Watching Eagles Soar (9 page)

“I told Ralph he was gonna get shot some day,” Bertie was saying, “but he kept whorin' around.”

“Don't say anything else.” Vicky's tone was sharp.

Bertie reared back. She stared at Vicky a moment, then wheeled toward Father John. A frantic look came into her eyes, like the look in the eyes of an animal searching for a way out of a trap. “He shouldn't've done that to me, Father. You understand, don't you?” She started backing toward the door. The room grew quiet.

“Listen to Vicky,” Father John said. “You have the right not to say anything.”

The woman threw back her head and gave out a laugh edged with hysteria. “Nobody understands,” she said, backing up, laughing. “Ralph deserved to die, and that whore deserves to go to prison forever.” She drew in a shuddering breath. “I left the rifle for her. I waited at the gas station 'til I seen her comin' home; then I called the police. She picked up the rifle, like I knew she'd do, and the police come walkin' in. It worked just like I planned.”

“Bertie, for God's sake, stop talking,” Vicky said.

Chief Banner moved behind Bertie, blocking the door, and Gianelli stepped in front. “Bertie Eagle Cloud,” he said. “I'm placing you under arrest for the murder of your husband.”

Nobody's Going to Cry

The Eighth Commandment: Thou shalt not steal.

S
he'd left Lander thirty minutes ago for the eight-o'clock appointment at the Arapaho tribal offices in Ethete twenty miles inside the Wind River Reservation. It should have allowed plenty of time, and Vicky Holden liked to be on time. A compulsion from the ten years she'd spent going to school and practicing law in Denver. Highway 287 had been a clear shot north with only a few pickups and sedans in the oncoming lane, Arapahos heading to jobs in town, sun glinting on windshields and bumpers. The morning air was light and suffused with gold. It would be another hot day. The wind knocked against the Jeep and flattened the wild grasses in the open fields on both sides of the highway.

It was after she'd turned right and gone about a mile on Blue Sky Highway that she regretted not having left earlier. Blocking the road ahead were four police cars, an ambulance, and two SUVs. The blue and red lights flashing on the roof of a police car looked faded in the sunlight. Vicky tapped on the brake and slowed alongside the Wind River police officer holding up one hand like a traffic cop. She recognized Howie Thunder. The wind plastered his gray uniform shirt to his chest.

Vicky rolled down her window. “What's going on?”

“Better turn around, Vicky. Go back to 287.”

Vicky glanced past him. Milling about were other uniformed officers as well as a couple of sheriff's detectives in blue jeans, light-colored shirts, and cowboy hats. Beyond the vehicles she could see the brown pickup sloped into the ditch, the wheels on the driver's side clinging to the section of dirt that bordered the asphalt. The slightest jar, she was thinking, and the pickup would turn over. Inside, an Indian slumped over the steering wheel, clumps of black hair falling over his face. A broad-shouldered man in a cowboy hat climbed out of the ditch behind the pickup. Ted Gianelli, the local FBI agent, looked like the other cops in civvies. The wind was blowing the fronts of his tan leather vest away from his white shirt.

“What happened, Howie?” she said, looking up at the officer still outside her door. She'd known Howie and his wife, Myrna, since they were kids. They'd gone to school together at St. Francis Mission.

“Police business,” he said, squinting in the sun. He was about six feet tall and looked in shape, with a flat stomach and muscular brown arms that hung beneath the short sleeves of his uniform shirt.

“Since when does the fed handle traffic accidents?” Vicky got out of the Jeep into the warm air. She had to hold her hair back in the wind.

The man shrugged and glanced back at the pickup. “Since bullets put a drug dealer into the ditch,” he said. “Anonymous call came in at seven this morning. Said somebody was dead inside a pickup. I got here first. Fed thinks it must've happened in the middle of the night. Jose Montecon. You heard of him?”

Vicky nodded. There had been numerous articles in the
Gazette
about the Mexican drug ring that had moved onto the Wind River Reservation. Montecon was identified as the leader, but he'd hooked up with a local partner, Ernest Redbird. The news had made her feel sick to her stomach. She knew the Redbird family. Sylvia, Ernest's sister, had raised him after their parents had been killed in an automobile accident. Both Redbird and Montecon had been indicted by a federal grand jury, but they'd fled the area before they could be arrested.

“We got a tip last week Montecon was back,” Howie was saying. “Word on the rez is that Redbird made off with a lot of his money, and Montecon was after him. We figured Montecon must've thought Redbird was here. Otherwise, why would he take the risk of coming back? Every law enforcement agency in the area has had an alert out for both of them.” He clenched his hands into fists and threw another glance at the pickup. “Looks like Redbird found Montecon before Montecon found him.”

“How do you know that?” Vicky could hear the tightness in her voice.

She was grasping for some other explanation, she knew. There could be dozens of people on the rez who would like to see the drug dealer shot.

Another thought hit her. Sylvia had been through a lot trying to help Ernest get off drugs. Every time he got clean, Montecon showed up and got him hooked again. And Sylvia knew how to handle a gun. She could bring down an elk with a single shot. Oh, my God, Vicky thought.

She tried to concentrate on what Howie was saying, something about it being a deliberate killing. “Redbird shot out the rear right tire,” he said, shaking his head. “Waited for the pickup to skid to a stop and drove alongside. Made sure he had a clear aim before he shot Montecon in the face. You ask me, he wanted that bastard to be looking at him when he pulled the trigger so he knew who done it. He saw the chance to take over the drug ring, cut out Montecon, and run it himself.”

“Any evidence? What about the gun?” She was going to have to talk to Sylvia right away, Vicky was thinking. Prepare her for the fact that the police would be looking for Ernest in connection with a murder. And sooner or later, they may start looking at her.

Howie let out a cough of laughter. “Whatever gun he used, he dropped into a well by now. It'll never be found. Redbird's the one with the motive,” he went on, squinting into the distance. “Makes the most sense. One drug dealer cutting out another. Happens all the time. Both of 'em are bastards. Ruined a lot of folks' lives here. Got kids on meth—kids! Jesus Christ, Vicky, he got a lot of adults hooked, too. Nobody's going to cry over Montecon.”

* * *

“B
ull crap what those cops say about Ernest.” Sylvia Redbird peered into an empty pack of cigarettes, then rolled it into a ball and tossed it onto the table next to her chair. She was a large woman with black hair pulled back from a leathery face and tied into a ponytail, and roughened hands the size of a man's. She wore blue jeans, red tee shirt, and dust-covered hiking boots.

“They framed him, made it look like he was guilty so him and Montecon both got indicted. What was he supposed to do? Hang around and let them cops arrest him? He had to take off.”

“The police think he came back,” Vicky said. “They think he killed Montecon.”

The woman let out a noise that sounded like the howl of a coyote.

“Ernest? Kill somebody?” She threw up one of her big hands. “Okay, okay. Maybe there was a time when Ernest could've done something crazy like that. Montecon was a slimeball—that's a fact. Sucked the life outta everybody he knew. Got Ernest hooked on meth, then kept raising the price on him. Forced him to start dealing, get more customers on the rez. That's the truth, Vicky. No way Ernest would've starting selling meth if he wasn't forced.”

“Where is he?”

Sylvia shrugged. “How would I know?”

“The court might go easier on him if he surrendered.”

“Like hell. He'd go to prison for dealing drugs. They throw in a murder charge, he'll be locked up the rest of his life.” Sylvia folded her arms across her broad waist. “I'm telling you, Ernest's clean now. Went to the mission and talked things over with Father John.” She gave another shrug and looked away. For a moment Vicky thought she would jump to her feet and end the conversation.

“Father John would have suggested he turn himself in,” Vicky said.

It was a moment before Sylvia responded. “How do you know?”

“I know Father John.” Oh, she knew him well—John O'Malley, the pastor at St. Francis Mission. They'd worked together for six years—priest and lawyer. There had been so many divorces, accidents, adoptions, DUIs, assaults, even homicides that had drawn them together, she felt as if she could recite word by word what Father John would have told Ernest Redbird.

“Went to rehab, got himself together,” Sylvia said, turning the topic back to Ernest. She moved her eyes to some point across the room. “Got himself a nice girlfriend. He's done with the rez and all the problems. Making a new life for himself somewhere else. He's not coming back. Let it be.”

“The police think Montecon was looking for him, and that Ernest found Montecon first.”

The woman leapt from her chair. “Can't they leave him alone? Montecon's put him through enough hell. Hell, I tell you! He's free now. Somebody else shot that bastard, not Ernest. Let the cops go find the real killer.”

Vicky got to her feet. She dug through her purse and handed the other woman her business card. “Ernest is going to need a lawyer,” she said. She was thinking that Sylvia Redbird might also need a lawyer.

* * *

H
owie Thunder stood in the doorway of the tri-level house with faded, yellowish siding. The door had swung open before Father John had gotten out of the pickup. The Arapaho had the look of a general awaiting the arrival of his troops, arms rigid at the sides of his gray uniform. Yet, there was something removed and vacant about him, as if part of him were somewhere else. Forty minutes ago, he'd called the mission. “Can you come over, Father? Need to talk.”

Father John had told the Arapaho he was on the way. He'd been half expecting the call since he'd heard the news on the radio this morning: Jose Montecon, indicted leader of a drug ring on the reservation, had been found shot to death on Blue Sky Highway. The police reported he'd been killed sometime in the middle of the night. The responding officer was Howie Thunder. Ironic that Howie was the one to find the drug dealer's body. Three weeks ago, Father John had spent most of the day helping Howie and Myrna get their teenaged daughter, Patsy, into another rehab center. Father John walked across the strip of bare dirt that lay between the pickup and the wooden stoop in front of the house. A hot gust of wind swept across the open fields, pressing his shirt against his skin.

“How're you doing?” he said.

Howie was backing into the house, tossing his head, beckoning Father John to follow. “Thanks for coming by,” he said. “I can't get her calmed down.”

“Her?” Father John had assumed Howie wanted to talk about finding Montecon's body, but it was probably Patsy he was worried about, or possibly Myrna. He stood inside the door a second, letting his eyes adjust from the brightness outside. Curtains were drawn across the front window, leaving only a faint outline of light at the edges. The sofa and chairs looked like black shadows. Thin streaks of sunlight from the kitchen in back ran like water across a corner of the vinyl floor. The light winked in the metallic frames of three photos arranged on a table next to the sofa. A door leading to bedrooms on the right was closed. He could hear the faint, intermittent sound of weeping.

“Myrna's in there . . .” Howie nodded toward the closed door. “Can't get her to stop crying.” He let out a sharp sob.

“Sit down,” Father John said. He took hold of Howie's arm and guided him through the shadows to the sofa. Then he pulled up a wooden chair and sat down across from him. “Tell me what's going on.”

The Arapaho seemed to be gathering his thoughts. Finally he said, “Day before yesterday, Patsy overdosed. Meth and alcohol.” He dropped his head into his hands and sobbed out loud. Tears glistened between his brown fingers. After a moment, he said, “Just got out of rehab, was doing real good. This time, we thought . . .” He let the rest of it trail off.

“You thought she'd make it.” Father John set a hand on the man's shoulder. Beneath the hard seams of the uniform shirt, he could feel the trembling that ran past the man's skin and muscles, into his bones. From somewhere in the house, beyond the closed door, came the quiet, rhythmic noise of weeping.

“Montecon and that other slimeball, Redbird, must've gotten hold of her again. Got her back on meth. Seventeen years old is all she is, Father.” The words came in jerky monosyllables. “Two days ago Myrna answers the phone. Patsy's boyfriend says she can't wake up. Can't wake up? Myrna says. She thought Patsy spent the night with her girlfriend. Myrna calls me right away. I was just finishing up patrol. I notify the dispatcher, and the ambulance has Patsy in the emergency room before Myrna and me got there. Docs say she's in a coma. Maybe she'll come out, maybe not. They don't know.”

Howie dropped his head and stared down at his hands clasped in his lap. The moisture dropping from his cheeks made little black tracks across the front of his gray shirt. “We stayed with her all day, all night, and most of yesterday, watching that plastic tube drip fluids into her to keep her from dying. I held her hand. It was cold, Father, cold as death. We seen her eyelids move once in a while, like she was trying to open them, trying to come back. That's how we knew our little girl was still alive.”

Howie lifted his palms against his face and wiped away the moisture. Then he reached around the armrest and picked up one of the metallic-framed photographs. “There she is, last year before they got her on meth,” he said, holding out the photo, staring down the length of his arms, as if the girl herself had moved out of reach. “So much life in her. She's so pretty.”

“Yes, she is.” Even in the shadows, the girl's eyes shone with light. Black, curly hair hung loosely about a face that still had the soft, unformed look of a child. Father John could feel his own muscles tense. Meth and alcohol were a lethal combination.

“She's an artist,” Howie said, tossing his head one way, then the other.

For the first time, Father John noticed the small paintings arranged on the walls. There was a picture of the golden brown prairie rolling into blue mountains, another picture of a cluster of white tipis with dark shadows flung over the prairie, and one of a black horse grazing in the pasture.

“I took her out to the pasture the day she painted it,” Howie said, nodding toward the painting. “Rigged up some branches to set her easel on. Fourteen years old, she was. She said that horse was so beautiful, she wanted to capture him forever. She painted most of the day, and when I came back for her, she'd captured that stallion. There he was on the canvas, true as life. It's gonna kill Myrna, if . . .”