Death Where the Bad Rocks Live (39 page)

“Buying clothes.”

Manny backed away and nodded to Willie’s shirt. It was the first clean uniform shirt he’d worn in months, and his T-shirt still had the crinkling going on when Willie fidgeted in his seat. Willie had shaved this morning, and the pungent odor of Old Spice was strong.

Lumpy burst into the room and slammed the door. He dropped a teletype on the table and scowled at Manny. “I
don’t like the idea of putting a BOLO out on a federal judge.”

“I told him it was a bad idea.” Janet scooted her chair closer to her uncle Leon.

“We had no choice,” Willie blurted out before Manny could defend his decision. “When I found Manny in Marshal’s cabin…”

“That’s right,” Lumpy chuckled. “The brave FBI agent cowering, waiting for the bad guys to return.”

“When I found Manny,” Willie continued, “I checked the judge’s Suburban. There were boxes of MREs. Tanka Bars. Things a person takes when they’re going into the Badlands for some length of time. All they left behind were the wrappers. I’m guessing they stocked up before disappearing.”

Janet shook her head. “Just how long do you think they can last in the Badlands with just those snacks?”

Lumpy dropped into Elvis and looked sideways at her. “They could last quite a while. Marshal’s lived there all his life, hunted and guided throughout that Stronghold region.”

“And by what Sophie says,” Manny added, “the judge goes down there often to pray. And he went there often when he was in college. They’re both familiar with the Stronghold. And both in good enough shape to last.”

“Maybe they just left their trucks there to throw us off. Got another ride from someone, like Sonja Myers.”

Willie grinned at Janet. “Got it all figured out, don’t you. Guess you forgot all about Benny Black Fox seeing two men hoofin’ it west of Marshal’s cabin yesterday.”

“Thank the stars for burnt-out antenna bulbs,” Manny said.

“Or shot-out ones,” Lumpy added. “We’re back to not knowing where the judge is exactly.”

“Not entirely. I asked one of the field agents to reinterview Sonja Myers at the
Journal
offices yesterday.”

At the mention of Sonja’s name, Lumpy winced. Lumpy had developed a relationship with the reporter two months ago. At least in Lumpy’s mind he was getting close to Sonja. But not in her mind, and she’d broke Lumpy’s heart. “And what pearls of information did your agent unearth?”

“Sonja’s angry that the judge took off without telling her when he’d return. Especially with her baby.”

“Baby?”

“Her new BMW. She’s pissed.” Manny recalled how red Sonja had become when she realized Ham took her new car for a cross-country ride and left her stranded at Sophie’s shack. “She has plans for that man. Long lasting plans.”

“Her anger doesn’t interest me. Does she know where he is?” Lumpy grabbed the teletype. “So we can cancel this BOLO.”

Manny shook his head. He stood and passed the coffeepot around the table. Janet waved him away as she dunked her tea bag in her Sioux Nation coffee cup. “All Sonja knows is she’s pissed. The judge paid Joey Antelope fifty bucks to drive her BMW back from the Cuny Café today and drop it off.”

“Did he wreck it or something?”

“Joey didn’t,” Manny laughed. “But giving Sophie a ride did it no good. The old lady called Sonja. Said she needed a lift to pick up the judge’s Suburban at Marshal’s cabin ’cause her car’s still at the repair shop in Gordon. Like I said, Sonja will do most anything to get in tight with the judge.”

Lumpy broke open a cream puff and had half of it eaten before filling dripped down his hand.
Guess Lumpy doesn’t have Clara to contend with if he gains an ounce.
“Just tell me what’s up with Judge High Elk’s mother.”

Manny waited until he was sure Lumpy would bust a gut from waiting for an explanation before continuing. “Sonja drove all the way from Rapid City to pick up Sophie at her house and drove to the Pronto Auto Parts for a new battery.
Sophie conned Sonja into driving her nice, shiny, previously unblemished BMW to Marshal’s cabin with Sophie and the battery to stick the new battery in and pick up the Suburban. Her Beamer’s at the dealer in Rapid getting the undercarriage looked at. Guess it wasn’t designed for the Badlands. She screwed the struts up hitting all those ruts and rocks.”

Lumpy smiled as if he’d just solved Rubik’s Cube. “Then Sophie knows the judge will be gone for some time and won’t need his outfit.” He turned to Willie. “Get hold of Robert Hollow Thunder and tell him to find the judge’s outfit and follow it. But for heaven’s sake, don’t get burned. Sophie’s driving it and we don’t want to lose her. My guess is she knows where the judge is going and plans to pick him up where we won’t be expecting it.”

“You’re saying Sophie’s helping the judge hide out?” Manny asked.

“What would you call it?” He turned to Willie. “Call Robert. He’s driving the Medicine Root today and not doing much of anything except looking ugly.”

Willie checked his watch. “I got an appointment.”

“With who?” Lumpy demanded.

“Just an appointment. Maybe Janet can look up Robert and give him the assignment.”

Lumpy shook his head. “All right, then get on it. We need to find that Suburban.”

Willie left the room with Janet on his heels. Lumpy looked after her. “She can’t get it through her head that she’s bound for greater things than being with a tribal cop.”

“You’re a tribal cop.”

Lumpy’s face reddened. “That’s different. I got rank.”

“You’re rank, all right.”

“Point is, with her looks and education, Janet could land anyone she wanted. She should be hanging around the ER where those visiting doctors work. What she’ll end up with is
like the difference between Pee Pee’s original Elvis vest and this imitation.”

“Then you knew Pee Pee’s was original?”

Lumpy watched the open door. “Don’t breathe a word to Precious. How do you think the bid got up so high on that vest of his? But enough of Pee Pee. We got to solve these murders pronto.”

“We’re going as fast as our resources…”

“Look, I got the tribal chairman and the fifth member of the tribal commission climbing my sphincter.” Lumpy refilled both coffee cups, leaving the dregs for Manny. “They’re equating these deaths with what happened in the seventies. They don’t want a bunch of bodies littering the countryside.”

“I hardly think three cold cases and Micah’s and Joe Dozi’s deaths make it like the seventies were here.” Manny and Lumpy had lived through the turbulent times when the American Indian Movement and the forces of Dick Wilson were at each other’s throats. And bodies did litter the streets and back roads back then. “I’ll need more help if you want quick.”

“What more?”

Manny walked to the copy of the Moses Ten Bears painting hanging on the wall, tracing the ribs of the cows with his finger, ribs showing through too-white bodies. “I need Willie for a couple days. All your tribal cops can drive around the reservation for days and never spot them. We need to go after them on foot.”

“Into the Stronghold?”

Manny nodded. He’d plotted out the way he thought Ham and Marshal would have gone, recalling the way Reuben suggested. But he had no desire to go it alone. “I need Willie.”

Lumpy stood and smoothed Elvis. The chair forgave him. “I assign Willie to help you when I can.”

“Like yesterday? I needed someone a bit more sophisticated than Janet to watch Sophie’s house.”

“He was tied up.”

“What was so important that you couldn’t spare him?”

“Tribal business.”

“Well, I’ll need him for this.”

Lumpy shook his head. “You know how big and remote that part of the Badlands is. You’ll be shooting arrows in the dark.”

“Maybe just a few flaming arrows to light the way.”

“How’s that?”

“I figure they’ve gone to where the bad rocks live.”

Lumpy threw up his hands and leaned back in his chair so far Elvis protested with creaks and threatened to break his back. “That old legend? You have no idea where that is.”

“Sure I do.” Manny turned and faced Lumpy. “I got Micah Crowder’s maps from his apartment, and one I found in Marshal’s cabin when I talked with him. I’ll find it.”

“Hate to toss water on those flaming arrows, but Willie tells me no one can decipher those maps. How do you figure you’ll be able to?”

“I guess I’ll just have to get religion.”

Manny paused at the long driveway leading to the single-wide trailer, the windows sporting enough duct tape to weigh down a grown buffalo. A thin tendril of smoke rose from somewhere behind Reuben’s trailer, and Manny closed his eyes, envisioning his brother just emerging from the
initipi
. Or about ready to enter the sweat lodge.

Manny drove the rest of the way down the drive and parked by the front door. He didn’t bother to knock, knowing Reuben never used that entrance, which was fortified with railroad ties on the other side. Leftover attitude from Reuben’s AIM days.

The odor of burning cedar and sacred sage met him before Manny even cleared the corner of the trailer out back. He walked to the bank overlooking the tiny creek that ran in back of Reuben’s property, and where Reuben had erected his permanent sweat lodge just down the bank along the creek.

“
Kola
!” Reuben shouted, stumbling out of the
initipi
, towel draped over his gray hair and around his glistening
neck, his smile consuming his face. He started up the bank, and Manny held out his hand to help him up. Reuben hauled him up and they collapsed on the bank. Reuben embraced Manny and rocked him gently, like the gentle breeze whisking the sweat away. “You need to come around more often,
misun
. Sit and we’ll jaw a little.”

Manny knew it was pointless to ask Reuben anything until the formalities were met. Although they were brothers, Reuben was fifteen years his senior and more attuned to traditional ways. As a traditionalist, Reuben had found the Good Red Road in prison, incarcerated for a crime he didn’t commit but which, oddly, hadn’t left him bitter as he should be. Perhaps it was receiving his own vision
Wakan Tanka
had for him, the vision of a sacred man helping the people. “Sit, little brother.”

Reuben took his rightful place in a dilapidated lawn chair missing half the slats so that his butt poked through the bottom. They chatted about upcoming tribal elections and which of the eight districts were up for grabs. They talked about how the trial of Richard Marshal and John Graham for the murder of Anna Mae Aquash in the seventies had been remanded back to state courts. Finally, Manny broached the subject of Reuben’s wife, incarcerated in Yankton State Hospital.

Reuben’s mouth downturned and he looked out across the prairie as if she’d materialize there. “The shrinks tell me she’ll never see the light of day.”

“But you got to admit she’s better off there than in prison.”

Reuben nodded. “Doesn’t make it any easier.”

Reuben reached into an ice-filled cooler and grabbed a Diet Coke and tossed it to Manny. “I got the feeling you didn’t come out here for a brother-to-brother visit.”

Manny flushed. Since being assigned to the Rapid City Field Office, he’d promised himself that he would spend more time with Reuben, develop that relationship he’d always wanted
growing up in the shadow of his big brother, a relationship he thought would last until they both went south along the Spirit Road. He had failed himself in that promise. “I got to find a man.”

“Or men?”

“How’d you know?”

Reuben smiled. His teeth were as straight and white as Sophie’s. Except Reuben’s weren’t store bought. “Moccasin telegraph tells me that you’re looking for that federal judge and Marshal Ten Bears.”

Manny nodded and took out the maps he’d found in Micah Crowder’s apartment, and the Park Service map. He unfolded them and placed rocks on each corner to defeat the wind. “As I recall, you know the Stronghold better than most.”

Reuben frowned but said nothing as he grabbed reading glasses from beside a tree stump where it held down this week’s edition of the
Lakota Country Times
. He caught Manny looking at the glasses perched on the end of his nose. “They were given to me.”

“Suit yourself,” Manny said as Reuben adjusted the tortoiseshell glasses in the shape of a butterfly. “But they look like something Crazy George He Crow would wear.”

“I got to go a long ways to be a cross-dresser like Crazy George.” Reuben bent to the map and ran his hand over the paper. “Where’d they start out?”

“Marshal’s cabin.”

“Here,” Reuben tapped the map. “I go to that part of the Stronghold four times a year to pray and cleanse. A sacred man’s got to do that often. Wouldn’t hurt you none, either.”

“It wouldn’t, but that doesn’t help me now. They lit out from the cabin, and I got the feeling they’re holed up somewhere. I just have no idea which of all those trails they might have taken. Could be any one of a hundred.”

Reuben remained silent, murmuring to himself as if seeking
guidance. “Here. They took this trail.” Reuben traced the trail winding along the floor of the Badlands with his finger.