Tribal Ways (9 page)

The two bikers exchanged glances. “I get the feeling you let us off kinda easy the other night, lady,” Billy said.

“Yeah. Well. No offense, but you didn’t really trip my deadly threat detectors. Seemed as if you were just trying to rowdy me up some.”

Billy guffawed. He made as if to slap Annja on the back, then pulled his hand away as if suspecting her shoulder was forge-hot. “Hoo-baby! We got us a winner here, Johnny.”

“As long as you don’t get to thinking you’re bullet-proof,” he said soberly.

“Believe me, I know better,” she said. “Anyway, as to your conflict with the Dog Society here—it just seems there has to be a skinwalker connection. First, it seems unlikely the Dogs have decided to lean on me, however hard, just because I’m nosing around their turf. If they know that much, they know I am fixated on solving the death of my friend. Circumstances have kind of forced me to widen my focus. Second, it also strikes me that if the Dogs were after me that first night outside this place, they’d’ve come on way stronger than they did in that ladies’ room.”

“Mebbe they put two and two together after you busted those bad boys up some,” Billy said.

“Not impossible. But one common theme of the skinwalker attacks seems to be that the digs he targets are protested by Native groups.”

“
Nominally
native,” Johnny said.

“Okay. But the Dogs opposed the dig here, didn’t they? Even if they weren’t the ones picketing it?”

“Actually, they were,” Billy said. “They have this kind, gentler public-face auxiliary. Kinda like Sinn Féin to the old Provisional IRA.”

“The creature—
killer
—does seem to have struck a bit far afield. Coincidentally in an area where radical violence is already taking place.”

Johnny looked at Billy again, then back at her, Leaning forward, he said, “Ms. Creed, you don’t know the half of it.”

“Annja,” she corrected half-reflexively. “What don’t I know the half of?”

“We have wind that the Dog Soldiers have cooked up a scheme to provoke a race war between Indians and whites,” Johnny said. “We think it’s about good to go.”

“That’s insane,” Annja said. “Indians are a tiny minority of the population. They’d get squashed.”

Johnny canted his head to one side. “Maybe not. The U.S. military is spread thin all over the world. It’s been weakened, materially and morally, by too many wars for no strategic benefit to Americans, or even any visible strategic point. The economy is struggling. A case for vulnerability could be made.”

“But would some kind of shocking terrorist strike be more likely to cause faith in the U.S. government to break down, or to invite hideous retaliation against Indians? And not just from the government?” Annja said.

“Well,” Billy said, shrugging, “that’s the question, ain’t it?”

“We fear the latter,” Johnny said. “The Dogs believe strongly in the former. They even believe other radicals, including white anarchists, will actively join them.”

Johnny Ten Bears seemed a highly intelligent man, Annja thought. His manner was certainly calm and rational. “What do you think?”

“I think that the Dog Solders have talked themselves into believing there’s a good enough chance of success to go for it,” he said.

She shook her head and blew out a long breath. “That’s a big leap for me to take,” she responded. “As I said, I’ve been shot at before. By some pretty blatantly bad people. And none of them actually thought they could take down the United States government.”

“Well, Comanche County has been just a font of new experiences for you, then,” Billy said.

“Just do me one favor,” Johnny said, shaking his head. “Once you walk out of here. Keep your head on a swivel.”

“Always,” she said.

“Y
EAH
,
JUST LIKE
I thought,” Lieutenant Tom Ten Bears said, shaking his head. “FBI has been tramping all over this place like yokels gaping at the world’s biggest pig at the county fair. I do believe I see the print of Special Agent in Charge Young over there.”

Annja doubted it. Admittedly she hadn’t been overly impressed with Young herself. But the Bureau maintained at least certain minimum standards of professionalism.

But
somebody
had trampled the University of Oklahoma dig and multiple-murder scene well and truly. Her vote went to the national and global media, before taking flight once more and swarming like locusts to the next showy catastrophe. At the moment she and the lieutenant had it to themselves. Not even the Comanche County sheriff was sending his deputies out to freeze and watch an isolated crime scene that had been so thoroughly picked over.

The wind blew. The clouds threatened. Annja wondered if spring was always like this.

“Don’t report me,” the lieutenant said, pulling the collar of his bulky brown jacket higher around his neck, “but I could use some of that global warming they’re always talking about on TV. This is more like the ice age.”

Annja paused by the RV where Paul had lived the last few days of his life. The RV had its doors sealed with yellow crime-scene tape.

“So I’ve been reading some of those reports you sent me,” she said, taking off a glove and briefly touching the cold metal of the RV’s side. “It looks as if people were reporting strange wolflike creatures in the vicinity even before the attacks.”

“Yeah. And not just wolves. We got shaggy-man stories, too. Not your usual Sasquatch or skunk-ape guy in gorilla-sort yarns, either. We’re talking full-on wolfman stuff. Sent you those, too.”

She shook her head. “It’s probably just people getting worked up and seeing natural animals.”

“Got no wolves in Comanche County.”

“Well, big dogs, then. Or even coyotes. Coyotes are everywhere now. You can’t really believe there’s more to these reports than that?”

He stuck his hands deep in his jacket pockets and chuckled. “I surely do love it when you city folk come out here, and you know so much more about the land and the weather and the animals than us poor dumb country folk who’ve only lived among all that our entire lives.”

“You don’t really think there’s anything paranormal going on?” Annja said.

“Not necessarily. I don’t discount supernatural stuff all the way, either. I’ve seen some things that aren’t exactly dreamt of in your philosophy, Ms. Creed.”

“I’m—wait. Did you just quote Hamlet at me?”

“Naw. You’re givin’ in to that conspiracy-theory stuff again. I’m just an Indian country hick, too dumb to come in out of the rain.”

“All right. You can back off. I already know better than to underestimate you. But seriously? You think there might
not
be a rational explanation?”

“Seriously, I don’t think we can—anyhow, anyway—discount the possibility of a killer nutbag dressing himself up in a wolfman suit and skulking around the county. Seems I recently got me a report from this highfalutin outside expert, all college credentialed and all, mentioned skinwalkers’re supposed to do that very thing. Even quoted a second expert to the effect that playing skinwalker might just be a perfectly natural thing for a sociopath to do. Of course, how you could call that a
rational
explanation is way past me. Ain’t nothing rational about this perp.”

“Okay, okay! You just have no mercy, do you?”

“I’d have to turn in my Comanche card if I did, ma’am. We got us a historical reputation to maintain.”

Annja laughed aloud. This short, portly cop was proving himself a worthy foe.

“Peace,” she said. “We need to be on the same side.”

“Amen, sister. Preaching to the choir.”

“Okay. Well, thanks for taking the time to meet with me. Can we get in out of the cold now?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

They started walking back to their cars.

“So do you have any actual evidence of any kinds of plots against the opening ceremonies for this new Comanche Star Casino?” she asked.

“Now, Annja, don’t go getting yourself wrapped up in that kind of thing. It’s pure trouble. And it has nothing to do with the deaths of your friend and his associates.”

“I seem to have gotten wrapped up in it, regardless. Anyway, how can you be so sure there
is
no connection.” She stopped and squared to face him. “There’s something seriously nasty going on here. It started long before the murders, and it seems to be ongoing.”

“And it’s our business,” Ten Bears said. “Got nothing to do with this other thing.”

“How can you be sure? Is it just coincidence that the killer struck here, where tensions between Indian and white and Indian and Indian are getting wound so tight?”

“But he hit twice in New Mexico,” Ten Bears said. “And while there’s always tension where Indians come in contact with white-eyes or Mexicans, they’re not having troubles across the state line like we are here in Comanche country. I’d know if they were, believe me. There’s an old-boy network for Indian lawmen. Yes, and women, too. We keep in touch.”

“But he
did
come here. Which is a lot farther from Navajo country than the Rio Grande Valley.”

“You said it yourself—he seems to be drawn to these protests by professional Indians, wannabes and loafs-about-the-fort,” Ten Bears said. “Like he’s trying to show solidarity with them. Why make it more complicated than that?”

“Because it
is
more complicated,” she said. “You feel it, too. I know you do.”

“It always is,” he said, turning away.

As they were opening the doors of their respective vehicles, he called to her. “Just one more little thing.”

“This is where you warn me to steer clear of your son because he’s pure trouble, isn’t it?” Annja said.

“This is where I warn you to steer clear of Johnny,” he said solidly. “He’s pure trouble. Especially for a pretty woman such as yourself, if you won’t take that as sexual harassment and all.”

“I have a pretty high harassment threshold, Lieutenant.”

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”

“I’m not going to get romantically entangled with your son, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that? He can be a pretty charming cuss when he sets his mind to it. Gets it from his old man.”

He slapped himself on the belly. “Built the way I am, I
had
to be charming. Or I’d never have got the chance to pass my genes along, as the kids say nowadays.”

Given how slick the fat old bastard was, she thought it was a pretty plausible theory.

“Of course I’m sure!” she snapped. “Why shouldn’t I be sure?”

“If you say so.”

“I do. But he may have information that could help lead to Paul’s killer,” she said. “I want that information.”

“I’m not sure that’s the right tree you’re barking up,” he said. “One way or another, you want to be careful what might come dropping down on your head from the branches.

“I know you’re not the usual college-professor type, Annja. But there’s trouble you can get into here in Comanche country I can’t pull you out of. You may find trouble even
you
can’t pull yourself out of.”

She looked at him for a moment. Then she smiled. “Thanks,” she said. “I mean that. Thank you for caring.”

“It’s my job,” he said. “Not like you’re gonna listen to me.”

“No,” she agreed. “But thanks, anyway.”

W
HEN SHE GOT BACK
to the motel her phone was blinking a red light at her.

“Who’d be calling me here?” she asked the room, which was all done up neat and trim and nice smelling, with the bedspread taut as a drumhead.

“Well, one way to find out.” She laid her backpack on that immaculate spread and sat down on the edge of the bed by the phone, still wearing her coat. She picked up the handset, consulted the little chart printed on the phone and punched in the code to retrieve the message.

A strange male voice said, “Ms. Creed? You don’t know me but we need to talk. I know what certain people are up to, okay? Johnny said I need to talk to you.”

“W
HOA
,” A
NNJA SAID
, gazing around as she walked through gates that had not been closed for a long time by the looks of them.

“I didn’t know there were any old drive-in movie theaters still standing.”

She was talking to herself, and to the stars, hard and bright overhead, although they were rapidly taking leave of her as menacing-looking clouds raced in and gathered from the north.

The place had clearly stood derelict for years. The posts had been stripped of their car speakers and stood in forlorn ranks like bare stalks leftover from some final harvest. The windows and doors of the former projection booth and concession stand were gapes of blackness in the gloom. Their outer walls, and the insides of the perimeter walls, were crusted in spray-painted signs and slogans.

She walked over to the concession stand. It was where her contact said he’d meet her. It was also an obvious ambush site. She stayed on her guard.

She knew she wasn’t going to delve deeper into the real reasons behind the skinwalker murders, or the Dog Society’s mysterious vendetta for her, without taking some real risks. She’d been forced to confront the fact.

She came within fifteen feet of the door and stopped.

“Hey,” a voice said, echoing slightly inside the derelict concessions stand. “I’m in here. Come on in.” It was the same voice from her motel-room phone. Whispering, raspy, tentative. If a hunted rabbit could talk it might sound that way.

“Not on your life,” Annja said flatly. “I’m not going in there. You come out. Or forget about the whole thing.”

Nothing happened. She started to turn away.

“All right,” the voice said around a weedy chuckle. “You’re smart. You don’t wanna walk in blind where you might get ambushed. That’s cool.”

She saw motion inside and slipped her hands out of her pockets.

She found herself facing a man. Not a terribly pre-possessing one. He looked to be Annja’s age, a head shorter, skinny as a prairie weed. He had foxlike features and coarse hair, but his skin and eyes were light and his hair looked brown rather than midnight black. He didn’t twitch overtly but never seemed to be at rest. He wore torn, stained jeans, pointy-toed boots, a grimy T-shirt and a scuffed black leather jacket. He looked as if he’d seen one too many James Dean movies.

“You’re Creed?” he asked.

“That’s right.”

He nodded spasmodically. “You can call me Two Hatchets,” he said.

It was a pretty grandiose name for someone who looked as if he’d need both arms to raise one, Annja thought.

“What do you have for me?” she asked.

“Right to the point, huh? Yeah. I like that.”

Annja turned to walk away.

“Wait! Sorry. Sorry. Listen, the Dogs are planning something. Something heavy. Something bad. Something bad enough to send shockwaves circling the globe. You get me?”

“That’s old news, Two Hatchets. Anyway, how would you know?”

“They use me for a runner, like. The Dog Society. Do odd jobs. Gopher. That sorta thing.”

“And they let you in on their planning sessions?”

He laughed. “Yeah. Imagine that. Two Hatchets, the errand boy. No. They never tell me shit. But I’m like the janitor, man. Part of the furniture.”

He pointed to the side of his head. “They forget I got ears. You dig?”

“I see.”

She was skeptical. But it made sense. Back when people had servants their masters always seemed to forget that they had ears, too. Service people still tended to be taken for granted. And she could definitely understand overlooking Two Hatchets.

“So what did you overhear?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Nothing specific. Just enough to know what they’re cooking up is big and bad. Superbad.”

“Again,” she said. “Old news.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He nodded, as if trying to mix something in his skull. “I’m getting to that. They got a big meet set up. It’s key. It’s like the final step, man. The final piece of the puzzle. Going down tonight. Tonight, tonight.”

He looked up at the sky. “Gotta hurry if we wanna get there.”