Richfield & Rivers Mystery Series 3 - Venus Besieged (24 page)

"Maybe
she did throw her off the cliff but didn't kill her, Teague. The net. Maybe she
intentionally threw her into the net." Callie pulled back from me.

"Why?
And do you know what kind of shot she'd have to be? She'd have to be the
Michael Jordan of the Sonora. The odds of my catching that net were a million
to one. I don't think it could happen twice."

"Maybe
she threw her off the cliff to save her."

"Like
Vietnam: we destroyed the village to save it?"

"I'm
trying to figure it out, that's all."

"You
won't give up on her. God, she and Luther are really a pair."

"That's
what I'm getting—that they're a pair," Callie said. "He's in love
with her. Perhaps lovers in another lifetime. Whatever it is, they're locked in
a struggle that goes beyond this one, and his jealousy of everyone and
everything is making him insane."

"Can
we go home to L.A.? This whole thing is taking place in a dimension I wasn't
trained for. I think we should just get the hell out."

Callie
turned her focus entirely on me. "It's not what you think, Teague. It's
not sexual desire. It's a power struggle at a very high level, and the loser
could die."

"I
believe that, Callie, and I'm not going to let it be you. He thinks you're the competition
now—like he thought Kai was and Nizhoni was."

Suddenly,
her mind seemed to be transported to another place as she whispered, "The
dream I had—the duck with the ribbons tying everything together—a male duck is
a drake...tying the three deaths together."

My
flesh rippled in response to her words.

"You're
getting chills," she said. "That's a sign of affirmation."

I
vehemently punched the End Call button on my cell phone as if it were
personally responsible for my inability to reach Barrett after hours of trying.
"No answer. I think we need to get a guide who can lead us to Little
Horse."

"Even
Manaba doesn't know where he is," Callie said.

Glancing
out the window I spotted a tall, scrawny boy leaping across the lawn toward the
cabin. He banged on the door before I could get to it, and standing before me
was the kid from the grocery store. He looked shy and made no eye contact as he
talked.

"Hi,
uh.. .my mom said you guys were looking for Little Horse."

I
asked him to come in, but he scuffed his beaten-up tennies on the porch steps
and insisted his feet were muddy from being down at the creek.

"My
day off. I work tonight," he said. "Uh...I can, uh...tell you how to
get up there. I worked his mules for him up at the trail ride one summer."

I
couldn't believe our good luck. Fern's kid knew where Little Horse was.

"I
could draw it...but it's kinda complicated. I got a guide map back at my place
and I'll loan it to you." I thanked him and he promised to bring it before
dark.

"Carrot
boy saves the day," I said. "He's got a map!"

"You
see, you thought he was useless and stupid," Callie reminded me.

"I
did. So did I misjudge him or did he become useful and bright because I told
his mom he was going to turn out that way, or is he really only useful and
bright on this singular occasion—"

"Or
are things what you name them?" Callie kissed me. "You're very
sexy."

"Let
it be so." I grinned. "Let's go to the hospital and find out why
Dwayne was trying to kill Blackstone and why Blackstone was whispering in dark
corners with Manaba. Is he covering up for her or did she send him out into the
desert and set him up?"

Grabbing
my jacket, I tossed Callie hers and patted Elmo on the head, then doubled back
and tossed him the plush basset hound toy "Live it up. We're all too busy
chasing crazies to get any ourselves."

Callie
punched me in the arm playfully and I kissed her.

As
we drove toward the hospital in silence, I tried to put together the elements I
knew to be true.

"The
Indian rescued me from that net. If your theory is right, he had to be in on
the plan."

"But
who is he and how will we find him?"

At
the small hospital, we stood patiently in line at the reception desk, waiting
behind the Sunday visitors to ask where we could find Cy Blackstone's room. The
receptionist hit a few computer keys, then announced that Mr. Blackstone was in
intensive care and could not have visitors.

We
took the elevator upstairs and got the same answer from a floor nurse. After
quizzing her, then informing her I could get permission if necessary to talk to
Senator Blackstone, I watched the tired woman give a maternal shrug.
"Dear, you can get permission from Jesus Christ, and I'll let you go in
and talk his head off, but you won't be getting any answers, because Senator Blackstone
is comatose."

"He
could have the nursing staff say he's in a coma to keep people away from
him," Callie whispered.

"Got
an idea." I began walking to the elevators. Callie followed, and once
inside I punched a button that took us to the chapel level. Getting off the
elevator and sinking into the plush mauve carpet and heading toward the
polished pews had Callie twitching and demanding to know what we were doing
here.

"Stealing,"
I replied, and entered the chapel as Callie gave me a questioning look. Scanning
the room, I didn't find exactly what I was searching for, so I had to make do.
I picked up a Bible from the back of one of the pews, crossed the room to a
shelf where the brochures were stacked and lifted a small six-inch crucifix
from the wall above the literature, then checked out the area near the pulpit.

"I
hope you're not doing what I think you're doing," Callie said.

Ignoring
her, I approached the stole hanging over the pulpit behind the altar rail. It
was white with gold crosses above the gold fringe at each end. "Have you
got a safety pin?"

When
she shook her head no, I said it would have to work regardless of length. I
draped the scarf around my neck and let the fringe fall down in front on both
sides, hitting me slightly above the knees, then tucked the Bible under my arm
and clutched the cross in my other hand. "How do I look?"

"No
comment," she said as she followed me out of the sanctuary.

"I'll
bring it back."

Getting
on the elevator again, I altered my demeanor to a reflective silence, and even
Callie was impressed, I could tell. When the doors opened, we were on the
intensive-care floor, and I went to the nurses' station to say Senator
Blackstone's family had asked me to look in on him. The nurse at the desk
pointed to the cubicle in the corner, and I walked quietly in, leaving Callie
behind. The ICU nurse was checking his chart and stepped out of the room to let
me talk to the senator, who had his eyes closed but seemed to be moving a bit.

"How
are you, Senator?" I asked, touching his arm. When he didn't respond I
bowed my head. "Dear Lord, heal this man, make him whole in mind and body,
relieve him of this pain, in Christ's name we pray."

I
didn't see my words as blasphemy, since prayer was anyone's prerogative and
basically beneficial, so in fact I'd performed a service for a guy who probably
wasn't the all-time best citizen on God's planet.

"What
happened to you, Cy?"

He
opened one eye enough, I suspected, to see the cross in my hand and the Bible
open before me. Then he turned his head away, refusing to speak or perhaps
unable to, and I figured with my luck Cy Blackstone was an atheist and wanted
me to leave him the hell alone. For all I knew, he could be dying, and I
certainly didn't want to torment the guy.

That's
another reason I'd made a lousy cop—I couldn't torture the near-dead into
confessing. It seemed to me at the point a perp was checking out, he ought to
have special dispensation to cross the River Styx without somebody on this side
jerking him around and demanding answers.

Logically,
I should get him to confess with his last worldly gasp, but practically
speaking, I couldn't do it. I turned to go as Blackstone looked like he was
about to board the boat for the Beyond.
Rest in peace, Cy Blackstone,
I
thought.

He
made a gurgling sound, which compelled me to turn back, and I caught him
looking at me, his head back slightly and one arm raised weakly.

"Something
to say..." he whispered hoarsely, and I realized that was probably a
variation on "Would you take my confession?"

I
glanced up at the nurse, who was about to enter, and asked for a moment longer.
She nodded and turned away out of earshot.

"Alright,"
I said.

Thinking
no doubt that he was about to die and not wanting to fly from this earth
weighed down by guilt, he let everything tumble out in his hoarse whisper—what
he'd done the night Nizhoni was to be killed. I suggested we pray together and
we said the Lord's Prayer in unison. After the amen, he added out of the blue,
"I double-crossed my son."

"Your
son...?"

"Luther."

So
much blood rushed to my head I felt dizzy. Cy Blackstone was Luther's dad!
Blackstone, by Ramona's admission, had the scoop on everything and everybody;
therefore, his son must too. And the social power of a white political family
would outweigh the spiritual power of a Native American shaman's. It also meant
that Dwayne could be a friend of Luther and indeed might know Cy Blackstone's
family. So why was Dwayne trying to kill Luther's father?

Trying
to keep my questions calm and priestlike, I took a breath and prepared to ask
Blackstone to explain what had happened, when he closed his eyes and journeyed
back into the unconscious.

"Damnation!"
I uttered at not getting my questions answered, as the nurse walked in and
stared at me. Glancing down at the cross on my scarf I added, "Damnation
can be overcome with prayer. Thank you, nurse. Bless you." I made a hasty
exit to the waiting area where Callie jumped up to join me.

Slightly
out of my body, as if putting the pulpit scarf around my neck and carrying a
Bible had afforded me entrance into a private place I shouldn't have
visited—allowed me to become a voyeur into someone's soul—I managed to whisper,
"He confessed, not knowing who I was. His son is Luther Drake."

I
paused to let Callie take that in.

"Blackstone
was headed out to kill Nizhoni on Luther's behalf—well, a fake killing by Cy
Blackstone—but before he could, the shaman threw her over the ledge.
Apparently, you're right that Nizhoni isn't dead, or they didn't mean for her
to die. Anyway, the way I see it, Blackstone and Manaba double-crossed Luther,
so his friend Dwayne-Wayne took Blackstone to the woodshed."

"He
told you all that simply because you walked into his room carrying a
cross?" Callie seemed to marvel at that. "Do you see what
'double-crossed' can mean?"

"Yeah,
I guess so," I said as we dashed back to the chapel and I replaced the
priestly props and privately said a prayer of contrition.

"Why
would Blackstone cover up the murder of a schoolgirl years ago or take part in
a staged murder today?"

"For
the love of his son?"

"No.
I don't see that. I would say threats—the kind of threats maybe that got Eyota,
the grandmother, to sign over her land."

"Want
to go to the newspaper office and see if they've got archives, because it's a
cinch their old copies aren't online."

Callie
nodded and minutes later we were in front of a tiny redbrick building with the
word
Publishers
carved in stone over the front entrance.

"Closed.
I forgot it's Sunday." We'd turned to leave when a pair of eyes peered
through the shutters in the front window. I waved in a friendly fashion, hoping
whoever it was would come to the door. Perhaps an employee was working on a
Sunday.

Moments
later, an elderly Native American woman opened the door for us, almost as if
she'd been told we were coming, listened to a description of what we were
looking for, and offered us a chair at a small table in the back of a room
filled with boxes and rusty filing cabinets. We scanned hundreds of old
articles, but it seemed that over the decades this fledgling newspaper had
either struggled to fully report the news or the newspaper owners had only
reported what suited them, because controversy was kept to a minimum.

It
was near dark when she came back to find us, tired and discouraged, hunkered
down over the piles of articles from twenty years ago. Without a word, she set
a file down in front of me— an old, tattered, dog-eared 8 1/2 x 11 manila
folder—and flipped open its bent cover. The article placed on top said,
"Young Aide, Luther Drake, Worked on Senatorial Campaign—Says Election Not
Rigged."

"So
the campaign was rigged and Luther knew it, and he had Blackstone by the
balls?" I whispered.

Without
speaking, she flipped to a second, much older article, and I raised my eyes to
look into hers, then lowered them to the page where her tan finger pointed.