Quiver (18 page)

Johnny Crow saw it from a ridgetop some distance away. He didn’t have binoculars with him, so it was impossible to judge it precisely. He would have guessed five hundred yards. Maybe even six hundred. It was on the other side of a long stretch of pastureland partially concealed in a wooded area that was on national parkland. It was the afternoon sun, the reflection, glinting off it that caught his attention.

He was still a little tense from the standoff between tribal police and this armed group who’d barricaded themselves in the Tribal Center. The FBI and the Bureau of Indian Affairs even showed up, turning a difference of opinion into a circus.

The protesters claimed the tribal chairman was trying to control the reservation by limiting the number of eligible votes. Johnny said, let them have their say and move on. His idea: bring both sides together, sit across a table and try to reconcile the issues.

He’d come out here to get away from the insanity and clear his head, unwind a little. He could feel the stress and pressure of the day begin to disappear as he walked down the ridge and crossed the pasture, amazed as always by the restorative power of nature. Two cows looked up at him as he passed by and said, “Evening, ladies.”

When he got closer he could see the reflection was a light-colored automobile—white or silver—the sun hitting it like a mirror.

From seventy yards he recognized it as a county sheriff ’s cruiser, could distinguish the light bar on the roof. What was it doing out here? There was a flattened cattle gate where it had driven in along dirt tracks that served as a road.

From ten yards, he could see blood on the window and door and door handle. He walked up right next to it and looked through the glass on the driver’s side and saw a body sprawled across the backseat on his stomach, head down, facing the opposite side. It was a sheriff ’s deputy.

He walked around the car and opened the rear door and went down on one knee and looked at the deputy’s face—what was left of it—and thought it was Bill Wink. That opinion based more on the man’s muscular build than his facial features, which
were nearly obliterated. There were blood and bone fragments and brain tissue on the floor. Johnny’d never seen a man shot this way and it made him queasy. He stood up and stepped away and took a couple deep breaths, getting himself under control. He came back, hunkered down and touched the deputy’s skin. It was still warm. He was thinking it hadn’t been long—maybe an hour or so.

First thing Johnny thought: It had something to do with the woman. Bill had called and told him some story about her finding the kid. Far as Johnny was concerned, it didn’t wash. He knew what he saw that day in the woods. Knew what Del saw—their interpretations being similar, if not exact. Then the woman was at the bank withdrawing a lot of money, which was also strange, particularly since Bill said she’d left town, gone back downstate. Now he took out his cell phone and called the sheriff ’s department, told a Sergeant Romeo who he was and what he found and gave him the coordinates.

He thought about Bill on the way to his truck. Remembered the day they met. Johnny was chasing a drunk who’d cut across reservation land and he radioed the sheriff and told them to be on the lookout for a red Porsche—license number delta-alpha-tango-one-five-nine.

The Porsche, driven by a college student, finally pulled over, and a sheriff ’s deputy pulled up with its lights flashing and that deputy was Bill Wink. Johnny wanted to beat the hell out of the kid, teach him some manners.

Bill said, “You know who this kid is?”

Johnny shook his head.

“His father owns about twenty-five car dealerships. You lay a hand on him, they’ll put you away.”

Sure, Johnny understood—that’s the way life worked. You had money, you could do pretty much what you wanted.

Bill and Johnny bumped into one another occasionally after that, Bill joking about the beads and feathers Johnny had hanging from the rearview mirror of his truck.

Johnny said, “What do you expect? I’m an Indian, ain’t I?”

“I thought you were called Native Americans now. Isn’t that the politically correct term?”

“I prefer Indian, if you don’t mind.”

“No kidding,” Bill said.

“No kidding.”

“Tell me, what’s the hardest thing about being a tribal cop?”

Johnny didn’t have to think long. He said,
“Dealing with non-Indians. They don’t have a lot of respect for us. Don’t believe we’re the law on the reservation, or that local cops have no jurisdiction. Just like we got no authority off it.”

Bill said, “People’re fucking stupid, aren’t they?”

“Isn’t that the truth.”

Johnny grinned and Bill grinned back at him.

Kate thought she heard a car drive off, tires rolling over the gravel. Ten minutes later she heard the garage door open and another car drive out. She was sure they’d left, taken the money and taken off and she had a sudden feeling of relief. It was finally over.

She looked down at the bear trap on the floor. It was a couple feet from the door, its metal teeth and gaping jaws open. Then she heard the key in the lock and saw the door open. Teddy came in the room grinning and looked up at her in the rafters, knowing he was too late to stop Luke. She could be mistaken, but if two cars were gone, he had to be here by himself. She didn’t know what was going on, what they were doing.

Teddy aimed the big chrome-plate automatic at her and said, “Move another inch, it’ll be your last.”

She was thinking the same thing about him, hoping he’d take another couple of steps.

“Get that kid back in here and come down.”

She said, “You dumbass hick—why don’t you come up here and get me?”

He grinned at her and said, “If that’s the way you want it, puss.”

She climbed out the window and was standing on the sill when she heard the trap spring closed, the loud metallic snap of the metal jaws hitting with force. She reached up and felt the steep pitch of the roof and swung her body up and turned on her back, the heels of her hiking boots digging into the shingles, trying to hold her position. She heard a car and looked over the roofline and saw the Z28 drive in and then disappear as it pulled up in front.

Luke was on the ground running for the treeline. He turned and looked back at her. She heard gunshots and two bullets ripped through the roof next to her and then two more. She lifted her heels and slid down to the flat roof over the porch, landing on her feet. There was wood stacked five feet high in a metal rack that was built into the side of the lodge. She’d lower herself onto it and climb down. That’s what she was trying to do when DeJuan appeared, aiming the shotgun at her.

DeJuan was preoccupied on the ride back from taking the deputy, fiending on Celeste, staring at her driving the Camaro. Picturing her naked body with the tats. He’d had white trim, black trim, Asian trim, French Canadian trim, but this Celeste, man, she got to him. Why she turn him on so?

At one point, she glanced over, caught him with his eyeballs popping out. Said, “Take a picture, it lasts longer.”

Busted him like she could read his mind.

He heard gunshots when they drove in—four of them—wondered what was going on. He and Celeste looking at each other—going for their own guns now. They got out. He went right around one side of the lodge and she went the other way, no discussion, knew what to do and did it.

DeJuan moved slow, coming along the east wall of the cabin, looked in the window, saw the kitchen. Looked toward the water, saw the kid standing at the edge of the woods, then disappear. He couldn’t believe it—leave for ten minutes, come back, somebody shooting, kid escape again. Little motherfucker like Houdini. Where the fuck Theo at?

DeJuan was going after him but stopped when he saw Kate on the roof. Had a better idea. He yelled in the woods. “Yo, little man, better not leave your
moms. Something happen to her, you be all alone in the world.”

Bitch on the roof said, “Luke, don’t listen to him. Run.”

DeJuan racked the twelve-gauge. “Better listen to this—not say another word, Mr. Remington going to talk at you. Don’t want to hear what he got to say. Now come on down here.”

He watched her get on her stomach and lower herself, feet finding the wood pile, putting her weight on it, standing and balancing, climbing down the rails of the metal rack that held the wood in place.

DeJuan had seen a lot of movies, seen people react in a lot of real-life situations. Was convinced he knew something about human nature and he’d bet his share of the money—look like seven hundred large—rich kid wasn’t going nowhere, still in the trees, watching him. Afraid for his moms—and DeJuan was going to play on that fear.

“You leave her,” DeJuan said, “you going to blame yourself. Like when you shot your pops. Don’t be doing it again.” Laying it on the little guy, fucking with his head.

DeJuan’s new three-step plan: get the kid back,
take ’em in the lodge, pop his little Houdini ass, then do his moms. That was step one. Step two, repeat the process with Teddy and Celeste. Step three, get the fuck out of there—retire.

Luke watched Teddy come out of the lodge and he was mad—that was pretty obvious, running to his mom, hitting her and going crazy. Punched her in the face and knocked her down.

Luke wanted to run out there and hit Camo and keep hitting him.

DeJuan said, “Yo, Ted, what you doing?”

Teddy said, “Paying her back.”

DeJuan said, “Be cool on the violence.”

Teddy grabbed a fistful of her hair and put the barrel of his gun up to her face. “Think I ain’t gonna see a three-foot-long bear trap on the floor? How dumb you think I am?”

His mom didn’t say anything, although Luke bet she wanted to.

Teddy pulled her across the yard by her hair—closer to the tree line.

He said, “You see her, boy? You see your mother standing here quivering like a scared animal? You gonna let her die?”

Teddy pressed the barrel of his pistol against the side of her face. He was grinning, enjoying himself and now Luke was mad.

DeJuan scanning the tree line, said, “It all in your hands now, little man. Come on, show your moms some love.”

He held the back of her hair in his fist, pulling on it and pressing the barrel end of his automatic against her cheekbone. He was trying to hurt her and he did. Kate could feel his body pressing against her from behind. She didn’t know if Luke was still there or not and said, “Luke, don’t listen to him, run.”

Teddy let go of her hair and swung her around so she was facing him and said, “Better shut the fuck up.”

He hit her in the face with his fist and she went down, dazed from the blow, her vision hazy, trying to focus on DeJuan. He was moving to the tree line, holding the shotgun level across his body, finger on the trigger, aiming at the trees. Teddy bent down and picked her up by the hair.

“Luke, you see him,” Kate said. “He’s coming after you.”

Teddy hit her again and she stumbled but didn’t go down.

He said, “You don’t learn, do you?”

Luke saw the black guy heading toward him with the shotgun, just inside the trees. He moved straight back, out of his path and hid behind a giant maple.

“I’m gonna count to ten,” Teddy said. “You’re not back here, I’ll shoot her dead, so help me God. You hear me, boy?”

Luke put the bow case on the ground and opened it and lifted out his dad’s Browning Mirage. Slid an arrow out of the quiver and nocked it. He wasn’t going to let Camo hit his mother again.

Camo said, “One …”

He was standing behind his mom—to her left.

“Two …”

They were twenty yards away. Luke had a clear shot. He was at the edge of the tree line. He looked right, saw the black guy through the trees, coming back toward him.

“Three…”

Luke’s chest tightened as he tried to raise the bow. He couldn’t breathe. Didn’t have the strength to draw the string. He could feel it happening again.

“Four …”

Teddy pulled the hammer back on the chrome-plate automatic and pressed the barrel against his mom’s cheek, pushing it into her face.

“Five …”

Luke could feel his hands shake and could feel sweat drip down his face.

“Six …”

DeJuan was thirty feet away now, leveling the shotgun.

“Seven …”

He tried to pull the bowstring. It wouldn’t budge.

“Eight …”

He heard his dad like he was standing next to him: “You can do it. Lock your arms, use your shoulders. Shoot the son of a bitch.”

It was as if he’d been in a trance, hypnotized, the sound of his dad’s voice snapping him out of it. He felt strong, raised the bow and put Teddy square in the red circle of the laser sight.

Boom
. He heard the shotgun roar and saw a limb blown off a foot away from him.

“Nine …”

He pulled back the string and locked it—in full draw now.

“Ten …”

It was like it happened in slow motion. He stopped digging the gun into her face and let go of her hair, the pain she felt was suddenly gone. Teddy staggered back. She heard the heavy sound of his pistol hitting the hard ground. She glanced over her shoulder and saw the broadhead in his chest—blood blotting his shirt—Teddy staggering like he was drunk, reaching for the arrow, hands grabbing the white bloodstained fletching, trying to pull it out. He looked like he was going to say something—blood bubbling out of his mouth—but didn’t or couldn’t. There was fear in his eyes, knowing he was going to die and knowing there was nothing he could do about it. His hands let go of the arrow and he fell over on his back. His eyes were open, looking up at her, but he was gone.

Now she heard the heavy
boom boom
of DeJuan’s shotgun. DeJuan coming out of the woods now, racking and firing into the tree line, blowing off limbs. She picked up Teddy’s chrome-plated automatic and moved toward him.

He turned and looked at her and grinned, pointing the shotgun. “Better drop it,” DeJuan said. “Mine’s bigger.”

“There’s just one problem,” Kate said. “You’re empty.” He’d fired five times—she counted, knew the
magazine capacity. Her dad had one just like it—a Remington Wingmaster twelve-gauge.

“You wrong, you dead.”

He racked it and pulled the trigger and she heard it click. He looked surprised, dropped the shotgun and said, “Whoa. Hang on now. We can work this out. I’m gonna take the money and let y’all be.”

“You’re not taking anything,” Kate said.

“Think you got the nerve to shoot another human being?” DeJuan said. “Take a life, nice God-fearing suburban momma like yourself?”

Luke appeared now, coming out of the woods. She glanced over at him, took her eye off DeJuan for a second, and when she looked back, he was pulling a gun from under his gold warm-up. She raised the chrome-plate, aimed at his chest, fired and blew him off his feet. She walked over and checked to make sure he was dead. He was, eyes open, a look of surprise frozen on his face.

Luke ran to her now and she put her arms around him and they stood there like that for a long time, not saying a word.