Threepersons Hunt (17 page)

“Nothing except the name.”

“They're kind of extremist. That's a big family, the Natagees. Frank Natagee, he's the chairman of the Tribal Council.”

“Then that's where I heard the name.”

“Well Harlan is Frank Natagee's brother. They don't speak to each other. Harlan's sort of the black sheep of the family. Some folks say he's a sorcerer.”

“A witch.”

“Yes. Harlan used to live over in Oklahoma for a while. He made a lot of money, trading oil leases or something like that. Came back here eight or ten years ago with a pile of money and sank a lot of it into stuff like the sawmill and the cattle co-ops. He's helped the tribe a lot but folks walk wide around him. You could call him the local homegrown robber baron. Full of crazy notions how to deal with Anglos. I kind of think he wouldn't mind restoring the good old white institution of scalping.”

“How much support does he have?”

“Not a hell of a lot. He's got his pack of kids and a few half-grown toughs like Jimmy Oto—they do what Harlan tells them.”

“Like for instance?”

“Well Charlie Rand's had a few troubles up on his ranch—brush fires, busted fences, that kind of harassment. Everybody knows it's Harlan's rat pack doing it.”

“Just like everybody knows it was Rand who broke into your offices.”

Victorio gave him an amused look. “Yeah.”

“Then if Jimmy Oto's trying to warn me off, he's doing it on orders from Harlan Natagee?”

“Maybe. Don't forget Jimmy and Joe Threepersons were buddies. It could be just that.” Victorio squinted out toward the mountains; after a moment he said, “I think I get the drift of what you're thinking. A lot of folks keep thinking Maria was witched. Harlan's got that reputation.”

“What would he have against Maria?”

“I wouldn't know. Anyhow I don't put much store in that old crap.”

“Sometimes it's real enough.”

“You're full of surprises,” Victorio told him.

“I didn't grow up white,” Watchman answered. He heard the rattle of a woodpecker and looked for it but he couldn't spot it at first and that annoyed him; there had been a time when by auditory evidence alone he'd have known exactly where it was.

Victorio said something but Watchman didn't answer; he was chasing a line of thought. Joe was out there in a Land Cruiser with his .375 looking for somebody to shoot at—that was what it came down to. And Watchman couldn't think of any way to find him until Joe was ready to be found. The combined Apache Reservation covered nearly four million acres and it was all craggy country, beat up into a froth of forests and mountains and badlands. Watchman knew he could spend weeks searching every road for tread-spoor to prove where, and if, the Land Cruiser had left the road. And by that time any tracks would be blown over or washed out anyway. He was on wheels, he could be anywhere.

Watchman had a junk heap of stray pieces whose shapes suggested a design but there weren't enough pieces yet. Joe knew his target and Watchman didn't know. There didn't seem to be any way to get there first.

Watchman surveyed the dry hills. He had an, image of Joe in some cottonwood draw sighting in the Bushnell 'scope.

A door squeaked and in a moment four men came walking around the far corner of the council house and turned toward the parking lot. There was a good deal of evident tension among them. Watchman recognized Charles Rand and Dwight Kendrick.

Tom Victorio said, “Charlie Rand's the one with the big hat.”

“We've met.”

The party reached the Bentley and Charles Rand turned to speak to the fat man at his elbow; Watchman heard about one word in five. Rand stood talking, flicking his trouser thigh with a quirt. His sunglasses reflected points of light. Self-assuredness hung like flags from his back-thrust shoulders and the restively moving square bricks of his hands, and from the quirt that moved like a baton.

“The fat guy's Dwight Kendrick's opposite number.”

“Rand's lawyer?”

“Name of Owen Masterman.” Victorio rubbed the inner corners of his eyes. “In a minute he'll start sneering and curling the ends of his mustache.”

Masterman had no mustache. He had once been a good-looking man and would be again if he lost forty pounds. He wore dark-rim eyeglasses and his reddish hair fluffed out fashionably over the collar of his seersucker suit. There was something shabby about his aspect, as if he were consciously molding his appearance on the image of Clarence Darrow. The face belonged to a man who had seen everything and wished he hadn't. Watchman had a feeling he wasn't as flabby as he seemed. There were secret muscles hidden under the fatty tissues.

Rand said something that made the Indian behind Kendrick step forward and draw himself up like a pigeon. “Frank Natagee,” Victorio murmured and Watchman nodded. The chairman of the Tribal Council raised his voice and Watchman heard him clearly:

“Don't talk about taxes and free rides any more to us. The Anglos did not give this land to our tribe. The tribe gave the land to the Anglos. The day we give up our tax exemptions will be the day you give us back the land.”

Watchman saw Rand snort but didn't hear his reply; whatever his failings the arrogant industrialist wasn't a loudmouth. Masterman's fat scarlet face, dripping sweat, turned toward Kendrick as if in appeal but Kendrick said harshly, “Haven't you got enough on your plate?” and it made Charles Rand swing toward him lifting the quirt as if to strike him. Kendrick abruptly avoided Rand's eyes and Rand swiveled with an abrupt snap of his meaty shoulders and reached for the door handle of the Bentley. Masterman walked away around the back of the car while Kendrick stood there smiling dispiritedly.

Frank Natagee spoke and Kendrick shrugged without replying. Rand started the car and as soon as Masterman heaved himself into the seat Rand backed up and swung the wheel. The front tires crunched stones as the power steering wrenched them around. Kendrick stepped back just in time; the yawl growled angrily past him throwing dust.

Kendrick and Frank Natagee walked back toward the council house. They stopped by the mesquite tree at the corner and Watchman heard the Indian say, “Want us all to assimilate. What if the Russians took over this country, how long would it take Charles Rand to turn Communist?” A grin streaked the broad grave face and Natagee slapped Kendrick amiably before he strode past the tree and disappeared.

Victorio dropped off the porch and Watchman followed him; he wanted a word with Dwight Kendrick.

The tall lawyer ran fingers through his pale hair. “Hoo boy.”

“Told you it'd be a waste of time,” Victorio said. “He didn't give an inch, did he.”

“He never will until we find a lever to push him with.” Kendrick glanced at Watchman. “He can keep buying delays forever. Hell it's a game to him, the money doesn't matter, it's just a way to keep score—chips to play the game with.”

“We're buying too many delays ourselves,” Victorio said. “We could have had him in court a month ago.”

“Or he could have had us. It would have been on his terms.”

“We've got a stronger case than he's got.”

“Tom, you've never faced Owen Masterman in a courtroom.”

“What's that got to do with anything?”

Kendrick said, “I imagine one fine day you'll find that out.” Watchman was still standing there and Kendrick addressed him: “Did you want something?”

“I did. I still do. A couple of questions.”

Kendrick looked at his watch and shot his cuff; he glanced over his shoulder as if to make sure the council house hadn't gone away somewhere. It was an unsubtle hint. But he said, “Go ahead.”

“I understand you're married to Charles Rand's ex-wife.”

“Ex-wife by two. What about it?”

“How many wives has he had?”

“I'm sure he's given up counting. Gwen was two wives ago.”

“They were still married to each other at the time of the Calisher murder?”

“Yes. I assume you're leading somewhere with this line of questioning? Because otherwise it's in dismal taste.”

“I'm just wondering if there was anything between your wife—Rand's wife at the time—and Ross Calisher. It's not a delicate question, I'm sorry: it's not a delicate case.”

Kendick said, “There was nothing between Gwen and Ross Calisher. Not to put too fine a point on it, Calisher was beneath Gwen's contempt. He was a rustic, a hillbilly hick with manure on his boots and he didn't have the social graces of a skid-row derelict. He only had two virtues that I can think of, his animal husbandry and his loyalty to Charles Rand. He worshipped Rand. He was far too loyal to entertain even the fantasy of an affair with Charles Rand's wife. She'd have been untouchable, literally. Now what's this line of questioning in aid of? Are you still riding that hobbyhorse about Joe's innocence? I thought your job was to track him down, not play detective.”

“I'd like to find out who his enemies are,” Watchman said. “That could lead us to him.”

Kendrick contrived a headshaking laugh. “I don't suppose it's occurred to you that the fact that Joe looks guilty doesn't prove he was innocent.”

“I thought he was your client.”

“I should think even you would find it hard to get past the fact that he confessed with the murder weapon in his hand. I had a lot of trouble keeping Joe out of the gas chamber—they were still executing Indians here. After all he wasn't psychotic, he wasn't a compulsive confesser.”

“Did you talk to Angelina at the time?”

“Joe's sister? Of course I did.”

“She didn't say anything about his innocence?”

“Not that I recall. She kept pleading with me to do everything I could to save him. She seemed more concerned than his wife was.”

“But she didn't say anything about an alibi?”

“Alibi?” Kendrick smiled ruefully. “What's she been handing you?”

“It doesn't matter,” Watchman said. “Right now the point is Joe seems to think he's got a grievance. He's got his hands on a long-distance magnum rifle with a 'scope sight and I believe he thinks he's got a reason to use it on somebody. I'd like to find out who his target is before it's too late.”

“I doubt I can help you.”

Watchman studied him. “It's not the kind of thing you can hold back out of professional ethics or statutory privilege. Not any more. If you know anything about this you might save somebody's life by telling me what it is.”

Kendrick's mouth twisted a little. He twined his fingers together and studied the design they made. “I don't know who Joe might have a grudge against. It could be anybody.”

Watchman said, “All right. Try another one. Where did Maria Threepersons get the money she was living on?”

Kendrick frowned. “What made you ask me that?”

“What made you freeze?”

Victorio's dark eyes shifted toward Kendrick with new interest. Watchman knew he had something.

Kendrick's long fingers fanned the air by his chest. Finally he said, “The money came from me.”

7.

“If this thing blows up it'll come out in the end anyway,” Kendrick went on. “You'd find out I signed the checks.”

Victorio was watching him with obvious bewilderment. Kendrick waved his sinuous hands at them both. “The money was put in trust for Maria Threepersons. I was the executor of the trust. Now that she's dead I suppose it dissolves and goes back to the original donor.”

“I want his name,” Watchman said.

“I can't give you that. Under the terms of the trust I'm expressly forbidden to divulge that. I'm sorry.”

“Then get in touch with him. Tell him to come forward.”

“I doubt that would do any good.”

“If Joe knows who it is, he may have a rifle pointed at him right now. Tell him to identify himself—at least we can try to give him some protection.”

“I'll try to get in touch with the person who established the trust. I can't promise anything.”

“But Joe knows who it is, doesn't he.”

“How would I know?”

“Joe was taking the rap for him. He must have know who it was.”

“I'm not buying that part of it,” Kendrick said.

“Not out loud, anyway. If you'd known about it you could be disbarred or maybe worse.”

Kendrick's eyes narrowed. “Watch your mouth now.”

“That's the point, isn't it. You can't admit you knew anything about Joe's innocence. If you had evidence that you didn't present at the trial, you could be in a lot of trouble for keeping it to yourself.”

“You're out of line, Watchman.”

“And you're out on a limb. I want that name.”

“I can't give it to you. Look I'll put it out on the table for you, face up. I defended Joe Threepersons the best way I knew how. I did a damned good job. Any other lawyer would have lost him to a life term at best. I got him off with second-degree. It was after Joe went to prison that this person asked me to set up an anonymous trust to support Maria and the little boy. The client didn't explain any motives to me and I didn't ask—I thought it was a generous thing for the client to do. Now you won't find any malfeasance in that so let's just quit throwing raw meat on the floor.”

“It must have been a sizable trust.”

“What makes you say that?”

“The curio shop. The house. The private school.”

Kendrick's eyes flickered. “You could find out anyway, I suppose. I received a capital sum of sixty-five thousand dollars from the client, exclusive of my own fees and commissions. Out of that we made the down payment on her house and paid the first six months of the lease on the Katchina Boutique. The fixtures and inventory were also paid for out of capital. It left something like fifty thousand dollars out of the original sixty-five, and I invested that in ten percent corporate bonds. I paid over the interest every month to Maria—it came to four-hundred-odd a month, and on top of that she had commissions on whatever she sold in the curio shop. The shop was self-sustaining after the first few months. She had a good business head, she hired the help herself. The shop wasn't a fantastic success but she made a good living out of it.” Kendrick spread his hands out expressively. “It wasn't a big fortune, after all. The fifty thousand dollars' capital was to revert to the client in any case. Maria was only getting the interest on it.”