Death on the Greasy Grass (16 page)

C
HAPTER
20

Manny chanced Nurse Ratched's wrath and poked his head inside Willie's room. His shallow breathing had turned raspy, labored, and the irregular beeps of the monitor seemed to accuse Manny of sending his friend here. He motioned for Clara and she stepped into the hall. “I'm going to Pine Ridge in the morning and interview Wilson Eagle Bull, find out what I can about Carson Degas. You going to be all right? Going to get some sleep? You look . . .”

“Terrible?” Clara stroked his cheek. “I'll be fine. That nice nurse asked an aide to bring me a rollaway so I can spend the night beside him.”

“None for Doreen?”

“I sent Doreen home,” Clara said. “She needs rest worse than I do. She's been with Willie since they brought him here. I had a hard time convincing her that she needs some shut-eye.”

“You look beat yourself.” Manny squeezed her hand. “When was the last time you ate?”

Clara forced a smile and nodded to the nurse's station. “They don't bring enough to feed a sparrow.”

Manny fished a twenty out of his pocket and handed it to her. “Go grab yourself something from the cafeteria.”

“I'm not . . .”

“A sandwich or something.”

Clara looked to Willie's room. “But if anything changes . . .”

“I'll call you on your cell.”

Manny watched Clara disappear down the hall before he turned and entered Willie's room. He closed the heavy door and stood with his back to the bed, afraid to turn around. When he did, his eyes fell to the monitor, to the tubes, to the man partially covered with grim hospital sheets, a man that looked so much smaller than the one that began his vacation with Manny less than a week ago. “A person near death will seem to shrink,” his academy instructor had drilled into him as a recruit nearly twenty years ago. “They will look smaller than is possible, but rest assured there is a human being fighting to pull through. Treat them kindly.”

Manny pulled a chair near to the bed and leaned close. “You'll pull through this, bud,” he whispered, but Manny was unsure if he were trying to convince Willie or himself. “For our vacation next year, we'll go to Yellowstone. Meet Old Faithful. Stay at the Lodge. I promise.”

Manny heard his voice falter. Sticky, salty snot dripped from his nose and ran onto his lip, and he wiped it with the back of his shirtsleeve. He took Willie's limp hand and forced a laugh. “But this don't mean we're going to share showers or anything.”

In Manny's mind's eye he thought Willie's lids flickered, but that was just hope and Willie continued lying motionless. “Maybe I'll take driving lessons before our vacation. Help with the driving so you're not so exhausted.” He stroked Willie's hand, over a saline tube taped to the back of his wrist. Did men kiss other men's hands? Manny didn't think so, but he looked around before he kissed Willie's, not expecting a reaction.

Manny closed his eyes, aware his face had been wet by tears flowing freely, the sound of his sobs mixed with the haunting monitor sounds that continued beeping.

Manny felt pressure on his shoulder and he opened his eyes. Clara stood over him, a foam container with steam escaping in one hand, a Minnie Mouse straw sticking out the top of another like a bizarre antenna. Manny wiped his face with his shirtsleeve before facing her.

“There's no shame in crying over your friend,” she said as she cradled his face in her hands. “He would do the same for you.”

“I put him here.”

Clara shook her head. “Nonsense. He's here because he had an overwhelming need to put bad guys in jail. Same as you.”

Manny looked over at Willie and squeezed his shoulder. “Guess you're right.”

“And you will be cautious when you go to the Eagle Bull Ranch tomorrow?”

“I don't think a senatorial candidate will try anything with a federal agent.”

Clara shook her head. “It's not Wilson I'm worried about. I've done enough consulting with Red Cloud Development around Oglala to recognize rough ranch hands when I see them. And the Eagle Bull Ranch seems to draw them like flies on a gut wagon.” Her eyes welled up and she turned and threw her arms around him. “You just be careful tomorrow.”

Manny moved her away and grabbed his bandanna from his pocket and started dabbing at her eyes. “Don't worry about me. I've got insurance.”

“What insurance?”

“You don't want to know.”

* * *

Manny did the pecking bird as he pulled off Skyline Drive toward Clara's house, his exhaustion catching up with him. As he started to turn into the driveway, he noticed a decades-old Plymouth sat partially hidden by the side of the garage. He doused his lights and used the emergency brake to stop, careful not to trip the brake lights. He strained in the dark, trying to place the car. He would have remembered a car with a garbage bag for a back window and a trunk that looked like a semi-tractor had slammed into it.

He felt under the seat and found the holster containing his Glock and slipped it through his belt, snugging it up. He rolled quickly out of the car, illuminated only for a moment by the dome lights, and he eased the door shut. He duckwalked to the Plymouth, keeping the car between himself and the house. It was black as the night with numerous rust spots that bled through; Manny felt the primered hood: warm.

He crouched to get past the bay window and chanced a peek inside, but could see nothing in the dark house. He opened the screen door and tested the knob on the front door. Locked. He fumbled in his pocket for his keys and dropped them. He was certain if anyone was inside they heard the clanking of the key ring echoing off the concrete, and he expected someone to burst out of the house leading the way with a drawn gun.

After long moments when no one responded he breathed easier, and he silently inserted his key in the lock. He started turning the knob when he put his ear to the door. Someone walked inside. Or maybe more than one someone.

He cracked the door and paused, wiping away the sweat running into his eyes as he slowed his breathing. He peered inside, his eyes adjusting to the darkness inside the house, the only light coming from under the bathroom door. The only sound coming from there as well. Was the intruder after Clara? He couldn't imagine anyone wanting to hurt her. Perhaps someone was after Manny, and Degas popped into his mind.

Manny, still crouched and developing a nasty leg cramp, entered the room, gun leading the way, tiptoeing to the moving shadows of lights escaping under the bathroom door. A bottle dropped. Mumbled cursing followed. The doorknob turned, and Manny backed around the wall for cover.

The bathroom light went off. The door opened. A shape indistinct in the darkness, sensing someone else was in the house. “Who's there?”

“On the floor!” Manny's hand trembled, his voice broke, perhaps an octave higher than it should be. The intruder remained motionless. “I said . . .”

“That you, Agent Tanno?”

The bathroom light flicked on and Doreen Big Eagle stood silhouetted against the door. She hastily gathered her nightgown around herself as she nodded at Manny's gun. “Bad enough you got my man shot. Now you want to shoot me. What are you doing here?”

“I live here.”

She brushed past Manny too startled to answer on her way to the kitchen. “Clara never mentioned you'd be staying here tonight or I'd have gotten a motel room.”

She grabbed a mug and tea bag from the cupboard, and waited until she started the microwave before turning to Manny. “I'm not particularly thrilled with this arrangement, either. Clara thought you were driving to Pine Ridge tonight and she offered me a place to crash. Fact is, I can't afford a motel room.”

The microwave beeped and she took her cup out, studying the bag as she dipped it in and out of the hot water several times before going into the living room and dropping onto the couch. She sat her cup on the coffee table when her shoulders began shaking, and she buried her face in her hands. Steady, agonizing sobs came from Doreen, like the sobs that came from Manny the night Uncle Marion died.

Manny looked around the house as if scoping out an escape route. The bureau—and life as he'd lived it—had never prepared him to deal with a grieving girlfriend.
Go to her,
he heard Unc in his head telling him.
She's a human being in need of comfort. Go to her.

Manny sat on the couch beside Doreen and started to drape his arms around her. He got no resistance and he pulled her close. She seemed so frail, so alone, so in need of someone. He stroked her head. “Willie will pull through.”

She shrugged him off. Snot ran down onto her upper lip and Manny handed her a Kleenex. “How do you know he'll make it? You a psychic? Some holy man like Willie's studied to be? How do you know we won't get a call this minute telling us Willie died?”

Manny would have loved for his gift Reuben insisted he possessed to kick in and tell him what the future held for Willie. Manny felt his
wophiye
, his medicine bundle in the shape of a turtle, hanging from a leather thong under his shirt. But the medicine bundle, and his gift of visions from the sacred men, hung silent. All he had left tonight was grief. “Willie will make it. I won't think otherwise.”

“And if he does, what do I have to look forward to, being married to a cop? Worrying about getting the call in the middle of the night telling me Willie's been shot again?” She started to take a sip of her tea, but replaced it on the coffee table. “And maybe not being so lucky the next time.”

“Would you rather have Willie die a slow death?”

She glared at Manny. “What crap you talking now?”

Manny stood and walked the cramp out of his leg. “Can you picture Willie teaching?”

“What's wrong with teachers?”

“Nothing. But it's not for Willie, spending days cooped up inside teaching grade-schoolers. Maybe spending nights in parent–teacher conferences. Coming home wiped out—not from teaching—but from pure lack of stimulation.”

“You mean lack of excitement?”

Manny nodded. He knew just how Willie would feel, missing the sensation of your heart threatening to burst from your chest because you're so scared; the thrill of knocking on Death's Door only to find out in that last brief moment that Death locked you out. This time. “Willie's a cop. It's in his blood. He lives for the thrill of the hunt, for the thrill of slamming the cell door on scroats like Carson Degas.”

“Just like you.”

“And just like every other cop with stones.”

Doreen blew her nose and dropped the tissue on the table. “Clara told me she couldn't convince you to quit the bureau, either.”

Manny forced a smile. “I don't think she's totally given up. But if she were here right now, she'd tell you to support your man.”

“I do support him.”

Anger replaced empathy and Manny fought to control the resentment rising in his throat like an acid reflux attack. “You've already given up on Willie. You already have him flatlining. But Willie's going to pull through. I won't think otherwise. And neither should you.”

She turned away and burst into tears, shoulders once again shaking. He started to sit, and paused, Unc's words coming through once again as they often did in times like these when Manny needed guidance:
Go to her
.
Comfort her. It's what I would do.
And Manny did just what his uncle Marion would have done, and he sat beside Doreen. She leaned against Manny and he wrapped his arms around her, rocking back and forth, stroking her head. At least for the moment, Doreen wasn't blaming him. At least for the moment, she was only concerned with Willie.

“Wakan Tanka won't allow Willie to die,” he whispered, but he wished he sounded more convincing than he did.

C
HAPTER
21

“You missed the turn to the Eagle Bull Ranch,” Lumpy said between bites of a Snickers to replenish his strength. He wiped chocolate from his stubble, and bags under his eyes showed he hadn't slept any better than Manny had last night. But then Manny had slept on a lumpy couch and tried to block out Doreen's snores reaching him from the bedroom. “What you slowing down for? And will you turn down whatever it is blaring on your CD player.”

“It's The Who.”

“Who?”

“The Who. Rock group of the sixties and seventies.”

“I know that.” Lumpy stuffed the empty candy wrapper in the side pocket of the door. “But I thought you like that damned polka music?”

“I'm expanding my horizons.”
And maybe because Willie got me hooked on rock and roll.
“We're going north of Oglala.”

“I can see that, but what for? We passed the turnoff . . .”

“Picking up my insurance agent.”

Lumpy opened a pack of Doritos. “What the hell we going to do, interview Wilson Eagle Bull or sell him a whole life policy?”

Manny smiled. “Like Clara pointed out, Wilson's got some genuinely nasty bastards working for him. We need an equally nasty insurance agent to handle them. And Degas if we find him.”

Lumpy started to press Manny when they turned down a gravel drive leading to a boarded-up trailer, duct tape plastered over broken windows. A paint horse stood three-legged inside a corral that looked as if the next stout wind would topple it. Manny stopped the car in front of the trailer and honked.

Reuben walked from around the back of the trailer, hair braided with miniature beaded lizards for hair ties, T-shirt with a depiction of Sitting Bull plastered across the front.

“We're not taking
him
?”

Manny smiled.

“A felon? A murderer on an investigation?”

Manny so wanted to spill the truth about Reuben, a truth Manny himself had denied ever since his brother had gone to prison for a 1970s homicide. But Manny held his tongue as he watched Reuben amble toward them. At just over sixty, Reuben's six-foot-four frame still commanded respect. His thick chest and bulging shoulder muscles threatened to burst his T-shirt. “Can't hardly turn Reuben down now that's he's dressed in his best insurance agent clothes, can we?”

“But why him?”

“We might need help.”

“We got a radio if we need help,” Lumpy sputtered, his eyes fixed on Reuben. “And we got guns.”

Manny turned to Lumpy. “Willie had a radio. And a gun. Didn't help him any.”

Reuben stopped at the passenger side and motioned for Lumpy to roll the window down. “Acting Chief Looks Twice.” His grin showed perfect teeth. “An honor to have you riding in the backseat with us.”

“Does it look like I'm riding bitch?” He jerked his thumb toward the back. “Climb in if you're coming with us.”

“And just how do you think I'm going to fit in back?”

“He's right.” Manny smiled. “He'll have a hard enough time riding up front.”

Lumpy cursed under his breath and grabbed his last Snickers and coffee cup and flung the door open. Reuben deftly sidestepped the door and waited until Lumpy had crawled in the backseat before he tackled entry himself. He leaned in and grabbed the aw-shit handle above the door, his braids falling onto his chest, and folded one leg at a time in until he was seated. Even with the seat scooted all the way back, his knees still rubbed the dashboard. He looked sideways at Manny. “Is this all the bureau can give a senior agent—a sedan instead of a Suburban? Maybe an Expedition? I'm going to get felony cramped.”

“Your taxpayer dollars at work.”

“Taxpayer dollars, my ass. If the government used money wisely, they'd have hired you a full-time driver.”

Lumpy leaned over the seat. “Look at the bright side—Manny's driving will probably kill you before the cramps do.”

When they reached Highway 18, they turned west, hitting the dreaded construction area that people hereabouts were so upset about. Manny read the police blotter where a pickup had dropped into a ten-foot-deep washout with no warning. Seems that the yellow warning signs and construction sawhorses had been stolen, and the flagman had left for an extended afternoon brewski in Hot Springs.

“You ever hear of this Carson Degas?” Lumpy's breath smelled of chocolate and peanuts as he nudged Reuben. “Seeing you two are cut from the same cloth.”

Reuben glared at Lumpy, who shrank back into the seat. Reuben started to turn toward him when Manny broke in. “What have you heard of him?”

Reuben eyed Lumpy one last time before he turned back around. “He showed up at Eagle Bull's last year. Claimed he was a horse whisperer. Claimed to know damned near everything there was to know about horseflesh.”

“Does he?” Manny slammed on the brakes just before hitting a skunk crossing the road.

Reuben rubbed his forehead where he'd smacked the windshield. “Be careful.”

“Put your seat belt on.”

“Won't fit.”

Manny slowed. “You were expounding on Degas.”

Reuben nodded. “That what I was doing, expounding?” He laughed. “Word is, he's sharper 'n hell with horses. Knows everyone in the business it seems. Got contracts for Eagle Bull in five states, and . . .” He reached for the CD player but Manny slapped his hand away. “Can't you turn this to KILI? What is it anyway?”

“The Who,” Lumpy said proudly from the backseat.

“Wrong.” Manny turned the volume down. “It's Three Dog Night now. But continue.”

“Degas came on the scene about the time that Wilson Eagle Bull fired his last horse wrangler,” Reuben said, squirming in the seat, trying to make the seat belt stretch. It didn't. “Rumor has it that Degas spent some time in the hoosegow. Like a lot of Eagle Bull hands.”

“Ever meet him?”

Reuben nodded.

“In stir?” Lumpy asked.

Reuben shook his head, staring out the window searching for the answer in the low-hanging clouds. He had spent twenty-five years in the state prison for the Billy Two Moons murder. For all Reuben's past faults, he was walking the Good Red Road now as a sacred man. “Degas came to the Rosebud Wacipi last year with a bottle of booze and a bad attitude.”

“Can't have alcohol at powwows,” Lumpy said. “They give Rosebud cops a call to have him booted?”

Reuben nodded. “They did, but there was no one available. Shorthanded. Anyways, Degas got in a row with the gate security. Kicked the shit out of two before they left him alone. He had everyone spooked, and picked a fight with some guy from Scenic riding saddle bronc. He was putting the boots to the guy big-time when one of the fancy dancers came and got me.”

Manny popped a piece of sugar-free candy in his mouth and offered one to Reuben and Lumpy. Reuben grabbed one, but Lumpy waved it away. Manny never knew the man to ingest anything sugar-free. “And you stopped the fight?”

“I did, but I didn't faze him much.” He grabbed Manny's bag of candy and popped three more pieces. “Even though I had him by fifty pounds and a couple inches, he wasn't scared of me one bit. I saw that in those black eyes of his. He didn't stop beating that guy because of me. He stopped because he wanted to. Me stepping in just reminded him of how tired his ass-kicking leg was getting.”

They turned onto Tribal Road 41 on their way to Slim Buttes. “Another mile on the right”—Lumpy leaned over the seat—“to where we found Willie.”

“And you didn't assign Willie any backup?” Reuben asked.

Lumpy snorted. “Now you, too. You a cop now or something?”

Reuben smiled. “No, but I've kicked ass on enough.”

“There.” Lumpy pointed.

Manny stopped beside a yellow evidence barrier tape stretched between two wooden fence posts. He started to get out and turned to Reuben. “You gonna get out and stretch your legs?”

Reuben sat back in the seat. “Just make it harder for me to get back in. I'll get out when it's necessary.”

Manny shrugged and followed Lumpy to where faint orange spray paint revealed where Willie had lain, the outline nearly obliterated by the fine dust that blew into everything on the rez.
Like Willie's life that's fading away and nothing I can do about it.

To one side of the tape flies had gathered around black blotches and had already laid their eggs in the blood. Willie's blood, and Manny turned away. P. P. Pourier, evidence tech extraordinaire, had worked the crime scene as a homicide.
Would it end up being a homicide? Manny found himself praying to Wakan Tanka and to God. It didn't hurt to cover all the bases.

“We're not sure how long he lay there leaking blood.” Lumpy seemed to read Manny's thoughts. “From the time of his last transmission until Officer Lone Tree found him, it was an hour. He said Willie's pulse was so weak he wasn't sure he had one.”

“Witnesses?”

Lumpy shook his head. “At least none that would come forward.” Lumpy nodded to Wilson Eagle Bull's bunkhouse a half mile to the south. The single-story ranch-hand quarters sat between the main house and a two-story barn. “We're just lucky that Willie wasn't shot at one of the other ranches Wilson owns.”

“What do you think happened?”

“You asking a lowly tribal cop what happened, Hotshot?”

Despite their rivalry that went back to childhood days and later their tribal police days, Manny knew Lumpy had an analytical mind street cops envied.

“Willie was shot at close range. Powder stippling at the front and back of his uniform indicated two hits.”

“I thought you said there were three cases found?”

Lumpy walked to where Willie had lain and shooed the flies away as he took out his bandanna and held it over his mouth. “There were. Two there”—he pointed—“and the third six feet away. Way I figure it, the first shot came when the shooter was six or seven feet to Willie's back.”

“And he walked up to finish the job.”

Lumpy nodded. “Way I figure it.”

Manny bent and ran his hand over impressions, deep impressions that had survived the assault by the wind, Willie's impressions. “I'd say he put up a fight.”

“He had a clump of black hair balled in his fist as the paramedics prepped him for the life flight,” Lumpy said. “Like he knew we'd need it for DNA testing later if we found his shooter.”

“Black hair. Doesn't narrow it down very much here on the rez.”

“There were three shots.” Lumpy paced across the scene. “Way I see it, Willie was shot, but managed to wrestle with the shooter, and the second shot missed. Went God-knows-where. But the shooter got the upper hand finishing Willie off with one to the chest. Contact wound.”

Manny thought back to what Willie had said during their last conversation. “Willie told me he was sitting a quarter mile from Wilson, about twice this distance.”

Lumpy rubbed his forehead and bent to the tracks. “Pee Pee said he cast two sets of tire tracks by where Willie was found. Might be that Willie found Degas, and was trying to get him to pull over. That'd account for two sets.”

Manny nodded. Willie might have tried pulling Degas over and was shot when he stopped. Unless Willie chased someone besides Degas. “Good analysis.”

“You just give me a compliment?”

Before Manny was forced to admit it, a black dually pickup kicking dust barreled toward them. “We got company.”

The truck skidded to a stop, and the wind took the dust over them in a faint fog. Manny turned away and Lumpy held his hand tight around his mouth until the dust settled. The driver folded himself out of the one-ton and it rose several inches. The man that stepped toward them was big enough to be Jamie Hawk's twin. He put on a black Stetson that made him appear even bigger, and he stopped in front of Lumpy and Manny, looking down at them, his face contorted into a snarl. Manny nudged his side, realizing the holster was there but he'd forgotten the gun at Clara's.

“You're on Eagle Bull land,” the big man spit.

Manny fumbled into his pocket for his ID wallet and flipped it open, holding it for the man to read.

“That supposed to mean something?”

Manny took a step closer, craning his neck up. “We're here on an investigation. An officer was shot here yesterday.”

The man's fists balled up and his gaze settled on Manny's chin. “I'm telling you to scat.”

“And who are you?”

“Just call me Harvey. I'm Mr. Eagle Bull's foreman. Now, maybe you didn't hear me right—get the hell off this ranch!”

“He heard, but I didn't quite catch that.” Reuben had stepped soundlessly from the car and moved Manny aside. He stepped toward Harvey, winking at Manny in passing. “Guess it was necessary for me to get out after all.” As big as Reuben was, he had to stretch his neck up to talk to Wilson's foreman. “Maybe we want to be here. Maybe we'll drive up that road.” He chin-pointed to the road leading to the ranch house and bunkhouse. Reuben's right foot dropped back slightly, a move Harvey picked up on.