Killing Custer (16 page)

20

ANGELA BOLTED UPRIGHT.
She held herself still, hardly breathing. A noise of some kind outside, but now there was nothing but quiet, shades pulled partway down, shadows on the driveway, an occasional car floating down the street like a ghost. She hadn't meant to fall asleep. She squinted at the bleary red numbers on the clock—1:33—as if they were a trick someone had played on her. She had intended to stay awake all night, waiting for the call. Everything set in her mind, as real as if it had already happened. As if the man in the black ski mask had called, and she had known his voice immediately, a voice from hell.

But the call hadn't come. She felt drained and limp, hair damp and matted against her head, eyes caked with sleep. She checked the messages on her mobile. Five calls from St. Francis Mission. She didn't know the priest at the mission. He was nothing to her. Why was he calling? She had wanted to scream,
Stop calling!
What if
he
was trying to call?

She sank back against the sofa. The call would come tonight. It had taken a while for the intruder to figure out what she had. He would have found what he was looking for on the computers. He had to make sure there were no copies. No flash drives. He had gone back to the office and searched in the desk drawers, the file drawers. Now there was only one other possibility. He would call.

Today had been a disaster. Madden sniffing around like an old dog. How long before he stumbled upon the possibility of a flash drive? The idea gripped her like a sudden, sharp pain. He could get a warrant, search her place, and what was she supposed to do? She had no lawyer. No one.

Her heart was thumping, and she made herself draw in a long breath. It was just as well Vicky Holden had dropped her. Always probing, insisting she was hiding something. Well, she was hiding the flash drive, and if Vicky had hung around any longer, she probably would have figured it out.

A scratching noise came from outside, as muffled and faint as a pebble rolling inside a drum. She felt her muscles tense. She pushed herself off the sofa bed, legs wobbly and unsure. She went to the front window and pulled back the edge of the stiff, grayish curtain. The odor of dust came at her. Through the slit between the curtain and the window frame, she scoured the outside. A faint light from the rear windows in the house fell over the driveway. Weeds sprouted through the cracks; a patch of grass looked like dried plastic. She could see the bumper of her car, but there were no other cars in sight. She let the curtain fall back and breathed in another whiff of dust. She was imagining things. She was upset, nervous, that was all; worried about Skip. The terrible waiting, the uncertainty.

Skip had probably assumed she'd left the flash drive in the office. The secretary carrying around a flash drive with all the office business on it? He would have been furious. So he must have told the man in the black mask it was in the office. But she had wanted to be sure there would be no more loss of documents. She had kept the flash drive with her. Now she would use it to free him. He would be proud of her.

The noise again. More distinct and rhythmic, footsteps on dry grass. She checked the front door to make sure she had thrown the lock. There was no bolt, just the button on the knob. She went back to the window and looked again through the slit. Nothing had changed; shadows blotted the driveway. She made her way past the sofa bed to the little alcove that jutted off the side of the house and peered past the window curtain, breathing in the dust. She stared at the black hulk of the hatchback, expecting someone or something—she didn't know what; an animal, maybe—to disturb the darkness. Nothing.

Except the noise, and this time she realized it came from the back of the house. She slipped past the kitchen counter, threw herself against the door, and jammed her thumb on the knob. The noise was loud, and confident. Confident footsteps planting themselves through the strip of dried grass outside.

* * *

VICKY WAS WIDE
awake, staring into the darkness, aware of the uneasy feeling that gripped her. Beside her, Adam had settled into the steady breathing of deep, unconcerned sleep. She envied him. He could go to the office, handle the business, do what had to be done, and let it go. He could sleep. She couldn't let it go. The interview with Madden kept looping through her mind. A faint light shone past the blinds at the window; slats of black shadows lay over the walls. She couldn't erase the image of Madden: big head and bulky shoulders, pockmarked face. Another image of Angela, small and closed in on whatever she was hiding.

Vicky pushed back the sheet and slid out of bed. She settled herself on the window seat, grasped her legs against the coolness, and set her chin on her knees. She had told Adam about excusing herself as Angela's attorney, and he had agreed to call a friend—Lakota—in Casper. Caveat. Always a caveat with Adam. Angela would have to call Adam's friend. He wasn't an ambulance chaser; he didn't call prospective clients.

The feeling of unease tightened like a cramp in her stomach. She tried to put what she did know about Angela into some logical order. Logical order, the way John O'Malley did. She kept her gaze on Adam and the slow movement of his chest and pushed away the thought of John O'Malley. It had been months since any case had brought them together. Life had gone on, settled into its natural rhythms. Enough distance had opened between them that when she thought of John O'Malley, it was with profound respect. A man who had given up everything, dedicated himself to helping others. Who stayed on the path he had chosen.

She forced her thoughts back. Where was the logic in anything Angela Running Bear had done? Falling in love with her boss, a man twice her age involved with a real-estate agent in Riverton. A secretary who didn't know anything about the clients, the cases? There wasn't anything Annie didn't know about the office. There were times when Vicky thought Annie knew more than she did. More details, more irrelevant information about clients that proved to be relevant and important.

Angela knew something, and she was in love with Skip Burrows. And that led to the logical conclusion—God, she should have seen it earlier. Whatever Angela was hiding, she was covering for Skip Burrows.

Vicky shivered. The cool night air penetrated the apartment and drove off the stuffiness and heat of the day. She pulled her knees closer to her chest. What did Angela know? That Skip had withdrawn money from the bank on Friday before they left for Jackson? The girl had seen the briefcase. Where was it now? In the trunk of Skip's missing car? Is that why he was abducted? Someone had seen him withdraw the money, followed him, waited until he came into the office Monday morning, and abducted him?

Then what was Angela hiding, if it wasn't the money? What was she covering up for him? Some case he was involved in? Something he was doing? Something his abductors knew about?

Vicky pitched herself off the bench and began tracing out a little circle between the bed and the window. She tried to focus on the abduction. Computers gone, backup gone, drawers and files ransacked. Whoever had taken Skip had intended to take something else. Had returned and searched the office again. Which meant he hadn't found what he wanted.

She made another circle, widening it to the dresser, the foot of the bed, the window. Adam was starting to stir, reaching across the bed, pawing at the empty space on her side. Then he flopped over. “Come back to bed,” he said, before sinking back into sleep.

She kept circling. He hadn't gotten it all! Despite the computers and the backups, the intruder hadn't gotten it all. That was it: Angela had another backup she was hiding. Keeping for Skip. Probably a flash drive of some sort.

My God, the girl was playing a high-stakes game. She must have figured out she had what the abductor wanted, and thought she could trade it for Skip. But Skip Burrows could be dead. And whoever had taken him would come for Angela next.

* * *

THE MAN IN
the black ski mask crashed through the door, which splintered and fell apart. Angela backed against the refrigerator, barely aware of the hard metal handle against her ribs. Someone was screaming, and she realized it was her voice. Screaming, crying, and shaking against the refrigerator as the man in the black ski mask moved along the counter like a snake. He stopped and looked down at her key ring—keys to the house, the car. The flash drive. He scooped them up and dropped them into the pocket of his black shirt.

There were a couple of feet between them, and Angela darted into the space, the screams surrounding her, and threw herself at the front door, but he was behind her, gripping her around the waist, arms like anvils, fists digging into her stomach, pulling her backward. A big, fleshy hand clamped over her mouth and nose and bent her head back until she thought it would snap off her neck. Arrows of pain shot through her. The screaming had stopped, leaving only the sounds of her own feet scraping the carpet as he dragged her backward. She scratched at the mask, at the white neck in the black shirt, the gloved hands tightening around her neck, blocking the air. A part of her draining away, water flowing over rocks. She couldn't breathe. Darkness had started to close around her. She was vaguely aware of the taste of blood and acid, the tightness in her nostrils, and the thick, heavy pain that exploded in her chest.

* * *

THE RINGING PHONE
burst through the quiet. Vicky threw off the sheet and blanket and sat up, groping for the phone on the nightstand, a knot of dread tightening inside her. The numbers on the clock radio registered 2:40. Her fingers grasped the cold plastic receiver and lifted it to her ear. The ringing stopped.

“Madden here.” The detective sounded wide awake, gruff, and to-the-point. “There's been some trouble.”

“Who's calling at this hour?” Adam's voice was sleep-filled and groggy, muffled in the pillow.

“Angela?”

“We're at her place now.”

We?
Madden and who else?

“Your client, Angela Running Bear, has been murdered.”

She closed her eyes and pictured a whole phalanx of police officers—plainclothes, uniforms, coroner's deputies. Cars stacked in the driveway; blue, red, and yellow roof lights twirling into the darkness.

“What is it?” Adam was sitting next to her, his arm like a cushion laid across her back.

“Murdered,” she repeated. “When?”

“Who's been murdered?”

“About an hour ago. The landlady heard screaming and called 911. An officer responded within ten minutes, but there was no one on the premises. The back door had been broken in. Angela was on the floor.”

“Oh my God.” Vicky leaned into Adam's shoulder. “Angela,” she whispered.

“Who do you think did it?”

“The man in the black mask, Madden. He came looking for . . .” She hesitated. She had no proof. Angela had never admitted to holding on to a backup of any kind, and yet Vicky was sure it was true. “Flash drive. Did you find a flash drive in the house?”

“We're not done looking yet.”

“You won't find it.”

“We need to contact family on the rez. Can you help us out?”

“I'm on my way.”

She was in the bathroom now, unsure of how she had gotten there. The receiver lay on the counter next to the sink. She could hear the dull buzzing noise as she splashed cold water in her face. Adam stood in the doorway. She could sense his presence looming behind her.

“Why are you going over there? You don't have to go. You told me you weren't representing her.”

“She was murdered.” Vicky splashed cold water inside her mouth, as if she could wash away the word. She swung toward Adam. “Murdered, Adam! She was helpless and alone, and a man in a black mask murdered her.”

“Let the police handle it.”

“Someone has to tell her family.”

“You told me you don't even know them.”

“I know who they are.” She brushed past him, slipped out of her nightgown, and started pulling on jeans and a tee shirt from the pile on the floor.

“For godssakes, Vicky. You don't have to go.”

She stuffed her feet into sandals and hurried past him down the hallway, grabbing her bag off the kitchen counter as she went. She slammed the door and ran for the elevator, pushing the call button again and again until the cage cranked and rattled upward and the doors parted. She leaned against the cold metal panel inside the cage, watching the doors close and feeling the steady pull of gravity. “It's who I am.” She mopped at the moisture on her cheeks. “It's who I am.”

21

THE
HOUSE LOOKED
like a stage prop: lights shining in the windows, blue and yellow police lights revolving over the exterior, stagehands in dark uniforms, everything suffused in unreality. Vicky slid to a stop alongside an SUV with Fremont County Coroner in black letters across the doors. Her headlights splayed over the front of the house. The door opened, a blur of dark figures moving about inside, and Detective Madden outside talking to a tall man in a cowboy hat. It always came as a surprise, the way John O'Malley knew what was going on with her people before she did.

She got out of the car and walked through the kaleidoscope of shadows and light, conscious of the way the two men stopped talking and turned partway toward her. “What happened to her?” she said.

“Coroner says the marks on the body indicate she was strangled. The killer burst through the back door.”

The body!
Vicky looked away. The dark uniforms coming and going, boots scratching gravel. Somewhere inside the house was the lifeless body of a girl, Angela Running Bear. Vicky could see the hard set of her jaw and eyes as she'd gotten out of the Ford only a few hours ago, the rigid line of her back as she'd hurried into the little house. Scared and obstinate, determined to find her own way, to be someone, to live.

“I'm sorry, Vicky.” A calm depth of understanding shone in John O'Malley's eyes. How much she had missed him these past months. Missed the understanding that passed between them without the need for explanations.

Madden cleared his throat, his forehead furrowed with thought. This afternoon, Vicky was thinking, he had been interviewing Angela across a table. An ordinary interview, the kind that took place every day. People didn't walk away and die. “We won't know for certain what happened until we get the autopsy results. The landlady . . .” He shot a glance across the top of a police car to an older-looking woman with gray hair straggling from the bun at the back of her head. She stood with arms folded across her middle and neck craned toward the house. The colored lights revolved over her face, and Vicky saw the look of betrayal, as if Angela, in her murder, had defiled the property.

Madden was going on about how the landlady had called 911 at 1:45 and reported screaming in the rental house. “Wasn't the first call.”

“Tonight?”

“She had called around eleven thirty. Reported a window peeper. Not unusual for her. She had a habit of calling 911, complaining about suspicious persons nosing around, loud music in the rental. Nuisance calls. Everything bothered her. We showed up when we had the time. A patrol car swung by tonight after the first call, didn't see anyone about. But the next call . . .” He let the words trail off and focused on the officers gathering in the doorway. “Dispatcher thought something was different. She claimed there was a disturbance in the rental house. She was sure the man she'd seen peering into the windows must have broken in. Says she had gotten a good look at his face in the light of the windows. A car was here in five minutes. It was too late. The perpetrator was gone. We've made casts of boot prints. He was in and out of here in a hurry. Doesn't look like he left anything behind.”

“You're sure it was a man?”

“Or a very strong woman. The girl put up a fight. She was dragged about ten feet from the front door.”

“Did you find any computer flash drives?”

The detective was shaking his head. “I wouldn't say a definite no. It will take a while to go through the house. We found her cell.” He swung toward John O'Malley. “Looks like you had been trying to reach her. Must be three or four messages about her nephew.”

“I thought she'd like to know where he was staying.”

“Somebody else was real anxious to talk to her. Left six messages. Last one said he was going to come and get her. Colin Morningside. Made himself real scarce today. On his way to the Sioux, I suspect. Looks like he changed his mind and came back.”

Vicky caught the flicker of surprise on John O'Malley's face. So Madden knew Colin Morningside had left the rez, which meant the police were talking to Colin and Mike Longshot and the other warriors in the parade.

Someone had opened the rear doors on the coroner's SUV, and the shadowy figures in the doorway started rolling out a gurney. The lumps of a small body poked through the body bag. Madden threw up a hand, stepped over, and said something to the attendants. Then he motioned to John O'Malley.

Vicky followed Father John over to the gurney. So many murders and wrongful, stupid deaths, so many times she had found herself at a crime scene with John O'Malley. She could predict what would come next. She could have closed her eyes and watched what he would do. An attendant had zipped the bag back enough to expose Angela's face. She might have been sleeping but for the dark smudges about her neck, as if someone had dabbed mascara on the wrong places.

John O'Malley lifted his hand over Angela's face and made the sign of the cross. “May the Great Spirit have mercy on your soul,” he said. “May all His angels and spirits lead you into the next world, and may you find peace and joy in the everlasting love that He promised through his son, Jesus.”

A soft chorus of
amens
came through the shadows, followed by the ripping sound of the zipper and the crackling of the body bag as the attendants lifted Angela into the SUV. A uniformed officer, like a guard, waited until the attendants had stepped back, then slammed the doors.

“Any family, besides the nephew?” Madden said.

“She has a sister on the rez,” Father John said. “I'm not sure she's around, but I can check.”

Madden nodded. “I'd appreciate it.”

John O'Malley gave Vicky a slow, comprehending look, as if he knew what she would say and was merely waiting to hear the words.

“I'll go with you.”

* * *

“WHAT DO YOU
know about Angela's sister?” Vicky sat in the passenger seat of the Toyota pickup that rattled and shook around her. She had offered to drive, but she hadn't pushed the matter. A deep tiredness dragged at her arms and legs. She represented Garrett's widow. She had been so intent on distancing herself from Angela Running Bear after she'd realized there could be a connection between Burrows's disappearance and Garrett's murder. The conflict of interest had weighed on her like a heavy coat. She hadn't bothered to get to know the girl. Who had she been close to? Who cared about her? Everyone on the rez knew the Running Bear family, stalked by tragedy. Mother murdered, grandparents dead. A sister who may or may not be around. Pieces of information floating like debris in the wind.

“I've met Claire a few times,” John said. “Her son, Ollie, plays for the Eagles. Nice kid. The kind who has a sense of what he wants.”

“And he wants off the rez?” They had crossed the border, following the headlight beams through the darkness on Blue Sky Highway.

“His mother left him alone.”

“Drinking?”

“Ollie's learned how to get along. His mother wasn't around today.”

“So he's staying with somebody else.”

“The Makepeace family.”

Arranged by you, Vicky was thinking. A white man so close to her people, his life so intertwined with theirs that she wondered how either would manage when he left. They followed the curve of the headlights right onto Seventeen-Mile Road, driving east. Then left toward a cluster of small houses. John slowed the pickup and turned through the borrow ditch into a dirt yard. The headlights swept past the hulk of an old pickup, what looked like a washing machine turned on its side, and a carton with bottles poking out of the top. The house looked dark and closed up. Another pickup stood near the front door. Little points of red lights flitted above the pickup bed.

“Wait here,” John said, swinging out. He left the motor running, headlights cutting across the back of the pickup.

Vicky opened her door and got out. The faint noise of giggling and the slurred sound of voices drifted in the air. “Hello!” John called.

The red dot of a cigarette rose out of the pickup bed, and behind it, the head and wide shoulders of a man caught in the headlights. “Who's there?” The voice strained with the effort to sound sober. The second red light also floated upward with a woman's voice, bleary and full of alcohol. “You cops? We haven't done anything wrong.” A bottle clinked against the pickup bed.

“Claire? It's Father John and Vicky Holden.”

The woman seemed to snap to attention, as if the alcohol had drained from her body and left her sober. “What do you want? Ollie's all right. Nothing's happened to my boy. He's sleeping in the house.”

“Ollie's staying with Lester Makepeace.”

“What? He's sleeping inside. I checked on him. You think I don't care about my kid? I love that boy more than anything.”

Except alcohol, Vicky thought.

“You never checked on the kid yet.” The man took a long draw from the cigarette and the red light flared against his face. A cloud of smoke rose around his head. “You was gonna check on him soon's we finished the bottle.”

“That's a big, fat lie!”

“We're here about Angela,” Vicky said.

“My know-it-all, higher-than-God sister? Too good for us. Got off the rez like a bat outta hell, said she was never coming back. Like white people were gonna treat her good. Like they give a hoot about Indians. What's she gone and gotten herself mixed up in?”

John O'Malley moved closer to the side of the pickup, as if he wanted to be ready to reach for the woman, steady her. “I'm sorry, Claire. Your sister was killed tonight.”

The woman sank against the rear window of the cab. Her eyes rolled back until she was staring out of white sockets. John took hold of her hand as the man beside her slipped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her into his chest.

“You better know what you're talking about, coming out here and scaring her to death.”

“The police found Angela's body at her place a while ago.”

The woman made a rhythmic, muffled noise into the man's shirt.

“I'm sorry,” Father John said again.

“Who done it?”

“The police don't know.”

“They're never gonna find out. Arapaho girl killed? Who cares?” Claire lifted her head and made an effort to turn sideways. Eyes black and wild looking now. “What'd he do to her?”

“The coroner believes she was strangled.”

“Who do you think might have done it?” Vicky said.

“Take your pick. Any white man in town. I told her, stay away. Nothing good's gonna happen to you across the border. Keep with your own people.”

“Is there anything we can do for you?” John O'Malley said.

The Indian man gave him a long, appraising look. “I'm gonna take care of her just fine. We don't need your help.” He cocked his head toward Vicky. “Yours, either. Go back to your white friends.”

* * *

JOHN BACKED THE
pickup out of the yard and onto the road, then shifted into drive and drove north, deeper into the rez. “Colin will want to know. He left this morning, but Lou will know how to reach him.” He gave her a sideways glance. “Colin's a person of interest in Garret's murder. Copspeak,” he said. “I knew he'd gotten scared after Madden wanted to interview him a second time. Mike Longshot is also scared. They were the only Arapahos who went to the theater to hear Garrett speak. He went on and on about Custer's exploits. I can't blame either Colin or Mike for being upset.”

“Upset enough to kill the man?”

John O'Malley shook his head. “Upset enough to want to be absolutely sure they wanted to teach him a lesson, remind him of what happened at the Little Bighorn.” A faint pink light had begun to glow in the eastern sky, and the headlights searched the pink haze. Vicky felt his eyes on her again. “They both need a lawyer,” he said. “Mike's staying at the guesthouse. I told him I'd bring him to your office tomorrow.”

Vicky was quiet a long moment. How to explain? The words fell away. “I can't help him. I can't help either of them.” She could sense the disappointment and questions in the silence between them. “I'm representing Garrett's widow,” she heard herself say. Representing a white woman, when her own people needed her. How had it come to this? Maybe Claire and her boyfriend were right. She had become like a white person. “It would be a conflict of interest,” she managed. “There are other lawyers.”

“Adam?”

“He's too close to me.”

John flinched, she thought, but then she told herself she had imagined it.