She Who Watches (22 page)

“Like the casino,” Mac said.

“About that.” Dana shifted positions. “How does another gambling casino in the state really help the tribe? Gambling is addictive. I wish the Native Americans had never gotten into that business.”

Nate slowed the vehicle, turning off the pavement to a long gravel road. “Good question, Dana. The Confederated Tribes of Warm Springs holds a few records we're not particularly proud of, but we are trying to turn things around. Children on our reservation die at more than three times the statewide average and nearly twice that of other tribes in our nation. About sixty percent of those deaths are from accidents, alcohol and drug abuse, or domestic violence. Our unemployment rate is up around fifty percent.”

“How many people live on the reservation who are actually members of the tribe?” Leaning closer, Dana rested her arms on the seat in front of her.

“We have nearly four thousand members on the rez, made up mostly of Warm Springs, Paiute, and Wasco tribes. Together, they comprise the Confederated Tribes, which are governed by an elected tribal council.”

“So the casino they want to build in the gorge would help to combat some of the poverty and substance abuse?”

“Exactly. Our casino and resort here at Kah-Nee-Ta is a bit removed from the Portland market, but the placement of a facility in the gorge, with its proximity to the metro area, would attract many more customers.Our biggest competitors now are the larger casinos like Chinook Winds and Spirit Mountain, plus the video poker and lottery games in the local bars. If people can gamble right in their own neighborhoods, they are not as likely to travel two to three hours to central Oregon. We hope by opening the new market in the gorge, we can attract both Oregon and Washington customers to the casino. The extra revenue would go a long way for education and social treatment programs here at Warm Springs.”

“I understand,” Mac said. “But I'm not sure gambling is the right way to get the revenue you need.”

“A lot of people would agree with you.”

Mac looked out the window at the bleak landscape. The sage- brush and jack pines littered the landscape. A double-wide mobile home appeared on the horizon at the end of the washboard gravel road they were traveling on. “Say, did you get anything on Sara's grandmother?”

“I did, but we'll have to talk about that later.”

Dana nodded at the buildings just ahead. “Is that Therman's place?”

“Yep,” Nate affirmed. “He has about a hundred and sixty acres—not a bad spread. He has water rights to about two-thirds of the place. His wife, Emma, is a faith healer. She offers a voice for mother earth, guiding those who have strayed from the Creator.”

“Come again?” Mac asked as they approached the front entrance of the residence. Not much of a yard, Mac noticed. There was, however, a rectangular plot that looked like a garden and shrubbery near the house with flowers coloring the otherwise bleak yard.

“We'd better save that conversation for when we have more time and less trouble.” Nate gestured toward the house as he slipped out of his seat belt.

“Uh-oh.” Dana drew in a sharp breath.

Therman Post stood on his porch, solemn faced and armed with a lever action rifle.

TWENTY-TWO

M
ac eased open the door, slipping his .40 caliber out and holding the weapon at his right side. Dana pulled out her weapon as well, taking cover in the backseat.

Therman nodded toward them and then ducked around to the back of his house, his rifle at the ready. “What's he doing?” Dana asked.

“I have no idea,” Nate said.

“Brandishing a rifle around the police isn't the smartest thing to do.” Mac wasn't sure what to make of the older man's odd behavior.

“Hold on, Mac.” Nate held up a hand. “Wait here while I see what's going on.” Nate jogged to the corner of the house and then disappeared around the back. Less than a minute later, Mac heard a shot. “Please tell me this isn't happening.”

“I wish I could,” Dana said.

He crouched down behind the open door of the pickup, leaving room for Dana to squeeze out from behind the front seat. Mac leaned over, releasing the shotgun from the mount. He holstered his handgun and racked a round into the chamber of the twelve-gauge. After waiting for what seemed an eternity, he yelled Nate's name. No response. Mac looked down at the open sights of the shotgun, running his thumb on the safety.

“Nate!” Mac yelled, then listened again. He heard nothing other than the wind rustling the nearby trees.

“He's not answering.” Dana peered over the bed of Nate's truck.

“We have no authority here,” Mac said, “but I have to do something.”

“I agree. He could be bleeding to death out there. Or worse.”

Mac looked over at the radio dial; the digital screen was blank. Even though the shotgun release was hard-wired, the radio was not and could not be turned on without the ignition key. He glanced over at the ignition. The keys were gone; Nate must have taken them with him. “We need to move in, Dana. You go to one side of the house, and I'll take the other.” Mac thought about the last time he'd been in a situation like this. Dana had taken a bullet, and Mac ended up using deadly force. “On second thought, maybe you should stay here. We may be walking into an ambush.”

“No way, Mac.” The look in her eyes told him she was remembering the same incident.

“All right.” He took a deep breath. “We move in. Go to the right, but be careful.”

“You, too, partner.” Dana headed toward the right side of the house, while Mac went left—in the direction Nate had taken. Since Therman hadn't come back, Mac figured the guy had either run or was waiting for them.

Please, God, not Nate.
Mac whispered up a short prayer as he crept along the side of the house. He raised the shotgun barrel eye level and looked around the corner.

Therman Post was walking toward the house, rifle still in hand. He apparently hadn't seen Mac and was less than forty feet away— well in range of Mac's shotgun. Mac pressed the safety button again, assuring himself that it was ready to fire. “State Police,” he yelled out. “I'm armed. Don't make me shoot you; drop the rifle!”

Therman stopped in his tracks and looked over to his right, showing no indication that he intended to drop the rifle. It looked like he was seeking an escape route. There was no route of escape that Mac didn't have covered with his buckshot, but Dana would be directly in the guy's sight. Mac held his breath. “Down on the ground. Drop the rifle.”

Therman dropped to one knee. “D-don't shoot.”

“Drop the gun!” Mac yelled one last time, closing one eye to secure his target and moving his index finger inside the trigger guard.

“Mac, no!”Nate rounded the corner on the other side with Dana close behind. “Don't shoot, Mac. Everything is OK.” He was carrying what looked like a dead animal.

Mac slowly lowered the gun and put the weapon's safety on. “I heard a shot,” Mac yelled to Nate.

“That was Therman. He was just shooting at a badger.” Nate held up the animal with the dark fur and pointy nose. “They dig holes that'll break a horse's leg. Therman saw him just as we pulled up and, well, first things first.”

“A badger.” Mac blew out a long breath. “Man, I thought you were a goner.”

“I'm sorry, Mac. It's just that when I saw what he was doing, I walked out with him to pick it up. It has a good hide, and I'm going to tan it for him. I'm so sorry.”

Mac ran a hand through his hair and down the back of his neck.

“I feel like an idiot.” Mac pointed the shotgun barrel at the ground and glanced at Therman, who was struggling to get back up. “I thought you were in trouble. I bet the old guy's going to be ticked off, having a guy point a gun at him on his own place.”

“You didn't know, Mac,” Dana came alongside him.

“Give me a second with him. Here, hold this.” Nate handed the badger to Mac, who reluctantly grabbed the tail. The badger looked bigger than it had at first. Mac held it away from himself as blood drained from its mouth and the open wound, spattering his shoes. He lowered the animal closer to the ground.

Dana grimaced. “That poor thing. It was only doing what badgers do. There should be some way to deal with them other than shooting them.”

“The badger is the least of our worries.” Mac eyed the two men. Nate was no doubt explaining what had transpired and why Mac had acted as he had. Therman threw back his head and laughed, and then the two of them headed back toward the house. He was probably in his late fifties, his face tanned and weathered. He had the build of a man who spent his days working the land. He held out a hand several strides before reaching Mac, holding the rifle with his left hand over his shoulder.

“That's the first time I've had a gun pointed at me since I was a young private in Vietnam,” Therman said.

“I'm so sorry. I thought you'd shot Nate.” Mac smiled as the two shook hands.

“No need to apologize; Nate already explained the matter. You had your partner's back, and I can appreciate that.” He looked over to Dana. “And this must be Detective Bennett.”

Dana nodded. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”

“Come on inside and have a cup of coffee. Just brewed a fresh pot.” Therman walked around toward the front of the house.

“You go on ahead, Therman. We'll be right with you.” Turning to Mac, Nate said, “I'll take that critter from you. Unless you're growing attached to it.”

Mac handed over the dead animal without hesitation. “I can't believe I'm standing in the middle of the desert, wearing a suit, and holding a shotgun and a dead badger. You never know where this job will take you.”

“Pretty glamorous, huh? Welcome to my world.” Nate strode to the truck and threw the carcass into the pickup bed. He set the shotgun back in the mount while Mac and Dana grabbed their briefcases and followed Nate inside.

Therman had four cups of hot coffee and a plate of cookies sitting on a rustic wooden table.

“I love Emma's oatmeal cookies.” Nate made a beeline for the table. “You're in for a treat.” He took one and passed the plate to Dana.

“Yum. They smell wonderful and they're still a little warm.”

“Emma just baked them. She had to go into town.” Therman chuckled. “Which is just as well. Glad she wasn't here for all the excitement.”

Mac wondered if Nate wasn't being a little too friendly with one of their suspects, but he took a cookie anyway. The adrenaline rush had left him starving. “Wow, these are good.”

Therman handed them each a napkin and sat down between Mac and Nate. Dana sat opposite him and took out a pad and paper, indicating that Mac should conduct the interview.

“So, what can I do for you?” the older man asked. “I assume you detectives didn't come up for the badger hunting.”

“You know why we're here, Therman,”Nate replied. “Detectives McAllister and Bennett are heading up Sara Watson's murder investigation in Portland. Your letters to the victim's uncle have caused a stir.”

“Am I a suspect then?” Therman leveled his gaze on Mac as he took a drink of coffee.

“Yes, you are, Mr. Post.” Mac met his dark gaze. The guy was a straight shooter. Good.

Therman's brown face lit in a wry smile, as if he enjoyed the attention. He helped himself to a cookie. “As long as we understand one another. Why don't you ask your questions?”

“I'm going to be direct with you,” Mac said. “We understand you wrote several letters to Senator Wilde regarding your position on the casino placement.”

“That I freely admit.” Therman nodded. “I also admit that I dislike your senator more than that badger I shot this morning.”

“Are you saying you want to harm Senator Wilde?” Mac set down his coffee.

“No.” He chuckled and leaned back in the chair. “My days of harming men are over—they were a long time ago. I just don't like the man. Politicians like him traded lands, which is what your people like to call the treaties of old. Politicians like him want to bend the rules and restrict what we can do on our tribal lands. As you know, the Confederated Tribes is governed by our elected council and operates according to the will of our people. Our tribal business interests your elected officials only when it conflicts with their personal plans. Senator Wilde knows a casino so close to Portland would take money from your state coffers by competing with your lottery and video poker slots. If I'm not mistaken, a portion of your paycheck is probably paid out of gambling revenue, is it not?”

“You're correct, but I don't know how much,” Mac said, deflecting the dig. “Now, tell me about the intent of your letters.”

Therman leaned forward again, arms resting on the table. “My intent was to get the senator's attention. And I wrote those letters
before
the senator's niece disappeared—none after I read about his niece in the paper. I have a mission, based on my people's interest, but I'm no animal.”

Mac glanced at Dana, remembering that the FBI agents had said Therman slammed the door in their faces when they asked him about the other letters. He didn't want to make Therman angry, but he did need some answers.

Turning to Therman, he said, “You say you didn't write any letters to the senator after you read about Sara Watson?”

“That's right.”

“And you know that Sara is now dead and that we recovered her body just off the reservation by the White River?”

“Yes, Detective, I know about that also. Like I said, I read the papers. I'm sorry for the senator's loss, but with all due respect, what does her death have to do with me? Just because I wrote some political letters to an elected official, I'm now public enemy number one?”

“That's not the only reason.” Mac hesitated.