from Hal.

  The hiking trail that led away from the peak was easy enough to follow at first, the footing mostly firm enough for me to move at a fast walk. But when the terrain began to rise, gradually at first and then steeply, the going became harder and I had to slow down. Even though I was warmly dressed, the wind cut through and chilled the sweat from the long uphill climb.

  I must have gone at least a mile when I came to a fence that marked the boundary of the Harcourt ranch. The trail turned abruptly there, paralleling the fence straight uphill on this side; there was no trail on the other side, just barren land littered with outcroppings and small boulders.

  The fence was of rusted barbed wire, but it sagged enough in one spot that I could get over it without cutting myself or tearing my clothing. I set out carefully over the rocky ground. After a short distance it rose sharply into the landmass I’d noted on the sectional. As I climbed I could see below the faint glow of lights from Aspendale and brighter ones from the SupremeCourt buildings.

  The ascent grew steeper and steeper. I was breathing heavily, and the muscles in my legs ached by the time I neared a long, flattish section overhung by a sheer rock wall—a kind of ledge that would be
the ideal viewing spot. The wind was fierce up here; faint rumbles of thunder sounded in the distance, then lightning crackled.

  The ground crumbled underfoot as I struggled toward the ledge. I had to lean forward and dig my gloved fingers into the stony earth in order to maintain my balance.

  I was almost to the ledge when the rain started.

  It was a light, stinging rain, but I was afraid that it would turn into a downpour and send me tumbling down the hillside. I heaved myself upward, clawing for handholds on the sloping, broken granite side of the ledge. Found one, then another. Managed to haul myself up gasping onto the flattish surface.

  I lay there for a little time, trying to get my breathing under control. Finally I got up onto hands and knees, crawled to where I had a clear view of SupremeCourt below, and reached for the nightscope.

  And the rain turned into snow.

  The sudden flurry was thick enough to blur the lights below. Wind-hurled flakes stung my face; I felt as cold as I’d ever been in my life. It was an effort to crawl back under an overhang on the rock wall. I huddled there, shivering. Calling Ike on the small handheld device he’d given me would be useless; there was nothing he could do. If the storm went on dumping snow long enough, I’d never make it down and back to the Jeep—I’d freeze to death up here.

  I don’t know how long I sat there, numb and shaking, my arms wrapped tight around my body. A long time, one of the longest times in my life. I’d about given up hope when the snowfall began to thin, then stopped as suddenly as it had started. The wind abated too, and the night became eerily still. The air cleared, and down below I could once again see the lights of the Harcourt ranch buildings.

  Stiffly I moved out from under the overhang and took the scope from its sling. It took a few fumbling tries with my numbed hands to adjust the distance, train it around. Cut back on the focus, cut back again. Finally the Harcourt house came into clear view.

  At first all I could see were the cracks in the house’s adobe walls. I eased off on the focus a little. Now I saw window frames. Windows. Figures moving around behind them.

  Now a sharper focus, to the maximum.

  And then I had it. I snapped the numbers of the planes that were parked within range, then looked through the uncurtained windows.

  A crowd of people—mainly men—in formal attire. Waitpersons bustling about with trays of drinks and canapés. The scope was so powerful that I had no trouble spotting individual faces. I located the Old Man, looking surprisingly healthy in spite of his sons’ claims of his impending demise. Paul was bustling around, glad-handing the guests. Kurt stood alone to one side; something was not right about his stance…

  I located Michael Stein, standing on the fringes of the crowd, watching.

  I began photographing again.

  After a while there was a pause in the conversations. Men turned. A woman was being ushered ceremoniously into the room. An Indigenous woman, clad in traditional buckskin, her hair in ornately beaded braids.

  “Auntie” Mamie Louise.

  Mamie Louise looked confused, deep wrinkles riddling her brown skin. Paul hurried forward to greet her, took her hands in his, ushered her to a seat at a small cloth-covered table. The Old Man approached, putting his arm around her narrow shoulders; they spoke for a few moments, and then Paul reappeared, holding what looked like documents and a pen.

  A Native in the house of Native haters. There could be only one reason for it.

  I took the device Ike had loaned me from my coat pocket, opened it. Ike acknowledged immediately.

  “They’ve got one of the tribal elders there,” I told him, “and it looks as if they’re getting her to sign papers.”

  “Forcibly?”

  “I can’t tell.”

  Paul was now looming over Mamie Louise, gesturing with his pen at the documents. The Old Man was patting her shoulder. She looked up at them, shaking her head.

  I said, “Yes, forcibly.”

  “Your photographs have reached me. There are two wanted men there. I’ve got my probable cause, and I’ve given my people the order to move in.”

  As I watched the scene below, Kurt’s stance shifted. He leaned forward, listening to the exchange among his father, brother, and Mamie Louise. It was growing heated. Mamie Louise repeatedly shook her head. Both men gestured at the documents, and she threw the pen to the floor. Paul slapped her face, and she slipped off her chair, but was on her feet quickly, ready to fight.

  Kurt moved then, going up on his toes. Lunged at his brother and father, bringing both of them down and knocking a pistol from Paul’s hand.

  I heard a crackling from the device in my pocket. Ike’s voice came on.

  “We’ve got it under control, McCone.”

  I continued to photograph the scene through the scope. What I saw was a melee: tangled bodies, flailing fists, angry faces. And FBI agents in their distinctive blue-and-yellow jackets.

  “McCone?” Ike’s voice. “You okay?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be? Over and out.”

  I shut off the device and flopped on my back against the rocky ledge. Barely noticed as loose granite cut into my back. Gunshots and shouts echoed up from the valley.

  I ignored everything. After I rested I’d begin the easier climb back down this damn peak.

  It would be a long night. The feds would want a statement, and, knowing them, it would have to be a detailed one: How a coalition of rich financiers had discovered the value of Arbritazone and tried to corner the market on properties rich in it. How Paul Harcourt had killed or arranged to have killed, with or without the knowledge of his father and the other profiteers, the two women who had controlled the allotments but refused to make deals. And now that those properties had reverted to the Meruk tribe, how they’d tried to force Mamie Louise to sign them over.

  There was more to it than that, I thought, but I wasn’t up to figuring it out now. I put the scope back in its case and began the long trek back to the Jeep, praying that the storm had passed and it wouldn’t start raining or snowing again.

  It didn’t.

  Reports from Meruk County

  The Sisters were happy with the results of my investigation and offered me a bonus. I asked that they donate it to whatever organization they felt needed it most.

  Jake Blue has come out of his shell somewhat and is planning a community garden in honor of his sister, Josie.

  Sally Bee and Henry Howling Wolf have moved out of Meruk County, to a live-work building for artists in Portland, Oregon.

  Ben and Kurt Harcourt, reacting to all the bad publicity, closed their land to Arbritazone seekers and returned to cattle ranching.

  Sasha Whitehorse, fully recovered from her ordeal, has realized her dream and escaped to junior college in Sacramento.

  The Hogwash Farm is up for sale, its owner having died and the residents having absconded with anything of value.

  Jane Ramone is…well, as always, Jane.

  Miz Hattie’s response to all the commotion was, “Well, I never heard of such a thing!”

  Mamie Louise vows to keep fighting the good fight for Indigenous tribal rights.

  Sheriff Noah Arneson proclaimed upon his arrest for receiving stolen goods, “You can’t do this to me! I’m innocent! You can’t!”

  When told the reason for her daughter’s murder, Dorothy Lagomarsino said, “Huh?”

  MONDAY, JANUARY 21

  3:50 p.m.

  Conference room” usually implies a long polished table, comfortable plush chairs, and a minion providing water and coffee. At M&R our conference room is equipped with an old, scarred round oak table that once graced—or disgraced—the kitchen at All Souls Legal Cooperative, and mismatched chairs scrounged from everywhere over the years. No minions; we carry in our own refreshments.

  The table means a lot to some of us. It’s a reminder of a simpler time, when the battles we fought were winnable. Now, however, the battles often seem already lost—to greed, stupidity, and out-and-out evil.<
br />
  Maybe that’s why we cling to this hunk of wood with its innocent carvings: “No More Wars!” “HZ Loves AM.” “Peace, please!” “Feet off table!” “McCone Rules!” “Doesn’t!” “Does too!”

  I sat against the wall at the back, listening to Mick do his presentation on the details of the case to the rest of the staff. How Arbritazone could do vast amounts of good but also cause major psychotic breaks in people with long exposure to it. How Paul Harcourt and his father had been determined to corner the market on properties containing large deposits of the mineral and introduce it into the world market. How Paul had become addicted to the drug some years ago, which had led to his accidental strangling of Josie Blue and premeditated murders of Sam Runs Close and Dierdra Two Shoes. His father and brother, to my mind, were equally guilty of his crimes because they had made no effort to control him.

  The Harcourts’ “special ops boys,” Gene Byram and Victor Long, had been paid by Paul to set fire to the shack, but in their confessions they claimed that he hadn’t told them I would be inside. They also stated that they’d abducted Sally Bee and Sasha Whitehorse “for kicks.” They’ll get a different kind of kicks in prison.

  I thought about the murdered women. Dierdra Two Shoes: unmarried with no children. Samantha Runs Close: the same. Dierdra and Sam had been approached by the Harcourts about selling their allotments but had turned them down.

  In the end it all boiled down to money—money and entitlement.

  Mick concluded his presentation, then went on to other cases to be investigated: sexual harassment at a Noe Valley dot-com; a rent dispute in the Haight; garbage wars—again—in Inner Richmond; a suit against the owners of a sweatshop in the Mission.

  I liked the kinds of cases that came to us: ones that could make a difference in often powerless people’s lives.

  I’d asked Mick to chair this conference because, frankly, I didn’t have the heart for it. During most of my career these necessary summations had left me feeling empty: someone had suffered, someone had died, the lives of the friends and family of the victim had been diminished. There was satisfaction in bringing the perpetrators to justice, but the cogs in the legal system mesh imperfectly, and often by the time they do—if they do at all—the original outrage has been forgotten.