The Man Who Fell from the Sky (12 page)

HERE, IN THE
middle of the day? He hadn't made an appointment, hadn't said anything last night about stopping by. Vicky left the Ford in the driveway next to the brick bungalow she had turned into an office. She let herself through the front door and stopped.

A ladder open in the middle of the reception area, and Cutter on the top step, setting a fluorescent lightbulb into the sockets. Balanced on the ladder top was the long, plastic light covering. “Hey, Vicky,” he said, without looking down.

“What's going on?” Stupid question, she thought. She could see what was going on. Annie jumped up and inched herself between the desk and the ladder. All black hair, shiny under the new light; dark, smiling eyes.

“We're finally getting that bulb replaced. Isn't it great?” She pushed her hair back behind her ears and grinned. “Cutter offered to help, and I said, ‘Sure, why not.'”

“You called the landlord? It's his responsibility.”

“Called and called and called.” Annie lifted both arms, as if she were beseeching heaven.

“I'm glad to be of help.” Cutter fit the plastic covering into place and started down the ladder, a sureness about him. He snapped the ladder together and said, “I'll just return this to the garage.”

Vicky moved away from the open door as he hauled the ladder past her, out across the small porch. She could see the ladder bobbing outside the front windows. “When did he show up?”

“He has been here an hour waiting for you. As long as he was hanging around, he wanted to know what he could do. I immediately thought of the bulb.” Annie glanced up at the white light streaming out of the fixture. “I really needed the light.”

“Did he say why he came by?” Vicky threw the question over one shoulder as she walked past the beveled-glass doors into her private office. She could hear Annie's footsteps behind her, and something hesitant in them now, second-guessing.

“It's okay, isn't it?” Annie had rearranged her face, erased the grin as Vicky dropped into her swivel chair.

“That he came by?”

“I mean replacing the lightbulb. He's so friendly and helpful.”

“What did he want?”

Annie stepped forward, set her hands on the edge of the desk, and leaned forward, as if whatever shadow had fallen between them had now vanished. “To see you. He waited and waited. The man is nothing if not patient.” She paused and leaned closer. “He's interested in you, Vicky. He's such a nice guy, and he's a warrior.”

“Got a minute?” Cutter poked his head past the beveled-glass doors.

“Hold on,” Vicky said, and Annie stepped back and shut the
doors, smiling at the man on the other side as she did so. “Anything else this afternoon?”

Annie walked back to the desk. “Anonymous called again,” she said, her voice low. Sound traveled through the beveled glass. “He said you should be at Miner's Café at five o'clock. He will call.”

Vicky spun a ballpoint pen over the top of a legal pad. This was crazy. And yet, and yet . . . he could be telling the truth. “What else did he say?”

“Nothing. I just took the message. Oh, I almost forgot.” Annie drew in a long breath. “I filed the motion with the district court to review the social services finding on Luke Wolf's custody case. And Bernie White Horse made an appointment for four o'clock. She didn't say what it was about.”

Bernie White Horse, one of Robert's cousins. It was almost four now. “Okay. Tell Cutter to come in.”

Annie walked back and flung open the doors. “Vicky only has a few minutes.”

The man hurried past her: the trademark grin, the longish black hair that he pushed back with one hand. “A few minutes is all I need to convince you to let me take you out tonight.”

Vicky shook her head. “I'm sorry. I have other plans.”

“Break them. There's a fair down by the river. Food, art, music. We'll have a great time.”

Vicky got to her feet. Just wanting to reconnect, she told herself, and yet something about his insistence, the way he had inserted himself into her life made her feel off-balance, a little dizzy. “I appreciate the invitation . . .”

“Say yes.”

Vicky hesitated. She was being foolish. Annie was right. A good man, a warrior. There was no reason not to say yes; no other
pressing plans, no plans at all. It would be the chance to ask Cutter if Robert had ever mentioned taking anyone else along on his treasure hunts. There was the sound of the outside door opening and closing, the hush of voices in the outer office.

Cutter must have seen her hesitation, sensed it in the half minute of silence, because he said, “Pick you up at seven?”

“I'll meet you on the corner at Third Street.”

He bowed, as if in acknowledgment of a great performance, smiled, waved, and backed out of the office. She sat down again and waited for Annie to announce Bernie White Horse.

*   *   *

THERE WAS A
family resemblance. Bernie might have been Robert Walking Bear's sister; the same stout frame, thick arms and neck, narrow eyes sunk above rounded cheeks. A serious look in her eyes. Grayish hair pulled back into a bun, pink beaded earrings that matched the pink dress she wore. “You've met my husband.” She indicated the heavyset man a few steps behind her. “Big Man White Horse.”

Vicky nodded and gestured them to the chairs in front of the desk. She had probably met Big Man at a powwow or fair; most likely he was at Ruth's the day of Robert's death. She had no memory of him. “I'm sorry about your cousin,” she said, trying for the polite pleasantries. Expected, even in a law office. “How are you doing?”

“That's why we're here.” The woman scooted back in the chair and clasped her hands in her lap. The pink fabric folded over her fingers. “Robert stole from me. I want what belongs to me.” The man beside her nodded his massive head and clapped his cowboy hat over one knee.

“Wait a minute . . .”

“Let me take it from here.” The man interrupted. “This is hard for Bernie, accusing her own relative, but Robert was a sonofabitch. Ask anyone, they'll tell you. Bernie's grandfather wanted her to have the treasure map.”

“That's a fact.” Bernie jumped in, leaning forward now. “I remember when he brought me out to the barn and took a brown box off the shelf. He opened the box and . . . I can see it today. There was a real old map, the only thing in the box, and Grandfather said, ‘This is yours. It belongs to you, and don't you forget it, and don't you let any of them thieving relatives take it from you.'”

“Talking about Robert, you ask me,” Big Man said. “Soon as her grandfather died, Robert hightailed it out to the ranch and cleared out everything. Took the map. Been looking for the treasure ever since.”

“Listen, Bernie.” Vicky held up her hand. “I can't help you. I'm a friend of Ruth's, and it would be a conflict of interest.”

“I don't get it.” Bernie shifted toward her husband, who snorted but didn't say anything. Then she turned back to Vicky. “You know a lot of people on the rez. You grew up there. Probably related to half the population. You help people all the time. You telling me when you help other clients, you don't have a conflict of interest? I can prove the map is mine, you know. I can prove it.”

“I'm not sure anyone knows where the map is.”

“Robert kept it on him.”

“Robert's death is still under investigation.” Vicky shifted forward and forced herself to meet the burning looks of the couple across from her, as if she were looking into a campfire. “I doubt you need a lawyer. If you have proof that the map belonged to you, you should take the proof to the tribal police. They can help you recover stolen property.”

Bernie pushed herself to her feet. “I thought you were one of
us.” She was sputtering. Little flecks of spit littered the top of the desk. Big Man stood beside her and patted her back, murmuring something like, “We don't need her. We'll take care of this matter ourselves, like I told you. We got our own ways.”

Vicky stood up. “I strongly advise you not to do anything illegal.”

“Don't look like you're our lawyer, so we don't need your advice,” Big Man said, guiding his wife toward the beveled-glass doors. Vicky could see the woman's thick shoulders trembling under his hand, then Bernie burst into sobs that trailed behind them until they had crossed the reception area and the front door had slammed shut.

Annie took a step into the office. “Everything okay?”

Vicky sat back down. She closed her eyes against the image of Bernie's husband, the mask of hatred on his face. The words reverberating silently around her:
We got our own ways.
What had he done? Killed a man for an old map that had already been destroyed? She forced the thought to the outer reaches of her mind. The anonymous caller had given an alternative story, and now that story, against all reason, had taken hold of her. She was like a juror: well, something else
might
have happened.

She realized Annie was waiting, and she opened her eyes and tried to concentrate. “Everything's fine,” she said.

“Well, Roger and I will be at the café at five. If you're going.”

“It's not necessary. The caller will have to come out of the shadows if he wants to talk to me.”

Annie didn't say anything for a moment. “We'll hang around here past five o'clock.”

“Thank you.” It was kind, Vicky knew. Kind and thoughtful, and God knew, she had been longing for kindness and
thoughtfulness. “But no sense in your leaving late. I'll finish up some work before I meet Cutter.” The court might set the hearing at any time, and she had to be ready to argue that Luke Wolf's reports were positive. The man hadn't had a drink since he had lost the right to see his son unsupervised. The neighbor who had called social services happened to be a friend of Luke's ex-wife's. And the ex-wife, planning to marry her boyfriend, had every motivation to remove Luke from their child's life.

“You're meeting Cutter?” Annie said, a smile of approval now, all worry wiped from her face. “I like him, Vicky. To tell you the truth”—she lowered her voice and gave a backward glance toward the reception area—“if it weren't for Roger, I'd be tempted to give you some competition.”

*   *   *

AT FIVE FIFTEEN,
Annie stuck her head into the office and said she and Roger were off, but her cell was on in case Vicky needed anything. Vicky heard the front door close, the lock snap, and went back to working on the arguments she intended to make on Luke's behalf. He had told the truth. No police calls to the house he and his wife had occupied, no record of any domestic abuse. She thumbed through a second report from the investigator she had hired. All the neighbors, except for the ex-wife's friend, said he wasn't a troublemaker. Stuck to his own business. They had seen him outside playing with his son, giving the kid horseback rides on his back.

She realized some part of her was waiting for the phone to ring, muscles clenched, hand ready to grab the receiver. Once she thought she felt the tiny surge of energy before it was about to ring, but it hadn't rung. She imagined the phone ringing at the Miner's Café,
a waitress picking up.
Vicky Holden? No one here by that name. Wrong number.

At twenty to seven, she shut down the computer, cleared her desk, and locked the papers in the filing cabinet. The wind was blowing, knocking at the eaves. A cottonwood branch scratched the window, an eerie sound, like that of a small animal trying to get inside. She turned off the lights and looked out the window. Clouds moving across the mountains were outlined in shades of purple and orange. A white carpet of cottonwood pollen lay over the backyard. She could probably ask Cutter to rake it up, she thought. He would do anything she needed. He wanted to help, just as he was helping Ruth. He wanted to be useful.

She lifted her bag out of the desk drawer and walked through the office, turning off the lights in the reception area as she went. It was silly, this uneasy feeling about Cutter Walking Bear.

CUTTER STOOD ON
the corner like a statue with people flowing around him toward the fair at City Park. Families with strollers and toddlers, couples holding hands, teenage girls in cutoffs and tee shirts, boys in blue jeans and cowboy hats—Cutter stood his ground. Cowboy hat tilted back, hands on his waist, a friendly, fixed smile on his face. Vicky had parked in a residential neighborhood several blocks away. Now she hurried around the groups of people and waved. Cutter waved back and started toward her.

“Glad you could make it.” He took her arm. “For a couple minutes there, I thought maybe you'd . . .” He took a moment, then hurried on: “Maybe something had come up.”

“It's been a long time since I've gone to a summer fair.” Why had she told him that? It made her sound pathetic, chained to her desk, tied to legal briefs.

She was aware of the warm pressure of Cutter's hand on her
arm, guiding her across the sidewalk and onto the lawn that ran along the Popo Agie River. Crowds milled about the food and craft booths under white tents that swayed in the evening breeze. Still more crowds poured off the sidewalk and filled up the benches that flanked the wooden tables. Music was playing over by the riverbank, drums pounding, flutes singing. Through the crowd, Vicky could see the Arapaho dancers, blue, red, and silver regalia flashing in the sunlight.

“I've checked out the place,” Cutter said, his grip tightening on her arm. “What's your pleasure? Meatball or pork sandwiches, fried chicken, stew, Indian tacos.”

“Definitely Indian tacos,” she told him.

“I knew you'd say that.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him grin.

They joined the line in front of the booth, a cacophony of sounds around them, the drums, the singers, the people chatting and calling to one another. Vicky recognized the two grandmothers behind the counter, Irene Hunting and Mo Fallsdown, punching small circles of dough until they were the size of a dinner plate, then dropping them into a pot of boiling oil for a moment or two, then flopping the tacos onto two paper plates. Spreading cooked, seasoned ground beef followed by chopped onions and tomatoes and sauces. Cutter ordered two iced teas. Together, the two of them, each balancing a taco plate and plastic glass of cold tea, made their way to a table that four teenage boys had vacated. They sat across from each other at one end, while a family filled in the rest of the benches—a white family with plates of chicken nuggets and glasses of Coke.

“Your law practice must keep you busy.” Cutter worked at his taco with a white plastic knife and fork he'd taken from a glass on
the table. “All work and no play . . .” He shrugged. “You know how it goes. When do you have time to spend all your money?”

“All my money?”

“Come on, don't be coy. You're an attorney. The attorneys I know live pretty high. Big houses, fancy cars. Why not? You work hard for it.”

“Attorneys in the oil regions of Oklahoma and Texas? Maybe so.” This was a small, rural community, she wanted to say. Instead she took a bite of the taco and wondered what difference it would make to Cutter Walking Bear that few people lived high here, that most of her clients came from the rez, that a lot of them couldn't pay.

She sliced off another bite of taco. Hot and spicy, the way she remembered her grandmother's Indian tacos, the way she used to make them for her own kids, a lifetime ago. After a moment, she said, “How about you? Any luck with the job hunting?”

“Still waiting to hear from Fowler Oil in Casper. Job's perfect for me. Managing the drilling on the rez.” He looked out across the fair grounds, as if his thoughts had wandered somewhere else. The drums had gone quiet, and the dancers were strolling about, crowding in front of the booths, digging bills out of small, beaded bags. A small plane buzzed overhead and cut through the hum of conversations, the swish of people passing by.

“Anyway . . .” Cutter looked back at her. “The interview went pretty well. God knows I have the right résumé. Engineering degree, years of experience. It helps that I started out working the rigs. I know the oil business from the ground up.” He smiled. “No pun intended.”

Vicky took a drink of the icy tea and let a moment pass before she said, “I spoke with Ruth this morning.”

“I know. She told me. I went over to help her out with a few things.”

“It's good of you, Cutter.”

He shrugged and bent over the last of his taco. Vicky went on: “She claims Robert always went alone to the mountains.”

Cutter kept chewing. He took his time before he said, “Has it occurred to you that Robert didn't tell his wife everything?” He leaned over the table, so close that she could smell the spicy odor of his breath. “Maybe Ruth didn't tell him everything, either. Couples keep secrets from each other. This isn't a perfect world.”

Vicky drew back, surprised at his sharp tone, and he went on: “Don't tell me you and Ben Holden never kept any secrets. I suspect you kept quite a few, and I'll bet he had his.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Now the sharpness was in her voice, which surprised her. But wasn't that how it went? The anger in Ben's voice, the shouting and yelling, and she had given it back, everything she received. Not the blows. She hadn't been able to give those back.

“I apologize.” Cutter moved his glass around, making small wet circles on the table. “It's just that I don't lie, and I don't like being accused of lying.”

“I haven't accused . . .”

“Ruth did, if she said I never went with Robert. I can give you dates and times. I can tell you exactly where we went. The parking lots where we left his truck, the trails we hiked, the time we went to the lake. Evidence, isn't that what you call it? He was always so sure that this was the day he was going to dig up the treasure. He kept saying he was getting so close he could smell those old bills. Thousands and thousands of dollars. Enough to set him up for the rest of his life. Said he'd give me a share. I told him I didn't want any of it. I was along for the ride, you might say. Making up lost
time with my cousin.” He watched her for a moment, as if to make sure she understood. “Tell you the truth, I started to think the phantom treasure had driven my cousin round the bend.”

Vicky laughed. She could feel the tension dissipate into the atmosphere of the fair, the booths and people, the music starting up again. “Did Robert carry a map?”

“You ask me, he never went anywhere without his precious map.” Cutter shook his head and allowed a half smile to play around his mouth. “An old map, practically falling to pieces. I don't know how he could make sense out of it. Ruth probably has it. She could show it to you.”

“Robert's truck and his things are still impounded.” She had found a piece of the map, she was thinking. Burned and torn, and for a moment, she considered telling him, then decided not to say anything. The old piece of paper she found might not have anything to do with Robert's map. It was Gianelli's business now. She changed the subject. “I worry about Ruth. She's eager to have Robert buried in the traditional way, but with the investigation still going on, the coroner won't release the body. I assume you've heard the rumors.”

“Robert was murdered.” He shrugged. “The fed's been talking to the family and everyone else that knew Robert. Showed up at the house I'm renting first thing this morning. Asked crazy questions. Anybody have a problem with Robert? Want revenge? Want him dead?” Cutter was leaning forward again, elbows planted on the table, the empty taco plate and glass pushed aside. “Ticks me off the way he's trying to work the cousins, pit us against one another, trying to turn us on our own relatives. You ask me, who hasn't gotten mad at a relative over some stupid thing? Anybody could say anything. Accuse anybody.”

“What if there was a witness?” Vicky drank the rest of her tea,
watching over the rim of her glass at the way his face changed, as if another storm were brewing inside him.

“A witness? What are you talking about?”

“Someone who claims he saw the murder.”

Cutter threw his head back and laughed. “What's he smoking?”

“Maybe Robert took someone else with him the day he died. A couple of other people. How do you know he didn't?”

Cutter kept his head back, looking up at a sky that had turned steel gray, the laugh silent in his throat. “Okay, I give you that, counselor.” He looked back at her. “We don't know for sure, except Robert didn't trust a lot of people. He said the cousins were always trying to get their hands on his map. You understand why I'm ticked off at the fed? He talks to the cousins that wanted the map, no telling what they're going to tell him.”

“You mean, about you?”

“Sure, about me, since Robert took me up there a few times. About any of the relatives. Pitting one against the other—it's a dirty trick. Doesn't mean people are going to tell the truth.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “What witness?”

Vicky hesitated. The anonymous caller was hardly a secret. Gianelli knew, Annie and Roger knew. Almost nothing could be kept secret on the rez; if one person knew, sooner or later, everyone knew. She drew in a long breath, then told him she had heard from someone who claimed he witnessed Robert's murder.

Cutter clenched and unclenched his fists a moment, then clasped his hands together, as if he wanted to contain the force. “Does this so-called witness have a name?”

“He didn't give one. If he had, I would have told Gianelli. It's his investigation.”

“So you know nothing about a man who called you out of the blue. You believe him?”

“It's not up to me.”

“So that's why the investigation never quits. Jesus, Vicky. I'm surprised you took a nameless caller seriously. You tell Ruth about this?”

Vicky nodded. “I'm sure she would have heard anyway.”

Cutter stood up and surveyed the crowds circling about. “Let's take a look around,” he said, as if the possibility of murder had been set aside, forgotten.

*   *   *

A PALE DARKNESS
had descended when Vicky drove home through the quiet residential neighborhood that lay between City Park and her apartment building. The sky was clear and gray, the stars beginning to come to life. Streetlights cast wavering circles of white light onto the asphalt. John Fullbright singing “When You're Here” on the CD mixed with the shush of the wind blowing across the half-open windows.

She held on to the steering wheel with one hand and thought about the times she had spent with Cutter. Yesterday evening in Hudson, this evening at the fair, strolling along the booths, looking at the jewelry, the paintings, stained glass, carved wooden figures. Cutter beside her, strong and dependable. An Arapaho like herself, struggling to find his place among his own people. And yet, there was something odd about him, off-putting, as if he moved in his own impenetrable space. He had walked her to her car and offered to follow her home.
No thanks
, she had said. This was good, this was enough, slowly getting to know each other.

Vicky slowed for the turn into her parking lot and drove to her space past the shadowy rows of cars. Light glowed from the glass-enclosed entry to her building and trailed out onto the sidewalk. She let herself out, locked the car, and glanced about. A habit she
had cultivated, all those dark nights working late at the office and coming home alone. She had started up the sidewalk into the edge of the light.

“Vicky Holden.”

The man's voice came from nowhere, from the air, the lawn, the bushes. She swung about, scanning the area. There was no one.

“You disappointed me. I waited an hour at the café.”

“Who are you?” She hurried up the sidewalk; she was almost to the entry door when she spotted the white truck parked across the street. The man was in the shadows somewhere, crouched down among the bushes, where she couldn't see him.

“The fed is making a fool of himself, playing for time so it looks like he's done his job. Don't step inside!” Vicky had pulled open the front door. She stopped, aware of the tension in her shoulders. Her eyes fixed on the elevator button. It would take a couple of minutes to get the elevator, minutes in which whoever was out there could rush inside. A hundred scenarios ran through her head: push her into the elevator, drag her down the corridor, force her to open the apartment door. She dug into her bag for her keys and fitted them between her fingers like brass knuckles.

“Listen to me. The killer is getting desperate. He's getting ready to kill again. If you don't convince the fed that time is running out, you'll have to pay.”

Vicky let the glass door slam behind her, lunged for the elevator, and jammed her palm against the button. Somewhere inside the building, wheels and pulleys emitted small screeching sounds. Inside the elevator, she found her cell and called the FBI office. “This is Vicky Holden. Put me through to Agent Gianelli,” she said, half running down the corridor, the cell in one hand, her apartment key isolated in her other hand.

A minute passed before the voice said, “He's not picking up. I'll keep trying.”

“It's an emergency!” Vicky heard her own voice shouting. “I have to talk to him immediately.” She jammed the key into the lock, pushed through the door, then slammed it shut, turned the lock, and leaned against the hard surface, finding her breath now, the quick intakes of air burning her chest. The apartment was dark except for the seams of light from the streetlamps that lay across the floor, the desk, the chairs and sofa. The cell was cool and inert in her hand.

It was five minutes before it rang. Call from Unknown flashed on the screen. Her legs had turned to liquid, scarcely holding her up. Anonymous calling from outside somewhere, watching the building, watching for her lights to come on. She realized she was still leaning against the door; the door holding her up.