Witch Dance (29 page)

 o0o

She’d been dumped on her doorstep like a sack of coal. And then he’d sent an emissary to do his dirty work and salve his conscience. Well, Eagle Mingo could find some other way to make himself feel noble. Kate wasn’t about to do his bidding just because he was governor of the Chickasaw Nation and somehow felt responsible for her.

“You can take her right back where she came from.” Kate crossed her arms over her chest and tried to look commanding in spite of her dastardly headache and ugly bruises.

The chief of the tribal police stood at the bottom of her porch steps, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other, and in the car the woman he’d brought to protect Kate stared off into the mountains as if she wanted nothing to do with the confrontation.

“She has to stay here, Kate. Governor’s orders.”

Kate laughed. So he was in a governing mood now, was he?

That morning, when she’d awakened to find him sitting cross-legged beside her blanket, watching her, he’d looked more like a lover than a governor. And later, pressed close while his stallion brought them out of the mountains, she’d felt the tension in his body and his efforts to hold himself aloof.

She’d fought the same battle. What would have happened if he’d come inside her house instead of leaving her on the doorstep?

“Tell the governor I don’t take his orders.”

“Kate, be reasonable. What happened to you yesterday was no accident.”

Poor Martin Black Elk looked so long-suffering that Kate felt sorry for him. She was being unreasonable. Her father’s daughter. Whether Mick Malone wanted to think so or not.

“Martin, I’ll be careful.” She put her hand over his and smiled.

“Don’t make any more house calls alone.”

“I won’t.”

“Keep your doors and windows locked and call me if you see or hear anything suspicious.”

“I will.”

“Kate, I don’t like this. Why don’t you ask Deborah Lightfoot to come over and stay with you?”

“No. I won’t expose her to danger.”

“Won’t you at least get a good guard dog?”

“I’ll think about it. And in the meantime, I’m hanging onto my gun.”

Martin started toward his car then turned to issue one last warning.

“Be careful, Kate.”

“I promise.”

All the promises in the world couldn’t protect Kate Malone. Martin dreaded telling the governor she’d turned down his protection.

 o0o

“She did what?”

“She laughed.”

Eagle stared out his window at the Arbuckle Mountains. Purple shadows softened them so that they appeared benign. Only he knew how close Kate had come to dying in their uncompromising grasp.

“It’s not your fault, Martin. Do you have any idea who is doing this?”

“I don’t have enough evidence to convict a skunk, but I believe he’s Chickasaw.”

“I think so too. He’s covered his tracks too well to be anything but Native American.”

“Hal Lightfoot seems the likeliest possibility. He ran track in school; he’s young and full of vigor and venom. His hatred of Kate goes all the way back to that old business with the medicine man when she was building her clinic. I’m staking out his house.”

That was one more secret Eagle would have to keep from Deborah Lightfoot, one more way he’d have to betray her.

“I think you should stake out the shaman as well. She took over his territory, and his hatred of her is well known.”

“He’s old.”

“Don’t let his age fool you. Any man who can survive alone in the mountains is not to be underestimated.”

“I’ll put a man on him. He’s got connections with everybody on tribal lands. But my bet is still on Lightfoot.”

“Have you thought of staking out the manager of the tool and die plant? And what about the employees? I know some of them are extremely bitter toward her. Maybe bitter enough to kill.”

“Hell, why don’t I stake out the whole damned Nation? Would that satisfy you, Governor?”

Eagle held up his right hand in the age-old gesture of peace.

“All right. I’m going. You do your job and I’ll do mine.”

Eagle squared his shoulders as he prepared to leave, as if he were adjusting them for the heavy burden he carried. Martin wasn’t known for interfering in people’s personal lives, but he couldn’t sit still and watch a friend put himself through hell.

“Eagle, I know this is none of my business, but are you sure you’re doing the right thing about Kate Malone. Any fool can see . . .”

“You’re right. It’s none of your business.”

“All right. I asked for that. May the Great Spirit be with you, Eagle.”

Eagle took the long way to Deborah’s house, riding on horseback, stopping on the hillside above Kate’s layout long enough to satisfy himself that she was safely inside. The clinic was dark, but all the lights in her house were on. He could see her silhouette through the kitchen window.

He circled her house, far enough back so he wouldn’t be seen but close enough so he could see if anyone was lurking about. Winter winds soughed lightly through the trees and stars gentled the land. The beauty and tranquility were deceiving. Eagle could feel the danger shimmering in the air, and it seemed to him the danger had a name.

Something was hovering on the edge of his conscious mind, something vital, something he’d missed. Sitting in the darkness watching the light shine on Kate’s hair, he tried to capture the elusive solution.

At last he turned away, the vision of Kate still in his mind, turned away and headed to Deborah Lightfoot’s house. He was going to ask her to marry him.

 o0o

He knew that he had failed. The witch woman was still alive.

The avenger’s hands shook as he punctured the end of his finger. Blood spurted out and pooled on the end of his steel blade. Carefully he laid the knife aside, then took his quill pen and dipped it in the warm red ink.

“Your tormentor watches you, white doctor witch.”

His ink ran out too quickly, and he held his finger up to the light and punched another hole. The smell of his own blood mingled with the smells of winter—the sharp odor of the frozen earth, the musk of dead leaves, and the clean fragrance of the north wind.

He dipped the pen once more and finished his note.
Repent or burn in hell.

His blood soaked into the paper, then dried to a brownish-red stain. He’d have to bury the note deep in his coat pocket to keep it dry. Winters in Witch Dance . . . dampness always seemed to be in the air, whether it was snowing or not.

With the note securely hidden, he stepped outside. The stars stared at him, malevolent eyes that saw every move he made. He would have to be careful. The hounds of hell were closing in on him. He could hear them baying at his heels, feel their hot breaths fanning the back of his neck.

The avenger checked the position of the stars. There was time, time to race with the north wind to his destination.

All the lights were out at her place. The white witch was sleeping. She never knew when he slipped the letter under the door of her clinic, pushing it all the way inside so the weather wouldn’t destroy it. She never knew when he picked the lock on her back door and slid inside her house.

She was asleep on her side with her right hand under her cheek and her left hand stretched toward the gun on her bedside table. A path of moonlight fell across her pale neck.

How easy it would be to end it all now. Slide the blade across her tender flesh and watch her blood flow onto the pillow.

Steel whispered against leather as he pulled the knife from his scabbard. The pale-faced witch stirred, moaning in her sleep.

Fearless and invincible, the avenger waited. She settled back into her covers with a great sigh. The moonlight was on her cheek now, illuminating the bruises.

Death would be too kind to her. Suffering. That’s what she needed. When he’d finished with her, she’d wish she were dead.

Chapter 33

Hal Lightfoot was on the move.

His Jeep careened through the darkness like a drunken sailor on his first shore leave. Martin Black Elk was right behind him, guiding the unmarked car with his left hand and radioing with his right.

“He’s headed your way,” he said to the car staked along the Blue River. “Don’t lose him.”

It was hard not to be spotted driving along the back roads in Witch Dance, especially so late on a Saturday night. Sane folks were gathered in the bars, swapping stories and swilling beer or piled in front of their hearths eating popcorn and watching movies. But whoever said police work was sane? Black Elk just hoped his disguise worked. He felt like a fool with the baseball cap and his hair in a ponytail.

Even his wife Doris had teased him.

“Honey, if I didn’t know you better, I’d say you had a cute young thing stashed somewhere.”

“Doris, I’m too damned tired for cute young things. The old stuff’s good enough for me.” He nuzzled her neck and pinched her butt.

“Who are you calling old?” Doris punched his arm. “Get out of here, you devil.”

Racing along in the dark, Martin was struck with such longing to be in front of his own fire that he made an instant bargain with himself to retire.

“As soon as I catch this aspiring killer,” he muttered.

Hal swerved abruptly onto a gravel road, and, cursing, Martin let him get a lead then went in behind him. Where in the shit was the little bastard going now?

Martin’s car bucked in the rutted road, and tree limbs scraped the paint off the sides. It was going to be in a hell of a shape if he ever got out of the woods.

Abruptly he came into a clearing, and there was Hal Lightfoot, propped against a tree, smoking a cigarette and fondling a woman more than twice his age. With her skirt hiked up, she was clinging to Hal like bubble gum on a shoe sole.

“What in the hell are you doing out here?” Martin asked.

“What does it look like?” Hal removed his left hand from the woman’s bra, then stepped in front of her, took the cigarette out of his mouth, and blew a smoke ring Martin’s way.

“Too bad you made that long trip all the way from town, Chief.”

“You picked a mighty remote spot for that kind of sport, Hal. Aren’t you afraid you’ll freeze your pecker off?”

“Is that the business our tribal police are in now, protecting peckers?”

“Only when it looks like it’s fixing to get him into trouble.”

“Hell, Chief, can’t a man have a romp in the woods without getting spied on? I know how to stay out of trouble.”

“See that you do.”

Martin had no choice but to leave. Something nagged at his brain, but he was too tired to give it much thought. On the way back to town he radioed Hal’s location to the other stakeout car.

“Looks like all he’s interested in tonight is getting laid. Sooner or later he’ll come out of the woods, and when he does, try not to lose him.”

Bone-weary, Martin headed home. Halfway there, he knew what had been bothering him.

“Holy shit!” The radio crackled as he contacted his office. “Ray, get me everything you can find on Clayton Colbert’s wife.”

“How far back?”

“Hell, all the way back to her conception if you have to. Clayton Colbert shot himself, and now his widow’s in the woods, screwing Hal Lightfoot. I want to know why.”

“Will do. Chief, there’s somebody here to see you. Won’t talk to anybody but you. Says it’s urgent.”

Probably some little old lady with a stray cat up a tree.

“Tell them I’ll be right there.”

The station house visitor was a frightened woman, but she didn’t have a stray cat up a tree. Her name was Marjorie Kent, and what she had to say made the hair on the back of Martin’s neck stand on end.

“My husband overheard them, Chief, the medicine man and some man he didn’t know.”

“Did he see a face?”

“No.”

“Could he tell anything about the size?”

“No, they were sitting down, smoking the pipe. It was dark, and the man’s back was to him.”

“Did they use any names?”

“No. Only the tormentor and the avenger.”

“Did either of them say anything to indicate that one of them might be the avenger?”

“They talked about him in abstract terms, as if he were some kind of god.” Marjorie Kent twisted her hands in her lap. “I know this is all hard to believe.”

“I believe you, Mrs. Kent.”

“My husband didn’t want me to come. He said it would only cause trouble. He was there to consult the shaman about the children.” Her voice trailed off. “I had to come here. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You did the right thing, Mrs. Kent. You were very brave to come all that way this time of night. . . . Smith, take her into the break room and get her a cup of coffee.”

Everything the woman had said confirmed tips from his own sources. As soon as they were out the door, Martin picked up the phone.

“Mingo, I believe Kate Malone may be in real danger. The man who calls himself her tormentor plans to strike soon.”

 o0o

It was still dark when Deborah slipped into the clinic. Kate had no idea she’d come. In fact, Kate would be furious if she knew Deborah was out so early after the long, horrible ordeal they’d endured the day before.

First, they’d discovered the note slipped under the door of the clinic. “Your tormentor watches you, white doctor witch. Repent or burn in hell.” The words were as clear to Deborah as if she were still seeing them.

And then there had been the magazines scattered across the floor as if a great gust of wind had blown them there. Strange that the man who alternately called himself the tormentor and the avenger had done nothing more than trash a few magazines.

Did that mean he was tiring of his sick game?

Deborah walked briskly through the clinic, checking to see if anything was out of place. After yesterday, she wanted to spare Kate. Finding the note had been bad enough, but seeing Deborah’s engagement ring at the same time must have been devastating.

Kate had tried to hide it, but Deborah knew. She’d heard the gasp; she’d seen her face.

“Eagle and I are engaged.” It was all Deborah could think of to say.

“That’s wonderful. I’m so happy for you.” She’d recovered quickly, and her congratulations had been sincere. “You’ll make a beautiful bride.”