Tribal Ways (8 page)

Given her experiences Annja would be much less tempted by that opinion. She almost hated to admit it, but she saw Johnny’s point about his club’s perspective. It was possible neither she nor her inadvertent hosts had handled things very well that night in the Bad Medicine.

“I’ll be in touch, Lieutenant,” she said, standing to go.

“One more thing, Ms. Creed. Don’t go thinking you know my son. Don’t make the mistake of assuming you understand anything about him at all. Even if he can charm a chunk of dead dog out an old snapping turtle’s mouth.”

She frowned. “I totally don’t believe that’s an authentic Oklahoma aphorism,” she said. “I think you just made it up in hopes of making me throw up.”

“Don’t want you upchucking on the paperwork, Ms. Creed—all respect, it messes it up so it won’t hardly feed through the copy machine. Other than that, you are purely correct.”

T
HROUGH GATHERING TWILIGHT
, she ran.

It soothed her. She needed to decompress and process. Even if she couldn’t fully give in to her feelings quite yet.

Mourning Paul properly would have to wait until he was avenged. Or until it became apparent it was beyond her ability to do so.

She was on a back road through low rolling hills, on her way back to the motel, which she guessed was a mile away yet. The wind had died at last. With the exertion she was comfortable in her T-shirt and sweatpants in spite of the fact the temperature had dropped noticeably when the sun dipped behind the Wichitas ten minutes or so earlier.

She was jogging, taking a break from running flat out, when an eerie feeling prickled the skin at the back of her neck and made her belly muscles go taut.

Not slowing her pace she looked around.

She saw a shadow, a black silhouette on a rise not a hundred feet to the west.

It was shaped like a huge wolf.

Annja slowed to a stop. She looked hard at the creature. “If you’re really the one who killed Paul,” she called out, “come try me on for size.”

She didn’t really believe it. It was surely a human, deranged or evil or both, who had murdered Paul and all those other innocent people. Not an animal like this one. However spooky.

Maybe she couldn’t quite disbelieve it, either. But if it did attack her—unusual behavior for a lone wolf or even a feral dog—that would prove it probably was involved with Paul’s cruel death.

And Paul would be avenged.

Instead, the creature whirled and disappeared. She thought about pursuing but decided it probably wasn’t a good idea. At best it would be as futile as her chasing after the shadowy creature in Roosevelt Park in Albuquerque. They were both almost certainly just random big scary-looking dogs, anyway.

She realized then what had caused the animal to bolt. A dark-colored sedan was driving toward her along the road with its halogen headlights weird actinic eyes in the twilight. It was moving more slowly than the road’s surface, rutted by spring rains, seemed to mandate. She stood by the ditch, frowning slightly, as the vehicle slowed to a stop beside her.

The window rolled down. A suit-jacket sleeve and a white shirt cuff came out with a pale hand sprouting from them like a lily. The hand displayed a photo ID with a big gold government seal.

“FBI, Ms. Creed,” a male voice said from behind the hand, the cuff and the badge. “I need to ask you to get in the car, please. We need to talk.”

T
HE FEDERAL COURTHOUSE
in Lawton was a big yellow-brick cube standing apart from other buildings in the downtown area. It was the sort of mountain-solid late-nineteenth or early-twentieth-century building they didn’t build anymore, and consequently the kind of building with a weather-darkened brass plaque stuck on its aboveground cement foundation.

Special Agent in Charge Lamont Young was a big, blond, bland man in a pale gray suit. Annja didn’t know, and he didn’t volunteer, whether he was in charge of the local Lawton office or of some task force sent from somewhere larger, presumably Oklahoma City. He interviewed her in a room with yellow-painted walls and white trim that smelled of old paint and the steam heat from an old-fashioned radiator under one lone window that was turning the place to a sauna. He perched his broad rump on the edge of a green metal desk and talked in vague terms about a “potentially unstable situation” and “risk factors,” with his hands clasped between his knees.

Then he got down to asking questions. They were general. What do you do? What are you doing here? What was your relationship to the deceased? She sat in an uncompromising and uncomfortable wooden chair, gave simple, direct answers and hoped they’d wrap it up soon.

Then he asked, “How do you know John Jacob Ten Bears?”

“Johnny? I met him in a bar. I didn’t encourage his acquaintance.”

That’s putting it mildly, she thought, restraining a smile.

“Do you frequent this bar, Ms. Creed?”

“I’ve been in Lawton for three days. I’m not sure that gives me an opportunity to ‘frequent’ anything.”

He pursed his lips. “You have spent only a single night in the Lawton area, Ms. Creed.”

“I’ve had kind of a rough time, Special Agent Young. Lots of travel, a close friend being killed. Being shot at. I may be a little fuzzy as to details right now.”

He nodded judiciously.

“Are you investigating Johnny?” she asked.

“I’m afraid I can’t answer that.”

“Is he a person of interest, then?”

“I can’t answer that, either.”

“Then what difference does it make what I know about him? Anyway, everything is in the statements I gave to Lieutenant Ten Bears. Including my account of what happened in the Oklahoma Rose.” About which he’d as yet asked nothing.

“Presumably you know he is John Ten Bears’ father?”

“Yes. Do you feel that prejudices the lieutenant’s ability to conduct an investigation?”

“Let us say the potential for a conflict of interest is there.”

She laughed. “If you’d actually sit down and talk to either man, you’d find out how mistaken that is. If anything, Lieutenant Ten Bears will go harder on his son than he would some random person.”

“Perhaps you believe that.”

She reminded herself getting annoyed with a federal agent was a waste of time at best. “Look, just what are you investigating here? The serial killings? The Iron Horse People? Some kind of events locally that might connect them?”

“Why would you suspect we’re investigating local events?”

“I got shot at this morning. With fully automatic weapons, which are extremely uncommon on the streets in this country, as well as intensely illegal. They were American made, not Kalashnikovs—M-16s. There’s obviously some pretty serious game being played around here. I’d have to be a fool not to notice that.”

“Have you any special knowledge of what you’re calling a ‘game’?”

“No. I’m interested in who killed Paul, and is butchering my professional peers. Lieutenant Ten Bears has asked me to consult, on an unofficial basis, from my knowledge not just of archaeology but of the profession of archaeology. I’ve done contract consulting with law enforcement before. I know the rules.”

“Are you aware that the penalties for obstructing a federal investigation are quite severe?”

“Yes. I’d pretty much gathered that.”

“It would be advisable for you to leave the area, Ms. Creed. You can only put yourself in the way of unpleasant complications by staying.”

“So I’m not under suspicion of anything, then?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Isn’t it usual procedure to tell a suspect not to leave the area?”

“I see… You are not a suspect, Ms. Creed. I have the discretion to tell you that.”

“Good. Do you have the discretion to let me go?”

“Are you agreeing to leave Oklahoma?”

“No.”

“You aren’t being very cooperative, young lady.”

“You haven’t actually asked my cooperation on anything. You’ve threatened me. You suggested I go away. Not much scope for cooperation there. Now, may I please leave? I’m tired and hungry and want to take a shower.”

“Yes.”

She got up.

“Ms. Creed?” His voice stopped her at the door.

“Yes.”

“You’re making a mistake if you stay.”

“That wouldn’t be the first one. Good evening, Special Agent Young.”

T
HE STARS WERE OUT
above the Plains in force when Annja pulled into the gravel lot of the Bad Medicine. The glow of the neon sign did little to push them back as she parked facing the dirt road. She looked to confirm the presence of a certain distinctive red-and-cream Indian bike before she turned off the engine.

The clouds were gone but the wind bit deep as she got out of her car. She wondered how freaked the rental company would be if they checked the car’s GPS records and found she’d driven back to the place where she’d left the last one. Which presumably had been turned into a sieve by gunplay by the time they sweet-talked a wrecker into coming out to such dubious precincts to tow it away.

“Take it up with Lieutenant Ten Bears,” she suggested aloud to the hypothetical outraged rental agent.

The expected blast of warmth and noise hit her like a blowtorch when she opened the door. Once again all conversation stopped as if a switch had been turned. She could see twenty or so Iron Horses gathered there.

Every face turned as one to peer at her.

Somebody said something and jumped to his feet. She was relieved to see most of the expressions were confused. Somewhat.

But then a familiar lanky figure unfolded from a table in the far corner. “It’s all right,” Johnny Ten Bears said, his baritone voice ringing out.

“Come on in,” Johnny said, walking up to Annja with his rolling gait. “Folks, this is Annja Creed. We met her the other night under kinda unfortunate circumstances. I talked to her today, right before that little shooting scrape you-all heard about, and we agreed to bury the hatchet. She’s good people.

“And she’s with me,” he added.

Not knowing quite how to respond to the sheer force of masculinity the half Kiowa, half Comanche biker lord seemed to radiate, she shook his strong well-shaped hand. It made her feel lame.

“Understand I can’t order anybody around,” he said, smiling and leaning his head close to hers so his hair fell to either side of his face like shining black curtains. “These aren’t the sort of people who take kindly to taking orders. I just try to…set an example.”

“All right,” Annja said. “Can we talk?”

“Figured you might want to do that.” He straightened. “Come on and meet the tribe. This bear-shaped buck is Billy White Bird, my right-hand man and the best wrench in western Oklahoma and the greater panhandle area.”

“Sorry we got off on the wrong foot the other night,” Annja said as the grinning man enfolded her hand in one paw. “I see your face is healing up nicely.”

“Superficial cut,” he said. “Head wounds bleed like crazy. Anyway, I always heal fast. And I apologize for my behavior. Sometimes I let a joke get outta hand.” She noticed that he still wore his colors over bare skin, and got another glimpse of the intricate blue tattoo over his paunch.

“Wondering why I wander around half-nekkid?” he asked, and shrugged. “Don’t like to get too hot. Ed keeps it like a furnace in here during the cold months. And an icebox when it’s warm.”

He followed them as Johnny escorted Annja through the crowd, introducing random people. “This is Ricky, Angel, Mose, Quahadi—”

Ricky was blade-lean and had a gold hoop in his right ear. Angel looked almost comically like her name, with a soft oval face that probably looked years younger than she was. She wore a fringed black jacket over her colors. She also carried a dark-blue Taurus .357 with what looked like grips custom cut down to fit her small hands. Beyond that Annja lost track.

As they navigated back toward Johnny’s table, Annja met Eagle Eye, Satanta, Loco and Lonny Blackhands.

And, of course, Snake.

“I believe you two got acquainted the other night,” Johnny said.

Her handshake was dry and firm and sinuously strong. Well, it would be, Annja thought. “Pleased to met you,” Annja said.

“The pleasure’s all yours,” Snake said. “Anytime you’d like to renew our…getting acquainted—”

“Now, Snake,” Johnny said, putting just a hint of whip-crack to his voice. “Is that a hospitable way to treat our guest?”

“If I were hospitable,” the tall woman said, turning back to the bar, “would I be named Snake?”

Everybody got back to what they were doing—talking and drinking—while Johnny took Annja to his table. Billy White Bird followed.

The chairs were old-style wooden saloon chairs. They were at least somewhat more comfortable than the one in Special Agent Young’s office.

“So why the interest in us?” Johnny asked. “It doesn’t seem likely to be our charming company.”

She grinned. “Don’t underrate yourselves,” she said. “I’ve had plenty worse receptions.”

Billy looked at her close. “Reckon you have at that,” he said softly. He took a drink from his mug. When he set it down an unmistakable smell reach Annja’s nostrils. He was drinking apple cider, not beer.

In fact, now that she noticed it, she hadn’t smelled alcohol at all since coming in here. “You have got to be kidding—” she said, leaning back and straightening in her chair.

“I think she’s caught on to our terrible secret,” Billy said, eyes twinkling.

Johnny shrugged. “It’s no big thing. Some of our people are recovering alcoholics. The rest of us don’t tend to drink much. Yeah, the stereotypical Indians and alcohol thing—some people say we’ve got a genetic predisposition to it, but I don’t buy. The scientific evidence seems sketchy at best. Anyway. Booze and bikes don’t really mix that well—that’s a fact. Nor do guns and booze.”

She shook her head. “You people are too much.”

“Now she’s really catching on,” Billy said.

“I thought you were hanging around to investigate the skinwalker killings?” Johnny said.

The media had dubbed the murderer the I-40 Killer, since all his attacks had occurred fairly near the big west-to-east artery that had supplanted the famed Route 66. The police were squatting hard on all details that connected the crimes to anything either supernatural sounding or that would hint at an Indian connection. None too surprisingly the Iron Horses seemed to have contacts of their own.

“So why the interest in us?” Johnny asked again.

“The Dog Society connection, mostly,” she said. “Which was brought home to me pretty forcefully this morning.”

“Listen,” Johnny said, “I am really sorry about that. I had no right to expose you to that kind of danger, not to mention those poor people at the diner. I honestly had no idea the Dogs would fly that far off the handle. I didn’t realize just how bad things had gotten.”

“Why do you assume you were the target?” she asked softly.

A local cone of silence seemed to descend on their little table. “Say what?” Billy asked.

She shrugged. “I’ve been attracting a lot of attention lately. That attack on your club house I took for just bad timing on my part. Say, none of your people were hurt in that?”

“Nothing they won’t get over,” Johnny said.

“Them Dogs were planning some kind of surprise attack, we think,” Billy said. “Once the guns started talking, they pulled back pretty smart.”

“Good. Anyway, I got a personal warning from them night before last.” She sketched out the restroom encounter in eastern New Mexico.

Through her mind flitted the memory of wolf shadows at sunset. Seeming to watch her. She dismissed them as irrelevant. Hallucination, mere coincidence. Certainly nothing real.

When she finished her account Johnny sat back, pulling a long face and nodding.

“You’re taking this all pretty calm for a well-groomed college-educated white-eyes chick,” Billy said.

She shrugged. “Not the first time I’ve been shot at. With automatic weapons, for that matter. Not the first time people have tried to jack me up in lonely places, either.”