Death Along the Spirit Road (11 page)

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Authors: C. M. Wendelboe

BOOK: Death Along the Spirit Road
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“How many times did you shoot him, big brother?” Manny had committed the information to memory.
“Six times. Six rounds of .45. One would have been enough, but I was always thorough.”
“Why would Henry Lone Wolf claim he saw you with Elizabeth that night?”
“Because he did see me at Lizzy’s. But he was wrong on the time. I left Lizzy’s early that night and drove to meet up with Billy. Don’t you know I would have used Henry as a witness if I thought it could have helped me?”
Manny always believed something else happened that night, that Reuben was involved in more than just the murder of a suspected AIM informant. And even though he was still tormented by the thought of Reuben being the murderer, reopening a thirty-year-old case to satisfy his own curiosity wouldn’t help him solve Jason Red Cloud’s death.
Reuben started to speak, but Manny turned on his heels and left before he had to listen to his brother anymore.
CHAPTER 5
 
 
Willie closed his textbook. “You all right?”
“Do I look all right?” Manny shut the car door. He rested his head on the seat back and rubbed his forehead.
“You look like you need something. Maybe a stiff drink.”
“I don’t drink either.”
“Well, you need something. You’re shaking worse than a dog passing a peach pit.”
Manny’s hand trembled as he reached for the pack of cigarettes. A smoke would hit the spot: an old friend helping him through stressful times. Most men had a wife to comfort them. Some a dog. Manny had a damned Camel—or used to before he quit being a two-lighter-a-day smoker. His Camel would have been there if he hadn’t been so foolish to quit right before coming back here. “It’s just been so long since I talked with my brother.”
They started down the gravel road away from Reuben’s trailer. When they pulled onto Highway 18, Willie turned in his seat. “Did I hear Reuben call you ‘
kola
’?”
Manny nodded. He had hoped that had gotten by Willie, but Manny figured few things got by Willie. “Reuben first called me
kola
at our folks’ funeral, and I can’t shake it.”
“You got no choice. Margaret says a man’s
kola
is a lifetime commitment. The
wicasa yatanpi
, the shirtwearers of the old days, praiseworthy and honorable men, taught that a man’s
kola
was his for life. If a man’s
kola
went down during battle, he had to rescue him.”
Once Manny had been proud of being Reuben’s
kola
when Unc explained the obligations. “A person must never betray his
kola
, never reveal secrets about him. The old ones cherished this relationship, and a
kola’
s bond is greater than
tiospaye
, than family. You have both a brother and a
kola
.” Could he arrest his
kola
for Jason’s murder?
“A man’s lucky to have one in a lifetime.”
“I don’t feel very lucky.”
 
Ten minutes out of Pine Ridge Manny got cell service and his phone vibrated. He checked the numbers. One he didn’t recognize.
“Might be someone with information,” Willie said.
Manny was skeptical and called the number. “I’m so glad you got a chance to return my call.” Even over the phone her voice resonated with that mellow, bedroom-soft tone. Manny felt as if he’d just called one of those porn lines.
“Ms. Myers, I—”
“Sonja.”
“Sonja. How did you get my private number?”
“Lieutenant Looks Twice was kind enough to give it to me. Do you have time to talk?”
“Not right now.” Manny was beat, and he didn’t feel up to phone sex. “Perhaps another time.”
“Then I’ll call tomorrow.” She hung up.
“Damned ignor-anus.”
“Who? And what’s an ‘ignor-anus’?”
“Your lieutenant. He’s stupid and an asshole. He knows better than to give out my number.”
“Who’s the other person that called you?”
Manny sighed. “The Pile. I better call him.”
Niles answered on the first ring and gave Manny no time for small talk. “That was one shitty news conference. You didn’t have squat to give the press. If you’re hiding something, they’ll eat us alive. Tell me you have something more for them.”
“I’m making progress,” Manny lied, then promised to keep Niles posted. He closed his phone and slipped it back into his pocket.
“We are?”
“Are we what?”
“Making progress.”
Manny laughed. “Hell no. But that prick doesn’t need to know it.”
Manny punched in the Red Cloud Development number again and talked with the operator he had spoken to before. “I really do need to speak with her.”
“I’ll give her the message again.”
“Problems?”
Manny shut his phone. “Clara Downing. If I didn’t know better I’d say she was avoiding me.”
They pulled into Pine Ridge and Willie drove toward Manny’s apartment. “I’m feeling a little gaunt. Buy you a burger.”
Willie slapped the wheel. “That’s what I forgot. Aunt Lizzy gave me an invite for supper tonight. I’m sure she won’t mind setting another plate.”
“Thanks for the offer, but it’s getting late and I’m beat. I’ll just grab a quick bite before I get some road time in.” Manny had slacked off long enough from his daily routine of jogging three miles. It helped him think, helped him forget about how he missed his home in Virginia right now.
Willie stopped the car by the gas pumps at Big Bat’s. People stared through the windows of the convenience store. Manny read their looks, their hatred, their mistrust, their hostility. It was the 1970s all over again. Such looks would be upon him during his entire stay on the reservation.
“Pick me up at o-seven-hundred?”
“O-seven-hundred,” Willie answered, and motored east toward Elizabeth’s house.
A typical evening crowd dined at the only spot in town to get a hot meal. Manny ignored the stares as he walked to the counter. A young man reeking of wine nudged hard against him. Dirt and fine white powder flaked off onto Manny’s shirt and he slapped it off. The kid’s grin taunted Manny. He ignored him and ordered a burger combo, then decided to skip the fries. He wanted a preemptive strike against his middle-age spread. He was fighting to keep on his diet until he could return to Virginia, back to where his life was in order. Where he could concentrate on his diet. Besides, greasy fries would make him puke during his run later tonight.
He filled his cup with Diet Coke and picked an empty booth. His trousers caught on something sticky on the plastic seat, but he was too exhausted and ignored it. He took his time eating as he listened to the conversations around him. Over George Strait crooning about “Amarillo by Morning,” he heard a couple in back of him plan on a beer run to White Clay.
Two booths down, four teenage boys talked about driving to North Rapid to party with friends. And a man twice his age snored in the booth in back of him. A typical night on the reservation. What the hell possessed him to accept this assignment? Why had he come home? Thomas Wolfe was right, of course, but who the hell would even want to go home again to this? Whenever Manny was jerked from his academy assignment to take the latest Native American case, he wanted to ask Niles if the bureau could please hire more Indians. But the Pile threatened to assign him recruiting duty, to go to reservations around the country to hire those same Indians Manny prayed for. And no matter how Manny insulted him, Niles was smart enough not to fire him. The only thing left for him was to quit the bureau.
In the end, he had no choice. Police work had first crept into his bloodstream as a tribal cop. He needed investigations to challenge him. Police work, particularly investigations, invigorated him, made him something more than the criminals he pursued.
“I don’t know why you don’t jump at the chance to go back home for a case,” Niles had told him. “See old friends. Have a good time. Do the tourist thing while you’re working on this Red Cloud murder.”
“You ever been to Pine Ridge?”
“Never had the pleasure.”
“Then come along if you think it’s so nice there.”
“I would, but the wife and I got that Orlando vacation package all lined up.”
“We got other agents capable—”
“Well,” Niles said. “We got several training positions that need to be filled in Iraq right now. Who better to teach eager Iraqis investigation techniques than Manny Tanno. Or there’s still that field agent opening in Greenland …”
“Enough. I’ll go to Pine Ridge. But under protest.”
If Niles had been twenty minutes slower in finding him, Manny would have been gone to the Poconos on a sudden annual leave. When Manny heard FOX News break the story of Jason Red Cloud’s death, he started packing his clothes. He knew Niles would assign him the case if he found him. “But you know the tribal police never want our help,” Manny argued.
“Don’t worry. We’ll get some cooperation. I’ll make a couple calls. Get the stud duck in charge out there on the horn.” It was that stud duck who interrupted Manny’s meal.
“People! Look here!” Lumpy yelled above the din of talk and music as he filled the doorway. “We got a genuine federal lawman in our midst.” Lumpy reeked. Sweet, loud Aqua Velva mixed with the sickening odor of beer that reached Manny even before Lumpy staggered over. Despite being drunk, Lumpy was Pine Ridge’s fashion plate. Lumpy’s Wranglers had creases so sharp that a man would cut himself if he ran his hand over them. His paisley double-breasted Western shirt had concrete cowboy written all over it, and his ostrich boots jutted like two large snowshoes beneath his stumpy legs. Pomade pasted his shiny hair against his head, and a silver and turquoise watchband glittered as he waved wildly at the crowd. “Mister Agent Man is going to solve our murder for us.”
Manny washed his burger down. “You’re drunk. Go home and sleep it off.”
“He can’t,” someone yelled from behind Lumpy. “His girlfriend just dissed him again.”
Lumpy turned to the heckler. He lost his balance and caught himself on the back of Manny’s seat. “Who the hell said that?”
No one answered. Though he was drunk, people knew Lumpy was still smarter than the average man in Big Bat’s. And he wouldn’t forget such taunts if he knew who threw them. Manny stood to leave.
“I’m not done with you, Hotshot.”
“Yes you are,” Manny called over his shoulder.
The cool air chilled his cheeks. A full moon peeked between charcoal clouds, and the fresh coming of a thunderstorm reached Manny’s nose. Summer Febreze.
“Don’t walk away from me!” Lumpy called from the doorway and stumbled after him across the parking lot. The crowd had followed Lumpy outside and cheered him on. Poking the bear. Getting him riled up. He spun Manny around, and swung a looping roundhouse at his head. Manny jerked his head out of the way of the punch. Lumpy staggered back, lost his balance, and fell on his butt.
The crowd roared and clapped. Lumpy glared at them and gathered himself on all fours, then stood and teetered on wobbly legs. He dropped his head and charged Manny like a bull. Manny sidestepped. Lumpy continued headlong, tripped over the curb, and fell into the street.

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