Nate Rosen Investigates

by Ron Levitsky

  Claire crinkled her eyebrows and cuddled next to Bathsheba. “What’s he talking about?”

  Bathsheba stroked the other woman’s hair, and said to Rosen, “She ain’t much for details.”

  “Claire didn’t know about your plan to kill her husband. You never expected her to leave your place the night of the murder. You didn’t know that your father had convinced her to go home. Otherwise, she would’ve had an airtight alibi.”

  “Go on, Mr. Lawyer. What else I done?”

  “Yesterday afternoon you went to see Aadams at his office. Aadams never let any man close enough to threaten him, but he was different with women. He saw you, started thinking about your body, and when he pulled you toward him, you stuck a knife in his belly. Then you took the file on Ben Hobbes.”

  Rosen waited for Bathsheba’s confession, but she only stared at him while petting Claire like a cat. The room grew silent for a moment, yet he thought he heard something stirring, soft as Bathsheba’s stroking. It made him take a step backward against his friend, who pushed him aside.

  “Why me?” Jesse whispered hoarsely to Bathsheba. “If you wanted . . . her all along, why did you do those things with me?”

  She shrugged. “You bein’ Claire’s lawyer, thought I’d find out what was goin’ on. Then it just become fun. A man can love one woman ’n’ still go whorin’. Ain’t that right, Daddy? Ain’t that what you used t’do before gettin’ religion?”

  McCrae clutched at the chest of drawers and sagged into a rocking chair nearby. “All that’s happened been my doin’. The Lord’s laid a curse on me, a righteous curse.”

  “Why?” Rosen asked. “Because your daughter’s black?”

  “You know that, too?”

  “When I found that hair in Claire’s bed, and the lab report said it belonged to a black, I thought that Lemuel Banks was her lover. But there were enough clues pointing to Bathsheba. You call her Sheba, like the biblical queen. Hec Perry wouldn’t tell me much about Claire, but he knew the truth—he kept quoting a line from Coleridge about asking the ‘Abyssinian maid.’ Both women were Ethiopian and black. Besides, Jesse said Bathsheba wouldn’t talk about her mother. I suppose an interracial marriage wouldn’t help a minister gain too many converts.”

  “Marriage?” Bathsheba laughed hard. “Daddy never did marry my mama. She was pure when she first met him. Then after I was born, he left her—didn’t want no nigger baby. Left her to a whorehouse. That’s where she died.”

  McCrae pressed his hands together. “I loved her.”

  “You used her, then throwed us both aside. It was right fine growin’ up in a whorehouse, seein’ what men did to Mama, ’n’ what they did to me. All they ever used was their fists and that thing between their legs. Those last few days, when Mama got sick, you never did visit her.”

  “I was a wicked man but, findin’ the Lord, I figgered He gave me a second chance. I come for you, child. Raised you as mine.”

  “You never told the world who she was, ’n’ who I am.”

  “No, I didn’t, ’n’ now I’m bein’ punished. Thought I made it up by raisin’ you a good Christian.”

  “It takes a good Christian to have a good Christian hate. The same kinda hate you got for whores like my mama and queers like me. I got me a good hate, too.”

  “My fault,” McCrae repeated, shaking his head slowly. “All along I shoulda known, you was a bad seed planted in bad soil.”

  Her lips curled. “I knew you’d say somethin’ like that.”

  Gently pushing Claire away, Bathsheba threw back the covers and stood. She was completely naked, and Rosen narrowed his eyes, as one would from too much light. He’d never seen a more beautiful woman, nor anything quite so perfect. And seeing her, he knew what all his years of studying the Torah had never really taught, how Jezebel had turned Ahab to false gods and murder.

  Rosen watched her reflection flow into the full-length mirror as she passed. Standing before McCrae she moved a hand gently, but he winced as if slapped. Instead of touching him, she reached for the chest of drawers and opened the top one, which was already ajar. It seemed an innocent movement, but McCrae’s body jerked to attention, and he stared at the drawer. A second later Rosen shivered, while the smell that had filled his nostrils suddenly grew stronger.

  Bathsheba shifted something inside the drawer and, opening a burlap bag, thrust her hands inside. McCrae stood, kicking away his chair, while she drew out the long, thick diamond patterned body of a rattlesnake. She curled it around her back, like a towel, holding her right hand just below the snake’s head. Walking past her father, she stood between the bedroom door and the three men. The snake flicked its tongue, and its tail moved listlessly, the rattle whispering its evil in Rosen’s ear.

  “You all come too early. We was fixin’ to let this here fella crawl around a spell. Sure is a pretty sight. Claire likes the way light shinin’ through the window makes his back sparkle. She wrote a poem about it. Me, I just like cuddlin’ next to my girl, arms tight around each other, listenin’ to him on the floor below us. Gives Claire goose bumps and makes her want me that much more. Don’t it, darlin’?”

  Claire had crawled to the edge of the bed, eyes widening and fingers twisting loose strands of hair.

  Bathsheba asked, “Should I do it now?”

  The other woman nodded. “Then come here. Come back to bed and hold me while we watch.”

  As Bathsheba crouched onto the carpet, the snake’s rattling grew louder. It was only a few feet from Jesse, who fell heavily to his knees, like a slaughtered steer, and held out his hands.

  She asked, “Want him, Jesse? You feel the power over you and think you can tame the devil? Go ’head, darlin’, go ’head ’n’ try.”

  She caressed the snake, her lips kissing its forehead, then let it slowly slither over her shoulder and through her hands. Its rattles shook angrily. Watching Bathsheba, Rosen felt a great chill spreading through his body. His numbed hand clumsily drew Popper’s gun from his belt.

  She laughed. “You gonna shoot me, Mr. Lawyer? You don’t see Jesse cryin’ for help.”

  Rosen reached for his friend, who wouldn’t be pulled away. Sensing its freedom, the rattler coiled, wavered for an instant, then reared back its head.

  As the snake moved to strike, a hand flashed between it and Jesse, grabbing the rattler below its head and forcing it back. McCrae’s hand didn’t quite grasp high enough to keep the snake from lunging forward. It missed his arm but, swinging around in a wide arc, plunged its teeth into Bathsheba’s shoulder. She stiffened, eyes snapping wide, and cocked her head toward the creature.

  Rosen hesitated, afraid of shooting the woman. But McCrae already had opened a pocket knife, grabbed the twisting rattler and nearly sliced off its head. Tossing the snake aside, he pushed his trembling daughter to the floor and held the blade over her.

  Bathsheba looked up through half-closed eyes. She whispered weakly, “Daddy.”

  Leaning over her, he cut into the wound between the bite marks and sucked the poison. Spitting it on the floor, he shouted, “Call an ambulance!”

  He went back to work on the wound. Jesse knelt on the other side of Bathsheba, covering her with his jacket. Then he took her hand in his and held it tightly, as if he’d never let go.

  The telephone was on the night table beside the bed. While calling for an ambulance and the police, Rosen watched Claire. Like a child, she looked frightened without understanding why. Climbing down from the bed, she started toward Bathsheba. Rosen pulled her back and, in doing so, his hand rested on the gentle swell of her belly. Her hand closed over his. She looked up and smiled.

  “I’m gonna have a baby—Ben’s baby. Did you know that?”

  Rosen stared into her eyes, at that moment innocent as a baby’s. “Yes,” he said, and made another call.

  *

  Having dressed Claire in a warm quilted robe, Ruth sat beside her in bed, the young woman’s head nestled against her shoulder. They could’ve been
mother and daughter—the way they whispered, Claire smiling shyly, took some of the chill from the room. Some, but not all.

  Jesse remained on the floor where Bathsheba had lain, before the paramedics, accompanied by her father, had taken her to the hospital. His hand brushed against the carpet. Rosen was sure that, looking into his friend’s eyes, he’d still see Bathsheba’s reflection.

  He considered helping Jesse to his feet but, instead, sat beside him. Saying nothing, he waited patiently for a sign of recognition in the other man’s eyes. Finally, Jesse blinked hard.

  Rosen asked, “Are you all right?”

  Jesse looked around the room, as if seeing it for the first time, then shook his head slowly. “All right? I suppose I’d have to know who I am to answer a question like that. I know who I was—great-grandson of the man who rode with Nathan Bedford Forrest and an unworthy bearer of the Compton name.”

  “Maybe you’d better take it easy.”

  “Actually I do know, not who, but what, I am—a common fool, plaything of God above and His most wondrous creation below, woman. Can I dare dignify myself as a tragic hero? How low I’ve fallen. All that’s left is the ending. How would it end in a play, Nate—a walk offstage and a pistol shot as the curtain falls?”

  “Maybe in a very bad melodrama. But that’s not for you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you haven’t died today.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Really. In fact, maybe you’ve been born, because you finally felt what your family and work kept hidden—the pain of being alive. The pain of losing someone you love, the pain of losing your God. You want me to feel sorry for you? Well, you’ve come to the wrong place, because I’ve been there.”

  “I was such a fool. She . . . how she shamed me.”

  “Sure, and you’re the first man that’s ever happened to. You should write a book.”

  Jesse ran a hand through his hair. “The church, everything I believed in was a lie.”

  “Maybe for you the church lied, because it was always Bathsheba first. As McCrae might say, it wasn’t really the Spirit coming over you.”

  “Was it all a lie?”

  Closing his eyes for a moment, Rosen saw himself as a boy watching his father rocking back and forth, deep in study, then years later—his father’s face as he closed the door between them forever. “You admitted once that you really asked me here to help you win Bathsheba. Well, I came here for more than just the case. I wanted to see if there were those whom God touched selflessly, solely from love.”

  “And Reverend McCrae?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know, but I think McCrae truly believes. Maybe that’s enough. Maybe that was worth the trip.”

  Jesse gripped Rosen’s shoulder, hesitated, then stood. He helped his friend up and said, “I’m going for a little walk.”

  “Not off a pier?”

  “No, to the corner store. I need a cigarette awfully bad. See you outside in a few minutes. I’d like to talk more tonight. Just like law school, there’s a great deal I need to have explained.”

  “Just like law school, we’ll struggle through it together, Chavrusa. I’ll stop and pick up a bottle of wine.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll choose the wine. I’ve already suffered enough.”

  Watching Jesse leave, Rosen felt a hand on his arm.

  “Will he be all right?” Ruth asked.

  “Sure, but keep an eye on him for me. Let me know how he’s doing. You probably would anyway.”

  “You’re leaving town?”

  “I think my friend and I are going to pull an all-nighter, but I’ll catch a plane back to D.C. tomorrow. There’s nothing more for me to do here.”

  Ruth glanced at Claire, playing with her hair while curled in the corner of her bed. “I was hoping you’d stay on and be her lawyer. I don’t believe that girl had anything to do with Ben’s death. She’s a child having a child.”

  “Maybe you’re right. There are plenty of psychiatrists who’ll agree. Like a child, she did what other people expected of her. She was a dutiful wife to Ben Hobbes, good friend to Hec Perry, devoted church member to Reverend McCrae, and passionate lover to Bathsheba. Don’t worry—with her money, Claire will be able to buy the best defense attorney possible. Most importantly, she’s got you.”

  “Still sorry to see you go.”

  “If you’re worried about your son, I talked to Whitcomb. The D.A.’s going to drop most of the charges against Danny in exchange for his testimony against Popper Johnston. He’ll probably get probation for possession of marijuana, but you let me know if there’re any problems. I think District Attorney Grimes would do anything to keep me out of this town.”

  Tears rimmed her eyes. “Bless you, Nate. I do wish you’d stay on a spell.”

  “I’m tempted. I like Earlyville. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in a place where everyone’s treated like family. Not since my childhood. It just hurts too much.” She tightened her hand on his arm as he continued, “Besides, I’ve got my own family problems to put in order.”

  “Your Sarah?”

  “Yes, and what used to be my Bess.” Almost sighing, he added, “I want to thank you, Ruth. That goodness Reverend McCrae kept talking about, I saw it in your eyes all along. Oh, and you finally got me to like grits.”

  The laugh caught in her throat as she hugged him tightly, then hurried back to Claire.

  Rosen turned to leave. Near the door lay the rattlesnake McCrae had killed. It was a poor dumb creature, a victim the same as Ben Hobbes, Lemuel Banks, and Aadams had been. Like a mirror, it had only reflected the evil impulse in men and women. A poor dumb creature. Still, Rosen gave it a wide berth as he walked from the room.

  As that great psychic Madame Tallulah—also known as Ida—would’ve said, “Nu, why take chances?”

  THE SPIRIT THAT KILLS

  For Sonia

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgments

  June

  Chapter One – MONDAY EVENING

  Chapter Two – MONDAY NIGHT

  Chapter Three – WEDNESDAY MORNING

  Chapter Four – WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON

  Chapter Five – WEDNESDAY EVENING

  Chapter Six – THURSDAY MORNING

  Chapter Seven – THURSDAY AFTERNOON

  Chapter Eight – THURSDAY EVENING

  Chapter Nine – THURSDAY NIGHT

  Chapter Ten – FRIDAY MORNING

  Chapter Eleven – SATURDAY MORNING

  Chapter Twelve – MONDAY MORNING

  January

  Chapter Thirteen – SUNDAY AFTERNOON

  Chapter Fourteen – MONDAY AFTERNOON

  Chapter Fifteen – TUESDAY MORNING

  Chapter Sixteen – TUESDAY NOON

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen – TUESDAY EVENING

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One – TUESDAY NIGHT

  Chapter Twenty-Two – THURSDAY MORNING

  Acknowledgments

  The author wishes to thank the following people: Dr. James Gillihan, expert on Lakota burial rites; Fran Lambert, champion reiner; Brother Simon of the Holy Rosary Mission, Pine Ridge Reservation; the Native American Education Center of Chicago; and, especially, Kathy, Jim, and Stuart Hood of Spearfish, South Dakota.

  June

  Chapter One – MONDAY EVENING

  The starlings perched on the corral could have warned her, but Grace didn’t know their language. The way they watched, silent and dark as judges, made her believe something was wrong. Maybe the weather. It was too hot for so late in the day—too hot for rain, yet far in the horizon, lightning glinted off a flint-colored sky. Yes, the starlings could have warned her about whatever was coming, but she was only a woman and a half-breed and didn’t know their language.

  She shifted in the saddle, as her horse’s ears pricked.

  “What is it, Curly? Smell rain?”

  He pawed the gr
ound, impatient to continue.

  “All right, boy, one more time.”

  Brushing back her long braids, Grace brought in her heels to put Curly into a full run. Half-closing her eyes, she smiled, loving the way his long mane billowed in the wind. She turned him sharply, did two standing circles, changed leads as they loped around the corral, then, turning again, put him into another run. Leaning forward, Grace wrapped her reins around the saddle horn, spread her hands like wings, and flew with Curly across the corral. She watched the red wraps of his forelegs flash and sensed they were nearing the railing. Suddenly she shouted, “Whoa!” and leaned back. Curly’s hind legs locked, while his front hooves churned to a halt a foot before the fence, directly in front of the starlings, who didn’t so much as flutter a wing. A perfect slide.

  “Tell me that wasn’t worth eighty points,” Grace challenged the birds. “That was nice, Curly. Do as well this Saturday, and we’ll win it. There’s an extra bag of carrots in it for you.” She patted his neck, filling the air with dust. “Ooh, we’d better get you a nice cool shower before supper’s ready.”

  Dismounting, Grace opened the corral gate and walked her horse to the hitching post in front of the barn. She put away the saddle and bridle, removed the wraps on his forelegs, and, picking up the hose, adjusted the nozzle to a cold hard stream. She sprayed Curly from braided tail to neck. He shook his head and, sticking out his tongue, lapped the water, then suddenly nuzzled against her, soaking her T-shirt.

  “Curly, you slob!” But she hugged him back and murmured, “You’re a good boy, aren’t you.”

  Sighing, she scraped the water from his coat, combed the tangles from his mane, and led him back to his stall.

  “You stay inside tonight—might rain. I’ll come see you before going to work.” Petting his nose, she added, “Love you.”

  Grace walked across the yard to the porch steps. Turning, she gazed past the corral, up the long sloping prairie to the top of the ridge. Most of the grass had already been cut and rolled into bundles; she’d finish gathering them tomorrow. Only the very top of the ridge had been left alone, as always. “For our brothers, the buffalo,” her father said, even though the buffalo had been gone a hundred years. The grass stood long and dark against the gray sky, almost as dark as the Black Hills in the distance. Her father’s sacred land, surrounded by their people’s sacred land, or so he said. To her it was a waste of good hay.