The Drowning Man (25 page)

She was barely aware of a dark object falling like a shadow over the rearview mirror. She glanced up. A brown truck was coming up fast. She felt her heart leap in her chest, and she pressed down on the accelerator and moved closer to the semi. The truck was right behind her now, riding on the rear bumper. They were like a parade of three floats speeding down the highway. The idea made her want to laugh. She swallowed hard and concentrated on driving. If she started laughing, she wouldn't be able to stop.

As far as she could see, the highway ahead looked clear. She started to pull out around the semi. The truck also pulled out and started accelerating. She jerked the steering wheel back as the truck sped past.

Her heart was still thumping, and she made herself take another couple of deep breaths. She was getting paranoid, she told herself. There were a thousand brown trucks in the area; everybody wore cowboy hats. Not every brown truck intended to run her off the road.

She followed the semi around the bend and into town, trying to focus on something else that Gruenwald had said: Marjorie Taylor had visited Travis in jail.

Vicky drove down Main Street past the office and kept going. Then she was heading north across the reservation on Highway 287 toward the Taylor Ranch.

VICKY TURNED OFF
the highway onto the paved dirt road that ran between the log fences with the pasture rolling into the distance. She stopped in front of the two-story log house dozing among the cottonwoods, bluffs the color of dried blood looming in the background. The silence about the Taylor Ranch was so pervasive that she had the odd sense she had stepped into a painting. There were no vehicles about, no trucks or tractors. Nothing but the slow rustle of the cottonwoods in the breeze. She crossed the porch and knocked on the door.

She waited a moment before starting down the dirt path to Marjorie Taylor's office. The sound of her footsteps scuffing the hard-packed ground were magnified in the silence. She knocked again. Then, shielding her eyes from the sun, she peered through one of the narrow windows that flanked the door. In the dimness inside, she could make out the outlines of Marjorie's desk and chair, the glint of a metal lamp.

The neighing of a horse broke through the quiet. Vicky walked back to the Firebird and drove down the road to the barn. She could see a tan cowboy hat bobbing among the horses in the corral. She got out and followed the fence around to where Marjorie Taylor was brushing a brown mare.

“What can I do for you?” The woman didn't look up, just kept running the brush over the mare's flank. Vicky had the feeling that Marjorie Taylor had been watching the Firebird from the moment she had turned onto the ranch.

“I'd like to talk to you,” Vicky said. The mare stepped closer to the fence and began tossing its head.

“Wouldn't get too close to Queenie, if I was you.” The woman was pulling the brush along the horse's back now in what looked like a finishing gesture. “Doesn't take to strangers.” She set the brush on top of a fence post, then stepped over to the corral gate and let herself through. There was a sprinkling of golden dust over her blue jeans and dark blouse. A layer of dust worked its way up the sides of her boots. She pulled the gate shut, looped a chain over the post, and, retrieving the brush, headed across the path to the barn.

Vicky followed her inside where the woman put the brush on a shelf and busied herself for a moment straightening an array of ropes and tackle. “Want a Coke? Water?” she asked, pushing the tan cowboy hat back on her head. A strand of blond hair fell forward, and she tucked it under the hat. “You look like you could use a drink. You been sick or something?” She walked over to a half-size refrigerator next to the closed door in the far wall.

“Water sounds good,” Vicky said. The barn still had the cool, damp feel of a tomb. “I was in an accident,” she went on. “My Jeep was forced off the road.”

“Crazy people out there.” Marjorie extracted two bottles with blue labels from the refrigerator and walked back. “We can talk outside,” she said, tossing one of the bottles to Vicky. The plastic was cold and moist, as if it were sweating ice.

Vicky walked out and sat down on the wood bench along the wall. The roof overhang created a narrow island of shade. Even the breeze sweeping between the barn and the corral felt cooler. She sipped at the cold water, which only accentuated the hunger that had begun to gnaw at her. She hadn't had anything to eat except for a piece of a bagel and half a cup of coffee. She could still taste the bitterness of the argument with Adam.

Beyond the corral was a barely visible trail that cut through the pasture, then turned toward the bluffs and wound around the rocky base before disappearing. Most likely, the trail led upward to a high meadow—the high pasture, Travis had called it. Riding down the trail, he would have had a clear view of the front of the house and barn.

It was a long moment before Marjorie emerged from the barn and sat down on the end of the bench. She tilted her water bottle back and took a sip, keeping her gaze on the horses standing like sentinels in the corral. Finally she turned to Vicky. “So what is it this time?”

“I'm still trying to make sense out of what happened here the day of the murder. Travis told me that he heard the gunshot when he was coming back from the high pasture. Lyle said he had also heard the gunshot. That means Raymond was killed before either one had gotten there.”

“You believe a cold-blooded murderer? Travis Birdsong is lyin' through his teeth.”

“Is Lyle around?”

The woman lifted the water bottle to her mouth and took a drink; then she said, “Lyle's in Riverton taking care of some business. He'd tell you the same as before. Travis was in the barn with Raymond. They had another argument. They were always arguing, them two. I was gettin' ready to fire 'em, interviewing other cowboys when Raymond got killed. Another day, and they would have both been outta here. Too bad, 'cause I didn't need all the trouble. Still don't need trouble, Ms. Holden. Why do you want to drag all that up again? Drag the Taylor Ranch through the manure? Bad enough seven years ago, deputies crawlin' all over the place. Now you keep comin' around, askin' questions. You get that Indian's case reopened, and there's gonna be more investigators and reporters pokin' their noses into my business. Why are you doin' this?”

“I told you…”

“Oh, yeah.” The woman waved her water bottle between them. “Travis Birdsong didn't get a fair trial. Well, you know what? That's the way the deck cuts. You think life oughtta be fair?” She tossed her head back and gave a bark of laughter. “My grandfather came out here and started this ranch with nothing but his bare hands. Hitched up a wagon, went up Red Cliff Canyon, and spent the summer choppin' down trees. Built the house with his bare hands, log by log. Did the same for the barn and the rest of the buildings. Fenced in the pasture and got a loan from the bank in Riverton so he could start a herd. Took my dad his whole damn life to pay off that loan. Last seventeen years, I been runnin' the place, and Lyle's been helpin' me keep it together, hirin' on hands when we had enough money, stayin' two feet ahead of the tax collectors who'd like nothing better than to throw us off of here. Last year, I had to scrape together everything I could get my hands on, go to Lander, and stand on the courthouse steps—the courthouse steps, you hear me?—and buy back my own goddamn ranch from the tax collectors. You think they wouldn't have been happy to sell it out from under me to some rich Easterner that wants to brag about his private spread out in Wyoming? You think that's fair, Ms. Holden?”

Vicky started to say that she was sorry, but Marjorie Taylor waved a hand and looked back at the corral. Vicky waited a moment before she said, “What time did Ollie Goodman leave the ranch the day Raymond was shot?”

“What did Ollie tell you?”

Vicky took another sip of water, giving herself a moment. Obviously Ollie Goodman and Marjorie Taylor had talked. “He told me he'd left in the morning. I wonder if that's what you remembered.”

“What I want to do is forget,” the woman said. Then she added, “Ollie left when he said he left.”

“There's something else.” Vicky pushed on. “I've been wondering why you visited Travis when he was awaiting trial.”

Marjorie Taylor shifted sideways on the bench and took another long drink, her eyes watching Vicky over the water bottle. Then she recapped the bottle and balanced it on top of one thigh. “He worked for me,” she said.

“But you believe he killed another man who worked for you.”

“Call it an act of mercy. You heard of that, haven't you? Visiting somebody in jail, one of the corporal acts of mercy the preacher used to talk about back in the days when Dad dragged us to church. Ask your priest friend.”

Vicky stared at the other woman a moment. “How do you know who my friends are?” she said, making an effort to keep her voice steady.

“You come around here askin' questions. I figure I can ask my own questions. You and that priest over at the mission, you get yourselves involved in things that are none of your business, you ask me.”

“We don't like seeing the wrong people convicted.”

Marjorie Taylor got to her feet and started to walk away. Then she turned back. “The jury said Travis Birdsong was guilty. The judge sentenced him to fifteen years. You ask me, that bastard got off easy. He oughtta be looking at bars the rest of his useless life, but he's gonna be out in three years if he's paroled. You oughtta just leave it alone, Ms. Holden. From what I hear, your own tribe wants you to back off. And I hear Raymond's family sure as hell doesn't want Travis walkin' out of prison anytime soon. Hugh Trublood came around here couple days ago, wantin' to know what you were up to. I'd watch my step, if I was you.”

“I intend to,” Vicky said. “Thanks for your time.”

“I don't see any reason for you to be comin' around again.”

“Neither do I. I think I have what I need.”

“Yeah, whatever.” The woman shrugged and started walking up the road.

She was still heading toward the house, looking straight ahead, when Vicky drove past.

 

VICKY TURNED SOUTH
onto the highway, passing the turnoff into Red Cliff Canyon. The road winding upward looked like a trail. She shuddered at the idea of trucks lumbering through the boulders and pines, engines roaring and tires pounding. First thing Monday, she'd call Bud Ladd at the BLM. If he didn't agree to an alternate road, then she intended to continue following through on her threat. She'd ask the federal court to grant an injunction and to require the BLM to extend the public comment period. Then she'd call Aileen Harrison at the
Gazette
and inform her of the developments. And there were other reporters, other newspapers. There was television. People in these parts had a right to know.

Except that the tribes hadn't wanted the publicity. Adam hadn't wanted it, and he was the one they'd trust to handle the matter. The truth was, the matter would stay with Adam if she left the firm.

If she left the firm. The idea had been flitting like an unreal thing at the edge of her mind. This morning, after Adam had left, the idea had taken on substance. A true thing, she realized, truer than whatever had been between her and Adam—the firm, the relationship. She watched the gray asphalt unrolling into the haze of heat ahead and forced herself to look at this idea, turn it over in her head, examine it, as if it were a physical object that she'd just found and she had to find a place for it.

She tightened her grip on the steering wheel. There was no place in her life for it. She would not break up the firm. She would stay and do everything possible to protect Red Cliff Canyon. She owed it to her people. And no matter what Adam thought, she would not abandon Travis Birdsong. Tomorrow she would drive to Rawlins and have another talk with him, and this time, she would insist that he level with her about the stolen petroglyph.

The sun was streaming through the passenger window; the Firebird was an oven. Vicky started to turn up the air conditioning, and that was when she saw the brown truck in the rearview mirror. She felt her muscles start to spasm, her heart start galloping. Two men in black cowboy hats, the brims shadowing their faces. Then the passenger hunched forward; he might have been fiddling with something on the floor. Vicky could see the indentation in the top of his hat.

The truck was speeding up, closing in, the left signal light flicking. It was getting ready to pass her. She gulped in some air, aware that she had been holding her breath. There were hundreds of brown trucks. My God, would she never get over the feeling that every brown truck intended to run her off the road?

She kept her own speed steady, waiting for the truck to pass. The gray smudge of an oncoming vehicle began to materialize out of the haze ahead, and as the truck drew alongside, Vicky let up on the accelerator, giving it more room to pull ahead. Except that it wasn't pulling ahead. They were like two racehorses, neck to neck, plunging down an asphalt track with a dark sedan looming in front.

Vicky took her foot off the accelerator and glanced over at the truck. The window was rolling down, and for the first time, she saw that, beneath the brim of the cowboy hat, was the type of knitted mask that hunters wore in the winter. Two egg-shaped cutouts exposed intense dark eyes fired with hatred and amusement. The long, silver barrel of a shotgun protruded across the lowered window. Vicky stomped on the accelerator and shot forward as the blast rocked the car. There was a shattering noise. Pebbles of glass showered over her, drove into her hair and stung her face and arms, wedged themselves between her blouse and skin. She was aware of silvery pebbles littering the top of the dashboard, sprinkling the passenger seat, piling onto her lap, and jabbing at her thighs.

The brown truck blurred past as the Firebird rocked sideways toward the ditch. She turned the steering wheel hard, but now she was swerving out into the other lane, the blue sedan rising in front of her. She pulled back on the wheel and veered out of the way as the sedan rocketed past. She tapped on the brake pedal, yawing and pitching across the lanes until she managed to roll to a stop next to the ditch in the oncoming lane. In the rearview mirror, she could see the crystals of glass clinging to the sills of both doors. The sound of her heart drummed in her ears, and she tried to fight back the waves of nausea coming over her. The gunshot had passed through the car—would've passed through her, she knew, except for that fraction of an instant that had saved her life.