Death on the Greasy Grass (25 page)

C
HAPTER
33

With the Jeep's back window out and the passenger side window fallen down into the door, it was typical Indian air-conditioning. Manny turned onto the gravel road from the Star Dancer pasture, the Jeep kicking up dust, blowing through the windows the more he picked up speed. His eyes gritted, and he spit dust from his teeth. He wished he had brought water to clear his eyes instead of root beer, and he ran his sleeve across his eyes to clear his vision.

When he was sure he was far enough from the ranch no one would spot him, he pulled the light switch: The beater had two headlights, even if the dimmer was inoperable. An approaching truck flicked its headlights on high, then back to dim.

“Sorry, buddy, all's I got is high beam.” The driver laid on the horn as he passed, and Manny was sure a finger was jutting outside as the truck went by.

Manny dropped over the first hill away from the ranch, and he relaxed, sitting back and fumbling in the cooler for another Hires. He popped the top just as diesel smoke reached inside a heartbeat before a truck slammed into back of the Wagoneer. Root beer spilled onto his hand, instantly sticky as Manny fought the wheel.

He floored the accelerator, mushy linkage responding slowly. Even if the Jeep had had all its gears, it wouldn't have been any match for the truck that kept tapping his bumper more violently each time, playing with Manny. He feared the coup de grace was just around the next sharp curve, but the old Jeep was maxed out.

The truck laid on its horn, bright lights inches from Manny's bumper. He spotted an approach to a pasture just ahead and he jerked the wheel hard right. The Jeep veered off. Manny crashed through the fence, pumping the brakes. Barbwire caught under the Jeep, slowing it, finally stopping it as the fence wrapped around the driveshaft.

The truck shot by and the driver laid on the brakes, obscured by heavy dust as it skidded to a stop. Reverse lights came on as the driver floored the truck backward. For once, Manny had remembered his Glock and he grabbed it as he bailed out the door, grateful that the Jeep's dome light was broken. Bright floodlights above the truck's cab switched on as the driver steered toward the Jeep, hunting him.

He used the fender for cover as he crouched down, hand shaking as much from fear as the adrenaline dump. He wiped his palm on his jeans and gripped the Glock, waiting for the driver to get out. He didn't have long to wait. The truck door slammed. Footsteps neared, kicking up gravel. A rock banged off the fender of the Jeep as the driver approached.

Manny breathed deeply, what his academy instructors termed “Survival Breathing,” meant to calm oneself before making a crucial move. And a crucial move was soon to be in order. Manny crouched low and peeked around the bumper. A figure bent over, head inside the Jeep, and Manny jumped up. “Show your hands!”

The man's head hitting the doorjamb sounded like a rifle shot as he backed out, his hands high above his head.

“Turn around so I can see you.”

Cubby Iron Cloud turned slowly, silhouetted against the headlights of his powerful truck. With his hands held high, his belly was away from his pants and Manny saw Cubby's championship rodeo buckle for the first time. “You trying to kill me and make it look like an accident?”

Cubby's hands came down a few inches. “That you, Agent Tanno?”

“Who'd you expect to run off the road?”

“I got no gun.”

“Turn around slow and pull your shirt up.”

“I said I'm not armed.”

“Do it!”

Cubby pulled his shirt up, exposing his belly as he turned slowly around. He faced Manny. “Satisfied?”

Manny motioned with his gun and Cubby lowered his hands, shaking as he grabbed a pack of Marlboros from his shirt pocket. Manny looked lovingly at Cubby shaking out a cigarette, and he fought down the urge to bum one. “Now why the hell you run me off the road?”

Cubby kicked the side of the Jeep. “Didn't know it was you. I would have thought the bureau could give you something better than this hunk of crap metal to drive.”

“That doesn't answer my question.”

“You were trespassing on Star Dancer land.” Cubby blew smoke rings that lingered around his headlights before the wind ushered them away. “Wilson called me on his cell right after he lifted off. Said he saw headlights in the west pasture. Thought it might be spotlighters looking for deer—we get those now and again. My guess is you weren't hunting deer up there.”

“With this?” Manny holstered his Glock. “And why didn't you call PD dispatch if you had trespassers?”

Cubby tilted his head back and laughed. “Way the hell out here? By the time they could respond, the spotlighters would have the deer gutted, loaded, and be halfway back to Billings.” He leaned against the fender of the Jeep. “But I might just call in a trespassing complaint on you, unless you can come up with a good reason for being on our land without permission.”

“I was watching Wilson.”

“For what?”

“I'm sure you heard: Someone tried killing me in Harlan's shop last night.”

Cubby nodded. “But what's that got to do with Wilson?”

“I hit the shooter . . .”

“So rumor has it. With a damned buffalo gun from what I heard.”

Manny nodded. “But not too bad, or I'd have found him bleeding to death outside the shop. Wilson didn't have his arm bandaged when I talked with him at Sam's memorial service.”

“He cut his arm changing strut bolts on that plane of his.”

Wilson told Stumper he had cut his arm on the metal edge of a table. “He got witnesses?”

“Me and Jamie Hawk.”

“Oh that's a pair to draw.”

Cubby shook out another cigarette and grabbed his BIC from his pocket. “Look, I could care less about Wilson Eagle Bull. If you winged him, I'd be the first to tell you.”

Manny mulled that over. Either Cubby was an accomplished liar, or he hated Wilson. Because he knew about his affair with Chenoa?

“Then tell me who's Wilson's passenger.”

Cubby stood and walked closer to Manny. “There was no one with him. He flew out alone like he always does.” Cubby rubbed his forehead. “Wilson never mentioned anyone. You sure?”

“As soon as Wilson got airborne, someone crawled into the front seat.”

Cubby shook his head. “I can't think of anyone who'd want to fly to Pine Ridge.”

“He's not flying to Rapid City?”

Cubby shook his head and snubbed his butt out with the toe of his boot. “Sounded odd to me, too. He said he's flying to Pine Ridge, but I wasn't aware they had a lighted runway there.”

“Neither was I,” Manny said. “And for now, I believe you don't know. Thing we need to do now is get this heap off your fence so I can limp back into town.”

Cubby squatted and looked under the Jeep. “You're not going anywhere tonight. Driveshaft's locked up solid with barbwire. I'll have Jamie lift this thing up with a tractor tomorrow. Some of the boys can untangle the fence.” Cubby grinned at Manny. “I could give you a ride into town, though I don't know why I should. Give me one reason why I shouldn't call in a trespassing complaint on you.”

“'Cause it's preferable to being arrested for assaulting a federal officer.”

“Who was on my property without permission.”

Manny threw up his hands. “Looks like we got an Indian standoff. Like a Mexican standoff only simpler. Want me to help fix the fence?”

Cubby grabbed the handle of the Jeep and stood. “Naw, we're not running any cows in this pasture anyway. I'll have Jamie fix it after he pulls this thing off the fence in the morning. But stay off Star Dancer property.”

Manny leaned inside the Jeep and grabbed his duffel and cooler. He grabbed the ah-shit handle above the door and hoisted himself into Cubby's truck. Cubby sat staring straight ahead, avoiding eye contact, and Manny thought back to that note Itchy had scribbled demanding money for the journal. “When was the last time you saw your brother?”

“Like I told Stumper, last week when Itchy called and hit me up for some lucky bucks.”

“A thousand lucky bucks?”

Cubby laughed and turned in his seat. “With Itchy, it was usually a ten-spot here, twenty there, whenever he thought he could con me into thinking he was hungry. Only thing he was hungry for is another hit of crank. Damned fool.”

Manny slipped on his seat belt as Cubby started the truck. A rumbling of diesel accompanied a puff of smoke before the truck smoothed out. “You don't sound like the mournful brother.”

Cubby lit a cigarette, the glow of the ash momentarily illuminating his face like a cynical jack-o'-lantern. “Itchy had the same opportunities as the rest of us, but he chose drugs, petty thieving to support his habit. I always thought if Harlan hadn't kept a bunk open for him and slipped him money now and again, Itchy would have had to straighten up.”

“So you didn't like Harlan?”

Cubby inhaled, the red glow of the cigarette contrasting with the green dash lights. “Most folks liked Harlan, but I saw through him years ago. He was all about his bottom line, how much money he could make.”

“Ever fight with Harlan?”

Cubby slowed to allow a doe to pass, her eyes translucent in the darkness. “I argued with him more than once about letting Itchy crash at his auction barn. But I sure didn't hate him enough to want him dead.” He snubbed his Marlboro in the ashtray. “And I held the offer open to Itchy: He could come back to the ranch whenever he got clean.”

“That must have been a pretty safe offer, knowing Itchy would never stop crankin'.”

Cubby shrugged, looking over his shoulder as he took the interstate on-ramp toward Hardin. “What the hell do you want from me?”

“The truth.”

“I've been honest with you.”

“About Itchy's note demanding a thousand dollars in exchange for the journal?”

Cubby shook his head. “I got no note, and I don't know about this phantom journal you and Chenoa and damned near everyone else is looking for.”

If Manny had been more flexible, he would have kicked himself in the ass for questioning Cubby in the dark truck, too dark to gauge Cubby's answers, too dark to tell if he lied or not. Now he had nothing to go on with Cubby, and he vowed the next time he questioned him it would be face-to-face in the light of day.

C
HAPTER
34

Cubby dropped Manny off beside his car parked at the hitching rail in front of his room at Custer's Revenge. The key chain dangled from the ignition, and Manny left it there. No one in their right mind would want to steal a '55 Olds with enough dings and dents it should be headed for a demolition derby.

Manny sat on the hood and tapped in Rapid City Regional ICU. “Chief Looks Twice said to notify him whenever you called. He's in Officer With Horn's room now.”

Manny suffered through Perry Como elevator music, soothing in mental institutions. But he wasn't in an institution, unless he had to listen to the music much longer. Even powwow tunes would be preferable to Tony Bennett or Mel Tormé. Or Perry Como.

“He's still with us.” Lumpy sounded out of breath when he at last came on the other end. But then anyone five foot five and two fifty would be out of breath just waddling down the hall of the hospital. “At least he's no worse.”

Manny let out a sigh. “Tell me what happened after I took his statement.”

“The nurse called me and Doreen when she heard you'd taken his dying declaration, and we've been here since.”

“You got an officer that can check something for me?”

“We're working quarter staffed now,” Lumpy said, sounding as if he cradled the phone. Paper shuffled on the other end. “What you need?”

Manny gave Lumpy a condensed version of what had happened since he returned to Crow Agency, and Wilson Eagle Bull's actions leading up to whisking away some unknown passenger tonight. “He's got to have one of his pastures rigged for lights. I need an officer to be there when he lands.”

“Which pasture?”

Manny shook his head. Wilson had four ranches that he might land the plane on. “Can you have an officer stand by each of them?”

Lumpy sighed. “Look, I got officers working their second twenty-four-hour shifts, busting their butts with family fights, DUIs, normal stuff we policemen deal with. Sitting security outside Willie's room. I got no one to spare on your hunch that Wilson's flying someone that you need to ID.”

“Would you have people to spare if it wasn't Wilson?”

The line went dead, and Manny stared at his phone before pocketing it. Lumpy didn't think much of his theory about Wilson and a passenger. Then again, Manny wasn't so sure he would send busy officers to sit on a pasture waiting for Wilson to land on Manny's split-second glimpse as Wilson got airborne. But he needed to know, and there was only one other man Manny trusted to watch for a powerful man like Wilson Eagle Bull, someone that didn't care if Wilson was running for Senate. Or president.

Manny punched in Big Bat's number, praying that Philbilly was cooking on the swing shift. A woman answered the phone. “Is Phil working?”

She chuckled. “If you call what he's doing, working. He spends more time on his ass than he does in front of the grill. But he's here somewhere—let me wake him up.”

Manny thanked Wakan Tanka that Phil was at the convenience store tonight as Manny suffered through more elevator music. Did Big Bat's and Rapid City Regional enter into a conspiracy to drive him nuts with their music? “What y'all need, man?” Phil's thick Arkansas drawl was even harder to understand over the phone than in person. Luckily, Philbilly was too lazy to use long words in conversation, and Manny suspected Phil never got the full benefit of alphabet soup.

“I need you to do me a favor.”

“My back's been giving me fits lately, Manny.”

“It's nothing that needs heavy lifting or moving.”

Philbilly's voice perked up. “Then I'm your man.”

“You got a cell?”

Philbilly laughed. “Of course I got a cell. Everyone's got a cell. What you think I am, dumb?”

Manny bit his lip. He was tempted to tell Philbilly he was not only dumb, but was perhaps the laziest man Manny had ever met. Rumor on the rez was that he married his former wife's older sister because he was too lazy to break in a new mother-in-law. “Reuben doesn't have one.”

“He needs one.”

“I couldn't agree more. He needs yours.”

“Mine?”

“I need you to run your cell phone out to Reuben.”

“Reuben?” Philbilly said after a long pause. “Your brother?”

“The same. And he doesn't have a car either, so you'll have to drive out to his place and drop your phone off.”

“In the dark?”

Manny understood Phil's predicament. Manny could think of no one on Pine Ridge that wanted to approach Reuben's house in the dark, unannounced. “Look, drive in slow with your lights on and make a lot of noise. Put on your dome light so he knows it's you.”

“I'm working,” Phil stuttered. “I can't leave.”

“You owe me, Phil. How many times have I covered for you because you claimed a bad back or a sniffle?”

Phil coughed into the phone. “I feel the flu coming on now.”

* * *

The room phone's persistence brought Manny dripping out of the shower. “We found where Itchy was killed.” Stumper sounded out of breath. “That Caddy Degas rented was never returned to Avis—it's stuck in a riverbed north of Crow Agency.”

“Good work.”

“Wasn't nothing I did. Dispatch got a 911 tip that the car was there. It was down the bank so no one could see it unless you were walking or riding in that area.”

Manny patted his legs dry. “What's that got to with Itchy?”

Stumper took a breath. “Blood everywhere inside that car. And like you said, there's trees lining the river—same kind of leaves we found stuck in Itchy's clothes and watch cap.”

Manny dried his face with a towel depicting blue jays that looked more like purple jays for all the stains. He didn't want to think what the stains were from. “Pick me up.”

“Why don't you drive over here. You can drop my Jeep off . . .”

“I don't have it,” Manny said. “It's a long story. We'll talk when you get here.”

Manny pulled on Dockers, then thought better. He'd have to work around and in the car, and decided on grubby blue jeans and a faded Big Bat's T-shirt instead. He started putting his holster on and tossed it into his duffel. He didn't need the extra weight on his belt when he crawled around the Caddy. But at least he kept his promise to himself never to forget it again.

* * *

Stumper tooted the horn, and Manny hopped into his cruiser.

“Way to go, waking everyone up.”

“You see any other car parked at this rattrap.”

Stumper was right. Manny remained the only boarder at Custer's Revenge.

As Stumper pulled out of the motel parking lot, Manny gave him the short and dirty of how his Jeep had come to be hung up on Star Dancer barbwire. “Don't you beat all. I loan you my Jeep in good faith and you manage to wreck it.”

Manny forced a smile. “We'll laugh about this someday.”

“Yeah, like when the bureau pays for fixing it.”

I wonder how much the SAC will laugh when I give him a bill for a new transmission and driveshaft for a '63 Jeep Wagoneer.

Stumper drove the service road south. When they were a mile before reaching Crow Agency, they turned east on a gravel road. “Anyone approach the Caddy?”

Stumper shook his head. “Just me, and then I got only far enough to see the blood and gray matter on the dash that didn't come from the factory. That's as close as I wanted to get in the dark.”

“Who's watching the car?”

“You're looking at the only guy in this district tonight,” Stumper said. “I had to run up to Hardin just long enough to pick you up.”

They turned down a gravel road and had only gone fifty yards when the lights of the Tahoe reflected off the roof of the Cadillac nearly hidden down the creek bank. They stopped two truck lengths from the edge and climbed out. Manny motioned to tracks in the field. “Let's see your flashlight.” Manny squatted and studied the tracks leading over the edge of the bank to the car. He shined the light on the ground as he walked the tracks back the way they had come.

“What you see?”

Manny shone his light onto a small barn thirty yards away. “Looks like the driver just missed that shed.” He ran the light the length of the tire tracks. “But there was no skidding to indicate the driver lost control. I think someone drove it off the bank on purpose.”

“Why wouldn't Degas—if he had been the driver—conceal the car any better?” Stumper said.

“Why indeed?”

Manny returned to the embankment with Stumper close behind. Manny bent and played the light down at a sharp angle. Boot prints shone where the driver had climbed out of the car and scrambled up the steep bank. Manny sat in the dirt and eased himself down, grabbing onto a tree root to slow his descent. By the time he'd gotten to where the car sat, Stumper had jumped down and helped him stand. He stood apart from the car.

“How long do you figure this has been here?” Stumper asked.

Manny squatted and ran his hand over the tire marks, but wasn't sure how to age the tracks. The car rested in axle-deep mud, and the only thing Manny knew was the tracks were fresh: half a day at the most, an hour at the least. “Only thing I can say is that if Itchy were killed in the Cadillac, it hadn't happened where it is now.” He motioned up the bank. “Not even Degas could have carried Itchy's body up the steep and slippery embankment.”

Manny inched his way down far enough to illuminate the inside. “Open the door.”

Manny waited, but Stumper stood with his back to the bank eying the car.

“Come here and open the door so I can look inside at a different angle.”

Stumper's wide eyes reflected moonlight as he stared at the car.

“What's the matter with you?”

“Didn't you hear that?”

Manny stood and cocked his head. “I don't hear anything.”

“Sounded like an owl.”

“I said I didn't hear anything. Why?”

Stumper shook his head. “Itchy's
ira'xaxe
remains close.”

Manny turned off the light and walked to Stumper. “Explain.”

“Itchy's soul is close by. Can you not feel it?”

Manny felt the hair rise along his neck and the backs of his hands. He had heard nothing. But if Stumper felt Itchy's soul remained near the car, Manny knew no amount of prodding would convince Stumper otherwise. Besides, with Manny's experiences with
wanagi
, he believed Stumper.

“Okay,” Manny said. “Just sit there and catch your breath while I check the car out.”

Manny opened the door and propped a broken cottonwood branch in the doorjamb to hold it open while he shone the light inside. Blood and brain matter had been blown straight into the passenger side dash. Blood spatter showed Itchy's outline where he had been slumped back in the front seat when the killer shot him in the back of his head.

“What you make of this?” Stumper yelled.

Manny turned to where Stumper knelt halfway up the creek bank. His flashlight illuminated a boot print laid over a cigarette butt stuck in the mud. Even before he picked it up, Manny smelled the odor of smoke.
Finally, one advantage of being an ex-smoker: knowing if a butt is fresh.

Manny stood, looking about. “This is recent. Last hour, perhaps. Someone wanted this car found.”

“Why?”

“Knowing that I'd respond,” Manny said immediately, his hand going to his belt: He'd left his gun and holster in his duffel in Stumper's cruiser.

Out of the corner of his eye, Manny caught light reflected in the barn window thirty yards away. He dove for Stumper, his shoulder hitting him and knocking him to the ground just as two quick shots kicked up mud where they'd stood a moment before. They rolled down the bank and hit the side of the Cadillac. Stumper half crouched, his sidearm already in his hand, and he looked at Manny with a wild-eyed, questioning stare.

“I left mine in your Tahoe.”

“Lot of help you'll be.” Stumper started up the bank, but Manny grabbed the back of his belt and pulled him back down. “He's just waiting for us to poke our heads up.”

“What the hell you want us to do, stay here and hope someone heard the shots? Wait until the shooter gets a bead on our asses? It's a long way from anyone. We got to move.”

“Of course we do, but we move smart.” Manny peeked over the bank and studied the terrain, the muddy creek bed, the steep bank that would provide them cover, analyzing the best way to get to the shooter. Just like Lakota back in the day would have done. “We'll split up. You go along the creek bed to the east, I'll stay below the rim and make my way west, closer to the barn.”

“You think the gun fairy's going to pay you a visit—you're not even armed?”

“I will be when I grab my Glock from your truck.” Manny peeked over the bank again, and a bullet kicked up mud and dirt a foot to his right. He dropped back down, rubbing a piece of tree leaf from one eye. “You give me twenty yards and start lobbing rounds. That'll give me time to put the sneak on whoever's in that shed.”