Killing Custer (17 page)

22

THE SKY FELL
all around in long streaks of red, magenta, pink, and orange. Sunrise always brought a sense of renewal, Vicky thought. A new day, new opportunities, new things coming, but not this morning. This morning she kept her eyes straight ahead. An occasional house passed, bathed in pink. John had flipped the switch on the CD player on the seat and the music of some opera—
Cosi fan tutte
, he had told her—drifted over the hum of the tires. She was grateful not to have to keep up a conversation. It had always been like that with John O'Malley. Often there was no need to talk.

The hard knot of failure tightened inside her. She could see Angela's face, still and final. No more experiences, no more joys or sorrows, no more laughter. The girl had kept something back—Vicky had felt it; she hadn't challenged her. Later, she had realized what it was. So obvious, she thought now. Skip Burrows's office ransacked, computers taken. The man in the mask had returned, looking for what Angela had hidden.

Angela, trying to be brave, when she had been scared.

“You couldn't have prevented it.” John's voice floated through an aria, as if he had read her mind. “Try not to blame yourself.”

“I could have taken her someplace else. A motel the killer wouldn't have known about.” The pickup started to slow down, making rattling, coughing noises as they turned onto a dirt road. The sky had faded into a palette of pastels, and the prairie had turned to gold. “I think she had a flash drive with office files on it,” she said. “It was what the killer wanted.”

John was quiet a moment. “She must have known he would come after it. Maybe she thought she could trade it for Skip's life.”

“Bargain with a killer? What chance did she have? I should have found a way to help her.” Vicky took a moment, trying to bring into focus the thoughts jammed in her mind. “Skip Burrows could be dead,” she said. “He had a briefcase of money that he'd withdrawn Friday. There was something on the office computers the killer wanted. People were always in and out of Skip's office. Anyone might have seen Angela insert the flash drive. The killer couldn't risk leaving it in Angela's possession.”

They were rolling east, a few houses outside, gold and pink under the sky. John made another turn, and the pickup bounced down a dirt road toward a ranch house. Left onto a graveled driveway. He stopped behind a green truck. Vicky managed to let herself out, legs heavy, dragging her forward, the sense of failure weighing her down. She followed John O'Malley around the truck to the small, white house that glowed in the first rays of the sun. He had just lifted his hand to knock when a man's voice inside said, “Come in.”

He pushed the door open. “Lou?”

“Yeah, I'm here.”

Vicky stepped into a narrow living room. John O'Malley close beside her, brushing her shoulder. Shadows fell over the sofa and easy chair, the small tables scattered about. The window blinds were closed, and the house had the feeling of early morning, the smell of freshly brewed coffee in the air. Everything about the living room was neat and orderly—the stack of newspapers on the table, the balanced look of the lampshades, the pictures that might have been hung with a level. Across the room was an alcove that extended from the kitchen. Seated at one end of the table, hands curled around a mug of coffee, eyes half-closed, was Lou Morningside.

“Priest and lawyer.” The Arapaho shook his head. “Sit down. I need a minute before I get the bad news.”

Vicky took the chair next to Lou. She was quiet. It was John, seated at the end of the table, who said, “We're here to get a message to Colin, Grandfather,” he said, using the term of respect for an elder.

“Colin?” Lou's eyes snapped upward. He straightened his shoulders toward John O'Malley. “You mean, he's not dead? He's okay? You aren't telling me they found his body in a ditch somewhere? I been worrying myself sick about that boy. Up all night waiting for him to get home, straining my ears so hard they're about to fall off. I been debating with myself about going into Lander to look for him, but where would I go? Some old Indian wandering around town in the middle of the night, waiting for a cop to pull me over.
What business you got here?
I didn't see how that would help Colin.”

“I thought he left for Pine Ridge,” John said.

“Drove halfway there, then turned around. Blew in last night. Ate himself some supper and took a snooze on the sofa, then woke up and said he'd be back later. That's all he said, but I know the boy. I told him he should've gone to his Crazy Horse relatives and not come back until they solved that Custer murder. The police are going to put it on him. Him and his Crazy Horse regalia. No call for him and Mike to go into town and listen to the lies about the Old Time, but they went anyway. Now the cops can't take their eyes off them. He came back 'cause of that girl. Got to worrying about her, thought he had to come home and save her from herself. Loved her since they were kids. Soon as he tore out of here, I knew something bad would happen. I could feel it in my bones.”

He stopped. Jaw hanging slack; eyes switching between her and John. “That's why you come here. You're gonna tell me what happened. What'd Colin do? Take her away, like Crazy Horse did his woman?”

Vicky leaned toward the old man. “We came to tell Colin about Angela.” She tried for a soft tone, the kind she would have wanted if someone told her something horrific had happened to one of her own kids.

“What about her?”

“Angela was murdered.”

“Murdered!” The Arapaho kept repeating the word. “Murdered. Murdered.” He tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling. The kitchen nook had gotten lighter, sunshine filtering past the flimsy curtains at the window. “Colin didn't do it,” he said, looking again between her and John. He shifted toward Vicky. “You gotta help him. You gotta make those white detectives know there's no way he would've harmed that girl. She meant everything to him. Just about killed him when she left the rez. Little ranch we got here wasn't good enough. All the ceremonies and celebrations, powwows and picnics, having her own pony to ride over the prairie—none of that was good enough. She wanted a white life on the other side of the border.”

“What time did Colin leave here?” John said.

Vicky caught his eye, and in that instant she knew what he was thinking. Angela's landlady had seen a man around the rental house. She could have seen Colin. The sense of failure turned into a deep feeling of dread.

“Must've been about eleven. I was getting ready for bed. I begged him. ‘Colin, don't get involved in that girl's business. Stay out of it. You got enough worries.'”

“What do you think she was involved in?” Vicky said. She was thinking that Angela could have told Colin about the flash drive. He had realized the danger she was in and gone to help her. Bring her back to the rez. Hide her where the killer couldn't have found her.

“All I know is the white lawyer she worked for disappeared. I heard there was a fight and the office got trashed. Angela was his secretary. So I asked myself, What did she know? What was she up to? I told Colin, ‘It's white man's business. Stay out of it,' I said. ‘If that girl got mixed up in what don't concern her, that's her problem.'”

He scraped the chair backward and, laying the palms of his hands on the table, pushed to his feet. “Not minding my manners, I been worried about the boy. Should've offered you coffee,” he said, stepping along the counter. “Just made a new pot.” Lou poured the coffee into a pair of mugs and set them on the table.

“Thank you,” Vicky said. She could use a cup of coffee, a jolt of caffeine, anything that might help her get a grip on the unfolding day.

“Don't get me wrong,” he said. “It's awful what happened to the girl. She was a pretty thing. Colin couldn't ever get her out of his mind. But she was headstrong as a mule. Nobody could tell her anything. She would've been safe here with Colin. Nobody would've hurt her.”

Vicky sipped at the coffee. The warmth radiated through her and settled into her stomach. She began to feel as if she were coming back to herself. “Where do you think Colin is now?”

“I wish I knew.” Lou lowered his gaze to the table and the half-full mug. He twisted it between his hands. “I'm praying he's driving back to Pine Ridge. He seen she was okay, and he took off to save himself.” He looked up at John O'Malley a moment, then turned sideways toward her. “All the boys are scared. Hiding out, trying to stay away from the police, but that Lander detective won't let up. Keeps coming on the rez. Either got the fed with him or one of the BIA cops, keeps it legal. Otherwise he don't have any business on the rez. One after the other, he finds the warriors that rode in the parade Sunday. All it took was one snitch wanting to stay out of the clutches of that detective to give up a name. That got Madden started. One name, then another. There's all kinds of clubs he can hold over their heads. Outstanding DUI, traffic ticket, probation. He rides them hard, threatens trouble if they don't cooperate. So they cooperate. Well, don't blame them. They tell the truth. All the warriors wanted to do was remind the Custer guy who was boss. He might brag all he wanted about the great things Custer did killing our people, but at the Little Bighorn, the tables got turned. The warriors sent a message at the parade.”

“But the idea was Colin's,” John said.

Lou nodded. “Madden's taking a hard look at him and Mike Longshot. Mike's the one that trained the warriors how to race the horses in a tight circle. Something else about him . . .”

“I understand,” John said.

“Some of these modern warriors forget the Creator makes us the way he wants us. In the Old Time, Mike would've been holy. Nobody would've dared hurt him.” Lou leveled his gaze again at Vicky. His eyes were like black pools, shiny and sad. She clutched her hands into fists and waited for the words. “Those boys need a good lawyer. You always take care of our people.”

“It's different this time, Grandfather,” Vicky said. “I have a conflict of interest.” Her own words sounded tight and far away. God. Two young Arapahos who could stand trial and be convicted of murder on nothing but flimsy circumstantial evidence. They were in the proximity, they were Indians, they hated Custer. And now this: Angela, Colin's ex-girlfriend, murdered, and every chance that Colin had gone to her house tonight. Colin could be in even more trouble than Lou imagined. She heard herself stumbling: Other lawyers in the area; someone would represent them. Lou had already turned away. She could see the beads of sweat on the profile of his forehead and nose.

* * *

THEY THREADED THEIR
way across the reservation and over the border through Hudson, the sky a perfect blue and the prairies, arroyos, and sand hills clear in the morning light. “I can't recommend any lawyers. I can't be involved.” Explaining, explaining to the white man behind the steering wheel, when he hadn't asked for any explanation. He understood. Explaining for herself, she thought. All the years getting a law degree, training in a Denver firm, preparing to help her people, to change the way matters had always been. She would use the white man's law for her people, instead of against them. A one-woman crusader. She turned and laughed into the passenger window.

“I know a couple of lawyers.” John glanced over. She could feel the warmth of his eyes on her. “I'll see if they'll take on Colin and Mike.”

She didn't say anything. The reality was like a boulder that had dropped between them. The Indian lawyer was representing a white woman.

23

SUNLIGHT SPLASHED THE
pews and the few old faithfuls scattered about. Father John lifted his hand and made the sign of the cross over the little congregation. “Go in peace,” he said, the last words of the Mass. He walked down the aisle and out into a morning that promised a hot day, his mind full of Angela Running Bear, a girl he couldn't remember meeting. Perhaps years ago, with her sister, Claire. Two little girls squirming next to their grandmother at Sunday Mass. After their grandmother died, they had never come back.

He had offered Mass for the girl. He had asked the congregation to pray for the repose of the soul of Angela Running Bear, who had died tragically last night. Wrinkled brown faces had looked up at him with uncomprehending eyes. Only a few heads nodded, as if the news hadn't surprised them. A girl who had left her own people, gone off to be somebody else.

News about Angela's murder hadn't reached the moccasin telegraph yet, or there would have been more people at Mass. There was always a crowd after a tragedy, as if it took a tragedy to remind people of their own mortality. But the news was probably filtering across the border by now. People discussing it over coffee and doughnuts at the senior center. Over the tanks at the gas stations as they filled up their pickups. In the convenience store where Mike worked. There would be a big crowd at Mass tomorrow.

One by one the parishioners walked out and he took their hands, the roughened palms warm against his own. “What happened to her?” they wanted to know. “She was murdered,” he said again and again, the words scratching at his throat. “The police are investigating.” One of the grandfathers shook his head. “So many murders. Cops will be looking at the rez, wanting to blame an Indian. More trouble,” he said.

After the last pickup had driven around Circle Drive and into the cottonwoods, Father John walked back through the church. The sound of his boots on the carpet broke through the heavy stillness that always permeated the church after the congregation had filed out, as if some of the energy, the breath, of the people who had knelt in the pews were still present.

He knelt on the altar step and prayed again for the soul of Angela Running Bear, and for the people who had loved her. Claire and Colin Morningside. Ten minutes later he had hung his alb and chasuble in the sacristy, placed the Mass books in the cabinet, and retraced his steps down the center aisle. He crossed the mission grounds to the residence. Sporadic gusts of wind whipped at the wild grasses, and birds chirped in the cottonwoods. Walks-On rose off the stoop and came loping to meet him, gripping a Frisbee in his teeth. Father John managed to coax the Frisbee free, then threw it across the field enclosed by Circle Drive. The dog went after it, brought it back and, this time, dropped it at Father John's feet. The game went on for several minutes, until he threw the Frisbee in the direction of the residence and ran after the dog. “More later,” he said, letting himself through the front door. The dog stood on the stoop shaking the Frisbee, disappointment flashing in his brown eyes.

The bishop had already eaten breakfast and was sipping at what was probably a third mug of coffee when Father John walked into the kitchen. “You didn't get much sleep,” the bishop said.

He hadn't gotten any sleep, Father John was thinking. He had stayed up late working on the budget that never wanted to balance itself; it lived in the perpetual state of hovering over a cliff. Then he had taken a book to bed—
Custer in the Civil War
—and had been about to drop off when the phone rang. Detective Madden. A young Arapaho woman murdered. The detective thought he might like to know.

Elena stood at the stove ladling oatmeal into a bowl. He wondered if she had heard the news, but the moment she turned around and set the bowl on the table, he knew that she had. “My nephew called first thing this morning. Told me about Angela Running Bear.”

“I'm afraid it's true.”

“God have mercy on her.” The bishop set the mug onto the table.

Father John pulled out a chair with his boot and sat down in front of the oatmeal. He was aware of the hollow space in his stomach, but he didn't feel hungry. He reached for the mug of coffee Elena handed him and took a couple of long sips. The kitchen went quiet. He could feel the unasked questions floating over the table. After a moment, he told them what he knew about the murder. He was thinking that he didn't know much.

“What did that girl get herself mixed up in?” Elena said. “Boss kidnapped, place ransacked. You ask me, the poor man is dead. Now Angela murdered. What did they have going on?”

Father John took a drink of coffee and stared at the woman. She had seen enough to cut a straight line through the conjectures and theories and possibilities to what was most obvious: whatever Skip Burrows had been involved in, he had also involved his secretary. Father John poured milk over the oatmeal and took a spoonful. It was like swallowing a lump of coal. He couldn't shake the feeling that Madden would look first to the rez, to Angela's Arapaho connections. Family. Ex-boyfriend.

“Sometime in the middle of the night,” the bishop said, “I thought I heard a pickup on Circle Drive.”

Father John stopped eating and waited for the old man to go on. “We usually don't get visitors that late. Took me a while to get out of bed, but when I got to the window, everything looked quiet. No sign of any vehicle.”

Father John pushed his chair back and headed down the hallway. He slammed out the door and took off running, down the sidewalk, across Circle Drive, and through the field, across Circle Drive again and down the driveway bathed in the shadows of the church and the administration building. He was aware of Mike's horse stomping and whinnying in the makeshift pasture behind the church. He ran on. A pickup stood next to the side of the guesthouse, almost lost in the shadows. When he got close, he saw the bumper sticker: Crazy Horse Lives.

He knocked on the door of the guesthouse. He was breathing hard. Before he could knock again, the door swung open. Mike stood in the doorway, disheveled and sleepy-eyed. He moved backward and Father John stepped inside. In the narrow kitchen off the living room was Colin Morningside.

“Texted me last night and said he needed a place to stay,” Mike said.

Colin turned away from the counter and the cereal bowl with the spoon sticking up above the edge and walked to the doorway. He leaned a shoulder against the frame. Wide-awake, tense, and wired, as if he might burst across the room and out the door. Blue jeans and checkered shirt looked worn and wrinkled. One knee poked through a wide tear in his jeans.

They hadn't heard about Angela, Father John was thinking. The moccasin telegraph would be buzzing by now, but they must not have checked their phones or text messages. “I have bad news,” he said. “We'd better sit down.”

“Sit down?” Mike dropped onto the armrest of the sofa. He looked as if a gust of wind had blown him over.

“You're going to tell us Madden's looking for us,” Colin said, straightening himself in the doorway. “He's had us in his sights since Garrett got shot.” He was shaking his head. “He's been harassing warriors all over the rez. Doesn't surprise me if one of them said, ‘Yeah, Colin could've done it. Crazy Horse hated Custer. Surrounded the cavalry so he could kill that white man.'”

“Listen to me Colin. The news is about Angela.”

The young man regarded him for a long moment, sizing him up, wondering what the priest at St. Francis Mission knew about Angela Running Bear that he didn't know. “She's okay.” He shook his head, as if to brush off whatever initial concerns he might have felt. “I saw her last night, and she's fine. She's still living in that rental house in Lander.”

“She was murdered last night,” Father John said. “I'm sorry, Colin.”

The Arapaho's face went perfectly still, as if his breath had stopped in his throat. His eyes narrowed into hard, black slits. For a moment, Father John thought the man would fall facedown onto the floor. A strangled gasp came from the sofa, and he was aware of Mike struggling to his feet, leaning over the armrest, holding on. Then Colin stepped back and swung a fist, like a sledgehammer, onto the counter. The cereal bowl skittered to the edge and crashed on the floor, splashing Cheerios and milk over the linoleum. The spoon spun like a top into the living room.

“Who?” The word gurgled out of his throat. He was still leaning forward, pounding the counter, but now the pounding was a metronome of helplessness.

“The police don't know yet.”

“She was fine when I saw her.”

“Did you talk to her?”

After a moment, the pounding stopped and Colin turned around. “She didn't want to talk to me. I must have left five or six messages. Told her I was coming for her. I wanted to get her out of there. She didn't even call me back. I wanted to bust down the door and take her, so she'd be safe. All I did was look in the window. Saw her sitting there like she knew what she was doing. What business did I have to pull her away? What did I know about her new life in Lander? Nothing. That's when I knew it was over between us. She made it clear when she came to the ranch Monday afternoon that she didn't want me in her life.”

“You shouldn't have come back,” Mike said.

Colin stared into space, swaying on his feet. “I couldn't stop loving her. Worrying about her. Couldn't sleep. I'd close my eyes, and there she was. I could see the shadows around her, like dark spirits at her heels. She was in danger. I felt it in every part of me. I decided to give it one more chance. Crazy Horse went and got his woman. I had the notion I could do the same. I should've saved her.” The words came like a long wail of grief. “I should have taken her away. What did he do to her?”

“It looks like she was strangled.”

“Strangled! Oh God, why did I leave her there?”

Father John gave him a moment before he said, “What time were you there?”

Colin sank against the edge of the counter and rubbed at his eyes. “Around eleven thirty. I wasn't thinking about the time.”

“The landlady might have seen you.” Father John could hear the tight worry in his voice. “She claims she saw a man in looking in Angela's windows.”

Colin nodded. “I walked around the house, trying to decide what to do.”

Father John could hear Madden's voice:
The killer burst through the back door.

“So Madden's got another reason to arrest me. He figures I shot Garrett and had nothing to lose by killing Angela. He'll say I killed her 'cause she broke up with me.”

“He'll need solid evidence.” Dear Lord. Madden would build two murder cases against Colin. “You both need to talk to a lawyer.” He glanced from Colin to the man straddling the armrest. “I'll make a couple of phone calls.”

“You said Vicky Holden can help,” Mike said.

Father John shook his head and told them that Vicky was already representing Garrett's widow. The helplessness he had sensed in her was as strong as if she were standing beside him. “It would be a conflict of interest.” Echoing her words. “There are other good lawyers in the area.”

“I'm out of here.” Colin pushed off the counter and flung himself through the doorway and across the living room. He yanked open the door. “You got any sense, you'll come with me,” he shouted over one shoulder. Mike jumped off the armrest and followed him out the door.

Father John stepped onto the stoop and watched the pickup skid backwards, then shoot down the driveway. He could hear the motor screaming through the cottonwoods and out on Seventeen-Mile Road. He might have tried to stop them, he thought. It would have been the logical thing to do. Running to Pine Ridge would make them look guilty, add ammunition to whatever theory Madden was entertaining. They should get a lawyer, take their chances. A couple of Arapahos? What did he know? They would be safer at Pine Ridge.

He walked back to the residence. When he got into the office, he intended to call Mike's mother and find out what she wanted to do about the horse. He wouldn't tell her where Mike had gone. The less she knew when the cops came around, the better it would be.