An Obvious Fact (9 page)

“Well, seeing as how you're an eyewitness to what may or may not have been an attempted homicide, I can get a subpoena and we can have this conversation down at the Hulett police headquarters or the Crook County sheriff's office.”

“I found him, okay? I didn't witness anything.”

“On the side of the road.”

“Yeah.”

“Was he alone?”

“Yeah.”

I turned and looked at the young woman. “Can you give me an indication as to what kind of condition he was in?”

“What do you mean?”

“Was he conscious, unconscious?”

“He was unconscious.”

“Did he have anything with him on the motorcycle that you saw lying around—saddlebags or anything like that?”

She took a long time to answer. “No.”

I looked pointedly at her injured arm. “Was there anybody else on the motorcycle with him?”

“No.”

I gave her the long pause I'd learned from Lucian—the one that crept like an epoch-eating glacier—just to let her know I had my suspicions. “Then I guess I've got only one more question.”

“Yeah?”

“When did you get his cell phone number?”

A voice sounded from behind me. “I think you've answered enough of the sheriff's questions, Chloe.”

I turned to see a fireplug of a man with a shaved head standing behind us, aiming what looked to be a sporting-clay over-and-under shotgun mostly at me. “Mr. Nance?”

He strolled up a little closer, and I could see two men standing behind him in matching black polo shirts. “You're supposed to follow that with ‘I presume.'”

I shrugged. “It's late, and the guy who does my Sherlock Holmes is asleep.”

• • •

Next to big-game hunter Omar Rhoades's log palace back in the home county, and Versailles, Bob Nance's ranch house was just about the most extravagant place I'd ever visited.

“Will you still be needing us, Mr. Nance?” The muscle in the black shirts continued to glance at me. “We can stick around if you need us.”

Nance, with his back to the three of us, was mixing two drinks. “That's fine, Mr. Frick. I think we'll be okay.”

I watched as they left and turned back as Nance handed me one of the drinks. “Is the other one's name Frack?”

He ignored my joke. “Vintage '66, thirty years in cask 559, and bottled on June eighteenth of 1996 at the Laphroaig distillery.” He handed me a tumbler, neat, and then adjusted the flames on the river-rock fireplace with a remote. “I know it's summer, but I like the ambiance—a little like Dick Nixon in that regard.” He lifted his glass. “I hope you enjoy it.”

“I have to tell you this is the most civilized stickup in which I've ever taken part.”

He sat in an overstuffed leather chair, throwing his polished boots onto a matching ottoman. “We strive to please.”

I took a sip of the amber liquid and was pretty sure that it was the finest stuff my palate would ever touch, and that if I wasn't careful I'd be asleep by the time I finished it. The room was lined with bookshelves, and there was a gigantic burled-wood billiards table at the center, with red felt where he had laid the Krieghoff K-80 Pro Sporter. “Nice place—almost as nice as mine.”

“Is yours log?”

I nodded. “Yep, and I believe my whole house would fit in this one room.”

He smiled and glanced up at the timbers, a good forty feet in the air. “It's kind of over-the-top, but you know how it is when you think you're building your last one.”

“I haven't even finished my first.”

“Well, the ex got the other three—one in Palo Alto, one in Grosse Pointe, and one in Paradise Valley—so I guess I felt
entitled.” He took another sip of his scotch and studied me. “So, how can I help you, Sheriff?”

“Your daughter is a pretty girl.”

“Yes, she is, and you can see why I'm a little protective of her, especially since it's rally week.” He put his scotch on a massive Indian drum, which had been turned into a coffee table. “I heard her try the old ‘do you know who I am' on you.”

“It was done pretty well.”

“She's an actress.”

“You don't say.”

“Or was till she got into trouble.” He gestured toward a few framed one sheets near the fireplace. “You mean to say you haven't seen
Barasharktapus
or
Pagan Women of Planet X
?”

I walked over to the posters, which were far worse than anything anybody could've imagined. “I've let my subscription to the Metropolitan Opera lapse, I'm afraid.”

“Crap, all of 'em, and this is her father talking. . . . But she tries, you know?”

“Must be a difficult business.”

“Four years at NYU and then two more at UCLA and a stint at the Guildhall School of Music & Drama. I tell you, I sat through more crappy, esoteric one-act plays with people in black leotards than you can shake a stick at.”

“I can shake a lot of sticks at crappy, esoteric one-acts.”

“I wish I had. Anyway, what's going on, Sheriff, and why am I talking to you instead of the sheriff of Crook County or Chief Nutter?”

“I'm assisting the Hulett police with an investigation concerning a young man who we believe was forced off the road.”

“And what does that have to do with my daughter?”

I walked toward the pool table and glanced at the stairwell where Chloe Nance had disappeared. “From what I am made to understand, your daughter was a possible witness to the incident.”

“She wasn't a witness—she just found that young man on the side of the road, after the fact, and did what any decent human being would do and tried to help.”

I pulled the mobile from my pocket and touched the screen, then turned it so that Nance could read it. “Is that your daughter's cell phone number?”

He got up and came over and stared at the screen for only an instant. “Yes.”

“You're sure?”

“I pay for the damn thing once a month, so I know the number.”

I placed it back in my shirt pocket. “How do you suppose your daughter has Bodaway Torres's number if they'd never met before the accident?”

Nance leaned against the pool table and fingered the adjustable comb on the Monte Carlo Turkish walnut stock of the shotgun that probably cost as much as my truck. “You shoot, Sheriff?”

“Trap?” I shook my head. “Not so much lately.”

“It's a sport known for its congeniality, like golf.” He set his glass on the bumper and picked up the 12 gauge, swinging the 30-inch barrels around toward the flying mounts of two pheasants above the fireplace. “I've learned that it's the relationships in life that really matter, Sheriff Longmire, whether it's with your family, your business associates, or your community.”

“Like the MRAP?”

He nodded. “The MRAP for the local police and why I give so much to so many charities and organizations.” He lowered the shotgun and looked out the windows. “I mentioned some trouble concerning my daughter.”

I waited and said nothing.

“She had a little substance abuse problem in L.A.” He handed me the Krieghoff. “We've got a little benefit shoot tomorrow evening, and I'd like you to come up and take part as my guest.”

I held the expensive beauty and thumbed the top-tang push-button safety, locked in the off position. “So, you're thinking that she might've met Bodaway previously and was attempting to obtain drugs?”

“It wouldn't be the first time. I've been running interference for about eight months now.”

“We're still going to need to have her come in and make an official statement.”

He smiled and took the over-and-under back, throwing it over one shoulder like he knew what he was doing. “That's fine, Sheriff. I'd just rather she not make it on the ninth green after midnight.”

I watched as the Cheyenne Nation held the bike steady while Jamey, who was whistling a Beatles tune, made the final adjustments on the KTM. We all turned at the sound of a racer's engine just in time to see another of the hill climbers flip over backward and have his motorcycle land on top of him, man and machine intertwined as they slammed back down the slope.

“This is a really dumb sport.”

The Bear pulled on his helmet and tightened up the chin strap. “Well, not all of us are lucky enough to go shooting sporting clays with the millionaires up on snob knob.”

We watched as the EMTs scraped the kid off the hill and loaded him into a van, another in a bunch that had gotten carted off to Rapid City Regional.

“Wasn't my idea.”

He pulled on his gloves and took in a crowd that was much larger than the previous day's seated on the makeshift bleachers. “Any idea where all his money comes from?”

“Nope, but I figure I'll ask Corbin and get the story.”

As I finished speaking, the youngster who'd razzed the Bear just the previous day pulled up and rapped his throttle a
few times, shouting to be heard over his own noise. “You up for it today, old man?”

Henry ignored him, so I answered. “Hey, Evel Knievel, why don't you go find a canyon to fall into?”

He smirked, and this time I was quick enough to get my arm up to protect my face as he spun out toward the starting gate and sprayed all three of us with a rich coating of South Dakota dirt.

The Bear dusted himself off. “Do you think he knows who Evel Knievel is?”

“I don't know.” I watched as the kid took his place in line, waiting to back up against the buttress log and make his run. “But I really wouldn't mind seeing him bust his ass all the way down that hill.”

“He had the fastest time trial yesterday.”

I glanced at the Bear. “What, he got his training wheels off?”

He scanned the competitive field. “They all look young, do they not?”

“To us? Yep, they do.”

He twisted his head, stretching the muscles in his neck, and all I could think was that if he didn't climb the hill, he could always take a pickax and destroy it. “I am thinking this might be my last run.”

“Well, think about staying for the Show and Shine. Vic may be flying into Rapid City.”

He studied the hill, and I wasn't sure if he'd heard me.

He had been here at sunup, slowly climbing the course on foot, studying the terrain, and getting a read that you couldn't get even from the closeness of a motorcycle. He'd taken his
time and stooped to look at the rocky knobs, the tufts of prairie grass, and, most important, the ruts and berms left by the other racers. There would be no surprises for Henry Standing Bear on the run this morning, and if he lost, he would be satisfied in the knowledge that he had done everything humanly possible to win and more. “Or not.”

I sighed. “I'm headed over to the peanut gallery where I can join the throngs in safety.” I could see the third-row spot that Corbin and Lola had saved for Jamey and me. “Looks like your old flame wants to see you in action.”

“She would probably not mind seeing me bust my ass all the way down that hill.”

“Or that.” I patted him on the shoulder. “I'll see you in the winner's circle.”

He gave a curt nod and then kicked the dirt bike to life, circling toward the starting line as Jamey ambled along with me.

“That kid posted a 14.01—that's faster than Henry's ever been able to climb that hill and nobody's ever broke 14.”

I noticed that the Bear had pulled up at a respectful distance to watch the other riders try their luck. “Why do you think he does it?”

The biker shrugged. “You'd know better than me, dude.”

We went through the gate in the chain-link fence and moved over to our seats as the EMT van pulled away. “Not about this. I've never understood it.”

“If it was anybody else, I'd say they were trying to recapture their youth, but not him. I think it's just the challenge.” He looked back and smiled through his bushed-out beard. “I don't think he's used to partial success, Walt.”

“You're probably right about that.” The others made way,
but Jamey motioned toward his truck in the pits. “My tools are all out over there, so I think I'll watch from the tailgate in the cheap seats.”

Lola watched him go and then turned, studying me through a large pair of Italian movie-star sunglasses. “I don't think he likes me.”

I turned back to the hill. “There seem to be an awful lot of people who don't particularly care for your company.”

She adjusted the glasses and studied Henry. “And here I've always thought of myself as such a likable person.”

I turned toward Corbin. “What are you doing out of uniform, troop?”

He shrugged. “I go on at noon, so I thought I'd get out of town for a few hours before the real rally starts.”

We watched as the smart-aleck kid backed into the log and made ready to make his run. There was a lot of screaming and yelling as the crowd began cheering for the odds-on favorite. The flag on the hill dropped, and he rooster-tailed it, rocketing through the short straightaway and then timing the loop-de-loops. He got a little sideways but was able to pull it out just before the prairie grass got hold of him and bounced him like a pinball. He started to stall but then gassed it and flew over the top with a flourishing cross up. The kid was good, you have to admit.

“Hey, I met a patron of the Hulett Police Department last night.”

“Who's that?”

“Bob Nance.”

Dougherty looked genuinely surprised. “Where in the world did you see him?”

I leaned forward and looked toward the hill where the
young rider had posted a 14 flat, and then glanced at Lola for her response, but there didn't seem to be one. “On the ninth green with a very expensive shotgun in his hands.”

“You were at his house?”

“Eventually.” I turned a little toward Lola. “Hey, do you know if your son was associated with a young woman by the name of Chloe Nance?”

The corner of her lip nearest me curled up just a bit. “
Associated
?”

“For lack of a better term.”

“Chloe Nance?”

“Yep.”

“Never heard of her.” She turned toward me, but it was difficult to read her expression through the glasses. “But like I told you, he had lots of
associates
.”

Corbin interrupted the interrogation. “Wait, you met Bob and Chloe?”

“Yep. Last night after you dropped off Bodaway's phone, I plugged it in and a text came from Chloe wanting him to meet her at the golf course. I got dressed and went up there and met her father, too.”

We all watched as another rider made an emergency dismount and did a comic bow as his bike catapulted back down the hill. Corbin checked his wristwatch, probably estimating the time it would take to get back to Hulett and his shift. “She's a pain in the ass, but the old man's all right.”

“Sure, he just bought you guys a million-dollar truck.”

Lola broke in. “Hey, don't knock people that buy you things.”

We watched as Henry got closer to the starting point. “How did he make all his money, anyway?”

“He worked for the automobile industry—developed some kind of ceramic stuff they use on exhaust manifolds and still holds the patent. He's rich about ten feet up a bull's ass.”

“So it would appear.” The Cheyenne Nation was having a brief conversation with the officials—it seemed as though there was a problem up top. “Any idea how Chloe could've been involved with Bodaway?”

“Nope.”

I turned to Lola. “You?”

“Me what?”

“Any idea why this young woman might've gotten in touch with your son?”

I got the curve at the corner of the lips again. “I told you, he's popular.”

“Your son wasn't dealing in anything illegal, was he?”

I got the full sunglasses this time, and it was like looking at two identical versions of myself. “Like what?”

“Drugs?”

“What makes you say that?”

“The young woman's father mentioned that his daughter had a substance abuse problem, and I was just wondering if that might've been a connection.”

“There isn't.”

“You seem pretty sure of that.” I waited and then continued. “He's had a few run-ins with the law.”

“Nothing involving drugs.”

“No, but . . .”

“But what? He's an Indian kid, a biker with a few brushes with asshole cops and so he must be bad news, huh?”

“That's not what I said.”

“But it's what you were thinking.”

I smiled and started getting the feeling that Henry was right to keep Lola at arm's length. “You know, I can hardly do enough thinking for myself, so if you'd like to do some of mine for me, feel free.”

She studied me for a good long time and then stood. “I'm taking a walk. I'll see you later.” She sauntered away toward the pits.

“Do you think it was something I said?”

“Absolutely.”

I nodded and watched as the Cheyenne Nation backed up against the starting log and looked at that hill the way I'm sure his ancestors had studied the Seventh Cavalry. There was a war about to happen, and I wasn't going to miss it because Lola Wojciechowski was having a fit of pique.

I've seen some pretty amazing feats of derring-do, but I could tell this was going to be special. We watched as the Bear leaned up over the handlebars and made ready, the official at the top raising the green flag.

It wasn't a complete hush, but there was a stillness in the crowd. All the old Jackpine Gypsies knew Henry and respected him for his one triumph and the years he'd spent attempting to replicate it. They knew he was a tough competitor, but there is a time when you stop doing certain things, and I think that the Bear was there and everybody knew it.

The flag fell, and the Cheyenne Nation was off.

The reason the loop-de-loops are there at the beginning of
the course is to keep the riders from gaining too much momentum, allowing it to carry them halfway up the hill, but the Bear was having none of it and the KTM's motor screamed as he shot off the log like a clean-hit baseball from a gigantic wooden bat.

I'm pretty sure his front wheel never touched the ground till he hit that first hill, but I can guarantee nothing touched the second. He landed on the downslope at a much higher rate of speed than the other riders had, and the front wheel levitated again as his right hand peeled back the throttle and he blew up the hillside in a direct path, ignoring the routes that the others had taken.

There was a reason why no one else had tried the more direct route: there was a concave area dug into the hillside that, if you took it head-on, was likely to shoot you back out into open space where a fall the rest of the way down the hill was certain.

The Bear hit the indentation but then kicked to the right, taking a slight berm that shot him back toward the middle. I was wondering what the next part of his plan would be when he threw the handlebars to the side and leapt up the center third of the hill at a ferocious diagonal.

I wasn't even aware that I'd been drawn to my feet but then noticed that the hundreds around me were standing, too.

Henry couldn't keep going in that direction or he'd go out of bounds, so he slammed into another hillock, teetering for only a second, and used the force of impact to ricochet back up the hill with the same momentum he'd started with. Unlike all the other racers, he didn't pause at the sandy precipice but took another diagonal that flew both the KTM and him over
the heads of the scrambling officials in one final blast, like a Saturn V rocket headed for the ghostly shape of the moon in the blue South Dakota sky.

13:59.

• • •

Henry and Jamey were seated on the tailgate of Jamey's truck and passed a bottle of champagne back and forth, each smoking a cigar as Lola and I approached through the crowd that surrounded them. KOTA Territory News was interviewing the Bear, and it looked like all of Sturgis was trying to have a word with him.

We waited at a respectful distance, and when the crowd began to thin, she sidled up to him and they looked at each other. I wasn't close enough to hear what she said, but I guess it was pretty important because he reached out a hand and stopped her when she started to walk away. He stood and said something to her, and she said something back. He stood there for a moment more and then let his arm drop.

Whatever it was she said, I'd never seen a look like that on the Bear's face.

She gave him one last hard stare and then turned and walked away.

I'd been in enough wars and a few relationships to realize when a bomb had been dropped, so in deference, I stood back a moment before leaning over the side of the pickup bed. “Pretty good trick for an old Indian.”

He turned but didn't smile. “Not bad at all.”

He handed me the trophy, and I looked for his name on the plaque, but it wasn't there. “When do they engrave it?”

“This afternoon.” He thought about it, staring at the crinkled leather of his old motocross pants. “I suppose if we stay for the Show and Shine, I could go to the ceremony this evening and pick it up.”

“If you win the Show and Shine, you might get two trophies out of it.”

“And leave them in a dumpster here in Sturgis.”

I handed him back the trophy and studied him. “You okay?”

“Yes.”

“You don't seem like it.”

“I have some things on my mind.”

“Has Lola finally leveraged you into this investigation?”

He barked a short laugh with no humor in it and then carried his gaze back toward the hill he'd finally conquered. “It is beginning to look like that might be the case.”