Hunter Moon (13 page)

Clay sat back as understanding came and, with it, all the implications.

“Your dad was a dropout and a troublemaker, but he was still my big brother. It wasn’t the first time he hauled me out of a jam. Like Clyne does in your family. I wasn’t perfect, despite appearances. My brother, your father, told me to shut up when the police came. I did that, too. Your dad was arrested for DWI, and I joined the US Marines and shipped out. You know the rest. Except, if he didn’t have that prior, then two years later, when he was on his honeymoon with your mom, his DWI would have been a first offense. He wouldn’t have gone to prison. He wouldn’t have met the gang members and begun driving for the cartel. You see? All that might not have happened. And yet, he never said a word about it after. Never told a soul. When I tried to thank him, he told me I could thank him by taking care of his sons. So I’ve tried. I didn’t just plead your case because it was the right thing. I did it because I know that a nineteen-year-old makes stupid mistakes and that teenagers shouldn’t be treated like adults. You deserved a second chance, Clay. And you’ve earned it many times over. I only wish...” He let go of his own neck and clutched his coffee mug. “I wish your dad had been given a second chance, too.”

Luke sipped his coffee. Clay sat in silence as he realized that the uncle he’d always idolized was human. Flawed. Did that mean they all were? Mistakes. Punishment. Redemption.

When was it enough? He glanced at Clyne, standing in the hall, speaking on the phone. What mistakes had he made in Iraq or on the road with the rodeo circuit? Was the difference between him and his perfect older brother only the difference of getting caught?

“Thank you, Uncle,” Clay said formally. “For telling me this.”

Luke gave his nephew’s cheek a pat, as if Clay were still just a boy.

“So who do you think is setting Nosie up?” said Luke.

Clay brought his attention back to Izzie’s problems. “Arnold Tessay, one of the tribal council members, pushed for the vote that revoked Izzie’s grazing permits. Victor Bustros is Tessay’s man, and he is the one who first noticed the rebranding. Eli Beach is a part-time ranch hand who stole Izzie’s brand. My boss oversees impounding cattle and sits on the general livestock council with Boone Pizarro. Pizarro also ordered the renourishment. I think her neighbor only wanted her permits, but who knows?”

Clay wondered if he was not also under suspicion.

“That all?”

“All I know.”

“Long list,” said his uncle. “You in touch with your old friend Rubin Fox?”

“I went to see him when I suspected meth cooks.”

“What did he say?”

“To stay the hell away from him and also to stay away from Izzie.”

“What do you think he meant by that?”

“At the time, I thought he was implying that she was involved, but now I think he might have meant that she was in the middle of some big trouble.”

“So he cares enough about you or about Izzie to give you a warning. Surprising.”

“Yeah. He’s involved with the drug trade. Just like his dad. He’s hooked into...”

“Distribution. Yeah. We know him. His dad was a minor player with a small box truck. Ran drugs from the border with Frasco Dosela. Worked with your dad, too, actually.”

Clay had not known that. But he knew Frasco because he was the father of the woman Gabe planned to marry. Now Frasco was in federal prison and Gabe was still single.

“Someone else is moving product now. Not sure who. Rubin is protected by his Native status and by the fact that he never leaves the Rez. I’m sure Rubin has got prospects and probably information. Will he talk to you?”

“I doubt it.”

“Well, try, anyway. See if he’ll meet you somewhere, somewhere public. I’ll speak with my friend Donner. I already put Cassidy on Tessay.”

“Cassidy?”

“My partner.”

“Your partner’s name is Cassidy, like Butch Cassidy?”

“That’s her first name. Last name is Walker.”

“Cassidy Walker? Sounds like the name of a Texas Ranger.”

Luke gave a chuckle. “Yeah, well, I told you that she’s here trout fishing? Guess who I got for her guide?”

Clay shrugged, giving up without a try.

Luke smiled. “Tessay’s son, Matt. And she’s very persuasive, charming when she’s not being a bad-ass.”

Gabe arrived, in uniform and in a rush, as usual. He motioned to Luke, and the two stepped out into the backyard and closed the door behind them.

His grandmother came in, and Clay helped her set the table, then kept her company as she removed the roast from the oven to cool down. Clyne returned from his phone call and glanced out the back window at Luke and Gabe but gave them their privacy. When the food was ready, his grandmother broke up the meeting, calling Gabe and Luke to the table. It was nice to share a meal with his family. His uncle took Kino’s usual place, and the table was filled again. After supper, Clay bid the group farewell and kissed his grandmother good-night. Then he returned to the dark, empty house.

He thought of Izzie, wished he could call her and take her out. But though she had shared his bed, she was not willing to share a cup of coffee with him, at least not in public.

Clay understood. Funny that he’d never appreciated how important a man’s reputation was until it was lost.

On Saturday morning, Clay called Rubin and got his voice mail. He left a message and then continued packing for his move back into his grandmother’s home. When he stripped the bed, he lifted his sheets to his nose. Izzie’s scent hung faintly to the linens. By the time he had the laundry packed, his phone rang. He fumbled in his pocket for it, hoping it was Izzie. He stared at the caller’s name.

Rubin Fox.

He answered.

“Rubin?”

“You call?”

“I need to talk to you.”

There was a momentary pause. “Come on, then.”

“Where?”

“You know where.”

Clay’s heart sank. He had let Rubin set the location, and his uncle had told him to meet his former friend only in a public place.

“Well? You coming?”

“Yes,” said Clay.

“See you in twenty, coz.”

The phone went dead. Only now did he think to wonder why Rubin had agreed to meet.

The Wolf Den. The hangout of the Wolf Posse and the last place in the Rez Clay should go. He grabbed his keys.

Chapter Twenty

Clay headed to Rubin’s place of business, a house on the eastern side of the Rez community called Fort Pinyon, after the stronghold of the same name. Past the museum and the fort lay an area closed to all but Apache tribal members. Inside that area was an unofficial community that folks called Wolf Canyon, but the only wolves there were members of the Apache gang, the Wolf Posse. They operated here, far from the tribal headquarters and close to the most sacred ground outside of Black Mountain itself.

Most of the tribe avoided Wolf Canyon except when looking for trouble or a score. There was always plenty of traffic. The homes were boxy, colorless and old like everywhere on the Rez. He glanced at the peeling paint on stucco walls, dry rotting wood, sagging gutters and windows repaired with packing tape. Everything looked like a postcard sent to those philanthropists back East asking for money for the Indian College fund.

He pulled up before the wolf den, a washed-out beige stucco ranch, notable because of its position at the end of the road and because the windows were secured with metal bars. For a moment Clay thought of the irony of Rubin leaving prison and then creating one here. He noticed Rubin’s black pickup. His vehicle was dusty but too new for a man who supposedly existed on government subsidies. Beside it was a beige four-door sedan with a tribal license plate. That made Clay frown. Who was the tribal official visiting the wolf den?

Clay left his truck, looking past the two vehicles to posse headquarters. The door, designed to keep unwanted visitors out, stood wide-open. The small hairs lifted on Clay’s neck, and he reached for his phone to call Gabe. Then he remembered what his brother would say, what he always said.
You’re not an investigator. Wait for the police.

But Rubin wouldn’t leave that door open. Never. That meant Rubin was in trouble. Clay shouldn’t care but found he still did. Once Rubin had been a friend. Clay had thought that their friendship had died long ago of neglect. Did he owe Rubin anything? He didn’t know, but he did know he wasn’t waiting for the police.

Clay stepped out of his truck and onto the tufted mounds of yellow grass that no one bothered to mow. The silence was chilling. Where was his posse, the gang of men whom Rubin always said had his back?

Clay wished he carried a gun and then remembered Gabe saying the best way to get shot was to carry a gun. He thought walking into the wolf den unannounced and unescorted was also an excellent way to get shot.

Clay brought up Gabe’s number on his phone and let his thumb hover near the green call button. Then he entered the house. The light was muted because of the brown packing paper someone had secured with gray duct tape over every window. What happened in this house was private, from the sale of drugs to the plans to move shipments around the reservation. As far as Clay knew, Rubin had never moved up to trafficking off the reservation, and his uncle said the same. Had Rubin learned his lesson from his father’s mistakes? Staying on the reservation reduced his chances of facing federal prosecution. After all, he was Apache and so not subject to the laws of the US government, as long as he stayed here, with his people, and as long as his people didn’t turn him over to the Feds—again.

Clay called a hello and was met with silence. There was a rifle propped against the wall between the entrance and living room.

Clay hugged the wall, the dread making his stomach drop. He glanced at the firearm but left it where it was.

“Rubin?” Clay said and was met with no reply. “It’s Clay.”

He peered through the entrance toward the living room. His gaze swept the room before snapping to the body that lay between the living room and the adjoining room beyond. Two legs poking out and arms spread wide as if the man was falling backward into cool water. The legs were clad in jeans and the two feet sheathed in the expensive unlaced sneakers Rubin favored.

Clay stepped through the door, already smelling the blood. Rubin laid face up, eyes open, mouth open and hat still on his head. But his head seemed to have settled too far onto the floor. And behind him on the carpet was a large crimson stain that Clay knew must be blood. Lots of blood. Clay stared as his skin rose into gooseflesh. He didn’t remember backing out of the room but found himself standing in the room’s entrance, one foot in the hallway as if the sensible part of him was preparing to run.

Apaches did not associate with the dead. It was the worst kind of bad luck. Rubin’s ghost might follow him. But Clay was also a Christian, and a Christian did not leave a friend’s body unattended. Still, Clay wished he could be like his ancestors and burn the entire place to the ground before striking camp and moving away forever.

He caught movement from the dining room, and then the sound of a pistol shot pinged. Clay ducked back into the hallway, crouching behind the wall, knowing from the bullet hole that now pierced the Sheetrock above him that the wall offered no protection.

He pushed the call button on his phone. Dropped the phone in his breast pocket and then reached for the rifle.

“Don’t shoot. It’s Clay Cosen.”

“Clay?”

He knew the voice but could not place it.

“Who’s that?” he asked.

“Arnold Tessay. Don’t shoot.”

Arnold Tessay? What was the councilman doing here? Was that his vehicle? Clay tried to recall if Tessay was related to Rubin. Apache family trees were complicated. It wasn’t hard to trace everyone back to a mutual relation. Then Clay’s brain reengaged. Tessay had fought hard against Izzie’s permits. He’d insisted on the quarantine of her herd. And he was cousin to Rubin’s father.

“Did you shoot Rubin?” asked Clay.

“I’m putting down my gun. Come out.”

Clay thought he wouldn’t do that just yet. He hoped Gabe had picked up but couldn’t check without releasing one hand from the rifle.

“I called Gabe. He’s on his way.” He said that loud enough for his brother to hear, if he’d picked up. “Why are you here, Mr. Tessay?”

“If you’re staying, I’m going.”

There was a thump, like something heavy hitting the bare floor. A moment later Clay heard the back door open and close. He took a look into the room, where Rubin’s body remained. But now there was a pistol just beyond his outstretched right hand as if he’d died with it in his grip. Clay turned and saw the bullet hole in the wall and a new kind of terror welled.

Through the open front door, Clay saw movement in the yard. He rushed to the entrance. Arnold stood beside the sedan.

Clay stared in confusion. “You can’t leave the scene of a crime.”

“Hell, boy. I can do anything I want. I’m a tribal councilman. And you’re a convicted criminal who just killed a man.”

“I didn’t kill Rubin.”

“Well, that rifle in your hand says different. It’s the murder weapon, and it’s got your prints all over it. The pistol shot came from Rubin’s gun. Unfortunately, he missed. Won’t matter. You didn’t.” Tessay removed the work gloves he wore. “Have fun in prison.”

Clay stared in horror at the rifle as Tessay laughed.

The councillor slid behind the wheel. “Two drug dealers. They’ll believe the worst and think they’re better off with you both gone. Be hard on your grandma, of course. But she’s got three good boys. That’s something.”

Clay couldn’t even speak. His numb fingers extended, and the rifle clattered to the ground.

Tessay pointed at the rifle at Clay’s feet. “See now, I thought you would have shot me. That’s why I took out the bullets.”

“You made Rubin call me. Lie to me. Get me over here.”

“Well, he works for me. Worked. And it’s no lie. Izzie is in trouble. Big trouble. Cartel is on the way to her place now. We tried to get her off that land. Lord knows, I tried. If it hadn’t been for that stupid, greedy Floyd Patch, she never would have been up there in that pasture counting her herd, nosing around. I got to go.” He started the engine.

“Why? Why take Izzie’s land?”

“It’s the perfect spot for a mobile meth lab. I’ll have it under renourishment for three years or so. That gives the cartel boys time to cook product without worrying about the Feds. As tribal council member, I’m alerted to any joint initiative with the federal authorities. Gives me time to warn them and them time to move. Scourge of our community—drugs. But very lucrative.”

Clay now understood why Gabe could never find the meth labs they knew were operating on the Rez.

“You betrayed your people.”

Arnold snorted. “Like hell. The cartel don’t sell here. They sell to the whites. I’m just doing my part to help them destroy themselves. Think of it as a modern version of the Ghost Dance, a way to make them all disappear.” He closed the door and placed an elbow on the lip of the open window.

Clay took a step in his direction and met with the snub-nosed barrel of a pistol.

“I’ll tell them what happened here.”

Arnold laughed. “Great. You do that.”

“They won’t believe you,” said Clay, his stomach twisting tighter then the cinch around a bronco’s belly. They
would
believe him. Every word.

Tessay grinned like a man holding a winning hand. “Wait for your brother and find out who he believes. You or the evidence. Or you can run after your girlfriend. You might get there in time to get shot, too. If I were you, I’d be heading to Mexico. Give me a call from there. I’ll hook you up as a driver, like I did for your dad.”

That information staggered Clay a step. He regained his balance as Tessay backed out and drove away. Before the dust had settled, Clay heard Gabe’s voice, far away and tiny. He drew out his phone.

“Did you hear that?” Clay asked.

“Some. Just you, really. Stay there.”

Clay was already running to his truck. “You’ve got to get to Izzie. She’s in trouble.”

“Stay there. I’m sending units to her now.”

“I’ll meet them.” He was closer to Izzie’s place than police headquarters. Closer than home where Gabe had been. He’d get there first. He had to.

* * *

C
LAY
MADE
IT
to Izzie’s place in record time. He found the house empty, and so he headed to the barn to find Max Reyes sitting on a roll of hay, his head in his hands as if he were crying. Max was a hand for hire, but since Eli had been providing her branding irons to Patch, she was shorthanded.

“Where is she?” asked Clay.

Max Reyes startled and shot to his feet, reaching for the closest weapon, which turned out to be a flat shovel used to clean stalls. His hands trembled, and his eyes were wide.

“I couldn’t stop them. They would have killed me, too.”

The idea that Izzie was already gone washed over him like cold rain. Clay stepped forward, and Max swung the shovel. Clay caught it and wrenched it from his hands. An instant later he had Max off his feet and pressed to the wall of Biscuit’s stall. Clay’s gaze flashed from Max to the place where her horse should have been.

“Where is she?”

“They called me. Told me to tell her that her cattle was wandering on the road again up by the drug cook site. An accident, they said. It would look like an accident.”

“How long ago?”

“I don’t know.”

Clay banged him up against the stall, and his hat fell off.

“Fifteen minutes, maybe.”

“Why didn’t she take you?”

“I told her I’d follow in the truck.”

Clay dropped Max, who sprawled on the dirty ground. Clay glanced around. He needed a horse. A fast horse. He made his choice and was lifting the saddle when Max came at him. He should have stayed down. Clay dodged the punch and countered with one of his own, hitting him square in the forehead. Max’s eyes rolled up, and he fell so hard that Clay felt the impact of his head hitting the dirt-packed floor through the soles of his boots.

He took one more moment to look at Max, who was breathing but unconscious.

“I ought to kill you,” muttered Clay. Instead, he tied Max like a roped calf, with all four appendages locked behind him. He had to get to Izzie.

Clay lifted his phone to warn her and saw he had no service. Izzie had no service, either. Not until she got up to that improved road and he hoped like crazy that she wasn’t there yet. The urgency pressed him on.

Clay gathered from her barn what he could in a hurry. Rope, saddle, blanket, machete that Izzie used for cutting bailing twine. He always carried a lighter, knife and phone. And from his truck he grabbed his saddlebags that held his fishing kit, hooks, line, sinkers and some hunting gear. As he mounted up he wondered if having a gun would just get him killed quicker or keep Izzie alive. For the first time since returning from the elite Native American tracking unit of Immigration and Customs, known as the Shadow Wolves, he wished he carried a rifle in his car like every other Apache he knew. But everyone he knew wasn’t a convicted criminal. Everyone he knew didn’t understand the difference between a conviction with a deadly weapon and a conviction with none. The difference between him and Rubin Fox.

He had no idea how many they’d sent to kill Izzie or how they intended to make it look like an accident. But the images of her in different deadly encounters swam before him as he pressed his heels to the powerful mustang she called Red Rocket and hoped the gelding lived up to his name.

He rode to the upper pasture, hugging the fence line. Praying he wasn’t too late.