Nate Rosen Investigates

by Ron Levitsky

  “Another game,” Rosen said.

  The policeman shook his head. “That other thing I started to tell you. There were two sets of footprints up on the road near the tire tracks.”

  “Sure, Keeshin’s and Will’s.”

  “I guess, but one set looked awful big. Big and deep. Ike, you still carry that old hunting rifle?”

  “Yeah, back there somewhere. I think under that old water heater.”

  “Dig it out, and see that it’s loaded.”

  “That rifle only loads one bullet at a time.”

  Cross Dog accelerated the van. “One bullet is all I’ll need.”

  Chapter Twenty-One – TUESDAY NIGHT

  Grace had always wondered about her father’s experiences within his vision pit. He had seen spirits, flown across the sky with his brothers the elk, and visited the lands of their grandfathers when the grass was tall and the buffalo wandered thick as the trees that covered the Black Hills. He had done all this while alone, within the dark bosom of the earth.

  The vision pit was only for men, but there were times in the deep quiet of night, behind the plywood wall of the dispatch unit, when Grace saw things too. Now, her hand stroking Stevie’s turtle doll, she saw her brother as a little boy running across the ridge, with the small bow and arrows their father had made for him. His hair was long, and he ran barefoot almost as quickly as the squirrels he was chasing. How proud their mother was of him, her little hunter. Never mind he was playing hooky from school or that, later on, he lost job after job for being late or leaving when he pleased. You couldn’t chain a warrior to the white man’s clock.

  What would her mother have said now?

  Closing her eyes, Grace saw her own son as a little boy, sitting at his grandfather’s feet while listening to the old Lakota stories. How Stevie’s eyes had widened, as he imagined the beautiful White Buffalo-Calf Maiden, sent by the buffalo people to give the Lakota the sacred pipe. Or Stone Boy magically bringing back to life his ten uncles.

  Stevie would be all right. Thanks to Dr. Hartrey, he was getting better. He was getting better, and her father was innocent, and whatever the law was going to do to Will, she wouldn’t go on worrying about him. God, she was tired of worrying.

  The receiver crackled, and she logged a call from one of the squad cars about breaking up a barroom fight. 11:32. She thought of calling the sheriff’s office in Deadwood—no. What could they tell her, other than that Will was in jail? Tom and her father were spending the night there; they’d tell her everything tomorrow. Maybe she should drive into Deadwood tomorrow morning. Maybe Jack would . . . She shook her head. Damn it, she wouldn’t burden him with any more of this.

  “Another quiet one.” Skinny Al sat at Elroy’s desk, slurping the last of his milk shake. He’d taken over Elroy Baker’s job as assistant police chief. “You all right, Gracie?”

  She nodded.

  “’Cause if you’d rather get away from here, I’ll take over. You know how I hate filling out this paperwork.”

  The edges of her mouth tightened. “Thanks, Al. Maybe later.”

  “I heard Denny call in that fight. He should just toss ’em outside for ten minutes. If that don’t cool ’em off, nothing will. Hell of a night. Sure glad I’m not on patrol.”

  Grace thought again of calling Deadwood just to make sure Tom and the others had gotten there okay. Funny how she never worried about Tom. Like Stone Boy, he was tough enough to roll over whatever got in his way. Still . . .

  “Hi there.”

  She looked up to see Jack smiling at her. She couldn’t help but smile back.

  “Buy a lady a cup of coffee?”

  “I . . . uh . . . only came in a half hour ago. Don’t think I should—”

  “Nonsense. The last place you should be tonight is in a police station. Isn’t that right, Al?”

  Wiping his mouth with a napkin, the policeman nodded. “I just got through telling her that very thing. I can handle things here for awhile.”

  “Of course you can. Oh, by the way, the other day at the coffee shop you mentioned going to L.A. on vacation. That was the first week of February, right?”

  “Yes, sir. Why?”

  “I’ve got you a couple tickets for the Lakers game.”

  Al straightened in his chair. “Oh, that’s great! My boy’d give his right arm to see the Lakers. How much do I owe you?”

  “Forget it. I got the tickets through a friend who wasn’t going to use them anyway. Just have a good time.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “Not at all. Friends do friends favors all the time.”

  Grinning like a cresent moon, Al scratched his head. “Well, I . . . Gracie, what’re you sitting there for? Go out and have a cup of coffee with this gentleman. That’s an order.”

  Again, she couldn’t help but smile. “Yes, sir, Mr. Assistant Police Chief.” To Jack, “I was thinking about calling the sheriff in Deadwood.”

  “Perhaps you should let it alone for tonight. I spoke to Nate Rosen before he and the others left your house. Nate may stay on to defend Will.”

  “That’d be wonderful.”

  “I’m sure he’s taking care of everything. If you’d like, come along with me tomorrow morning when I drive Dr. Hartrey to the airport. Afterward, we’ll go over to Deadwood together. All right?”

  “Oh yes, I mean . . .” Glancing at Al, she lowered her voice. “It’s not right getting you so involved with my family.”

  “Perhaps I have an ulterior motive.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You will. Let’s get your coat on.”

  Jack followed Grace to the closet. He zipped the coat up to her throat, snapped the collar in place, and tied the hood snug around her head. She remembered her mother doing the same thing before sending her off to school. Like she was somebody’s little doll.

  She felt her cheeks burning. “We’re just going down the street to the coffee shop.”

  “Put your gloves on.”

  She giggled. “Now, Jack.”

  “Bye, Al.”

  “You two take your time.”

  Holding her tightly, Jack led her across the street, wind whistling through the tiny crevices between them. When Grace started to turn toward the coffee shop, Jack stopped her.

  “How about my place? Not only is the coffee better, but so’s the service.” When she hesitated, he added, “Just coffee, and a little conversation.”

  “All right.”

  They hurried into the alley and up the outside stairway to his apartment on the second floor. She followed him through a narrow hallway into the living room.

  Hanging up their coats, Jack said, “Make yourself comfortable while I put on the coffee. I just received a wonderful Kenyan blend. It’ll just take a few minutes to grind the beans.”

  She loved his living room; there was nothing quite like it in Bear Coat. Everything was clean and new and somehow made Jack seem that much more important. Along the wall to her left were two glass cases, one filled with tennis trophies and the other with games of chance—cards and dice in leather cases. In the corner stood a small desk, on which lay a legal pad, a stack of letters, and a sterling-silver letter opener with the initials J.F.K. Straight ahead a large window overlooked Main Street; on either side of its curtains hung framed photographs of Jack with different tennis players, some of whom Grace had seen on television. There was one painting of a group of cigar-smoking dogs playing poker.

  She sat in the white leather sectional, which faced walnut bookshelves holding a television and VCR surrounded by rows of law books. The matching leather chair stood a foot from her armrest. Chrome lamps, which seemed to grow from the floor on metal stems, illuminated the chair and sofa. A backgammon game lay open on the glass-topped table in front of her. Between the bookshelves and kitchenette stretched the darkened hallway leading to the bedrooms.

  She heard the whir of the grinder and, a moment later, smelled the strong aroma of fresh coff
ee. She looked past the eat-in counter into the kitchenette and saw Jack take two mugs from the shelf. He had changed clothes from earlier in the evening and now wore a lime cardigan. The cardigan seemed a little old fashioned, but Grace liked that too. It reminded her of all those men on TV she’d watched while growing up. Men in cardigans who read newspapers, smoked pipes, and always had time for their wives and children.

  “Coffee’ll be ready in another minute,” he said. “Would you like anything else?”

  “No, thanks. It smells real good.”

  He brought the steaming mugs on a silver tray, which he placed on the glass-topped table. He sat so close their sleeves touched. She inhaled his cologne and suddenly felt very warm.

  “Two sugars, right?” he said, serving her. “Careful, it’s very hot.”

  The coffee was strong but felt good going down. “Mmm.”

  It was nice, sitting quietly and sipping the coffee. Since the summer before, Grace had been to Jack’s apartment many times. Sometimes in the evening, sometimes in the morning after work, but almost always they’d made love. He was gentle, so gentle that afterward she’d feel as if maybe it hadn’t happened, maybe just a nice dream she’d woken from before it was quite over.

  But this was nicer.

  After a few minutes, he said, “A little while ago, I mentioned having an ulterior motive for being so interested in the welfare of your family. I hope what I’m about to say doesn’t come as a total surprise.”

  Reaching into his shirt pocket, he took out an engagement ring. He rotated the band so that the diamonds sparkled under the light. She held her mug tightly in both hands, even after they began to burn.

  He continued, “After all these months together, you must know how I feel about you. The picnics last summer, working out Stevie’s problems together, the times alone up here when . . .” He hesitated, clearing his throat. “I’ve met lots of women—I’ve never made any secret of that—but nobody like you. What I’m trying to say is that I love you and want to marry you.”

  Grace stared at the ring until the diamonds blurred like headlights in the rain. Wiping her eyes, she didn’t dare speak.

  “What’s the matter?” His hand touched her cheek. “Maybe I didn’t do it right—haven’t really had any practice at something like this. Should I get down on one knee? Like this?”

  He was about to lower himself, when she caught his arm.

  “No, don’t do that.” Her cheeks were burning. “I . . . I just don’t know what to say.”

  “Surely you must’ve had some idea.”

  She shook her head.

  “If I’ve embarrassed you, I’m truly—”

  “No, it’s not that. It’s just . . .” She took a deep breath, then exhaled very slowly, her eyes still on the ring.

  “Here.” He put the ring in the palm of her hand.

  She’d taken off her wedding band about a year after Steve died. Some folks thought that wasn’t right; Edna, the day dispatcher, had worn hers for twenty years since her husband’s death. But the Lakota part of Grace had told her a year was enough for the spirit to slip away. It didn’t mean she’d forgotten him. God, no. Every day . . . alone in bed was worse. She watched Jack’s ring sparkle in her hand.

  She turned to him, but he was gone.

  “Jack?”

  He stood at the window, looking down into the street. Lifting his hand slowly, he waved at somebody outside.

  “Jack, who’s there?”

  “I heard a car in the street.” He was speaking quietly, as if to himself. “It’s only an old drunk, that friend of your father’s.”

  “Ike?”

  He nodded. “What’s he doing here? It’s almost midnight.”

  “Bars close at midnight. Maybe he’s on his way home and decided to stop by the police station to cheer me up or find out more about Will. I hope he hasn’t got liquored up again. He’s been sober for the last six months.”

  Again Jack nodded. He returned to the couch and kissed her. “I think I know why you’re hesitating. Is it because of your late husband—a feeling of disloyalty?”

  “No. I’ll always have my love for Steve—”

  “I understand.”

  “—but I know I got to get on with my life. It’s not that.”

  “Then what?”

  “You can’t really want me, not after all those other women. I don’t understand why you’re even here in this little two-bit town.”

  He laughed. “How many times do I have to tell you? Those women are cheap and phony compared to you. I guess I’ll just have to make your mind up for you. Justice of the peace next week?”

  “But . . .”

  He kissed her again, then held her hands tightly. “You’ve no idea how much I want to marry you.”

  He was about to slip the ring on her finger, when somebody knocked on the door.

  His eyes narrowed. “Who in the world . . .?”

  “Probably Ike. Al must’ve told him I was with you. He probably just wants to know about Father and Will. Don’t be too hard on him.”

  “No doubt he’ll want to toast the happy couple, and with my best champagne. We may need a witness for the wedding, but surely not for the proposal.” He stood, the ring in his hand. “Think about what I’ve been saying. I’ll be right back.”

  As he stepped into the hallway, Grace looked at the table, where the two coffee mugs rested side by side. When they were first married and Steve’s rig was on an overnight haul, she’d set both their cups on the kitchen table, ready for coffee the moment he stepped through the door. It’d be nice doing that again.

  “Is that Ike?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder. “Jack?” When he didn’t reply, she stood. “Jack?”

  He backed into the room followed by Tom, who was holding an old rifle in one hand like a pistol. Seeing her, Tom stopped in his tracks.

  “Gracie, what the hell are you doing here?”

  She stared at the rifle pointed at Jack’s chest. She couldn’t understand. A hand was touching her arm.

  Rosen stood beside her near the sofa. “You’d better sit down.”

  “What for? What’s wrong? Jack?”

  He had backed into the corner near the desk. “Grace, I . . .”

  “Shut up,” Tom said. “Don’t even look at her.”

  Grace ran to Jack, who put one arm around her.

  “I warned you.” The edge in Tom’s voice grew sharper, and his hand flexed the rifle butt.

  Jack smiled. “You really should’ve called first. Grace and I would like to be alone.” He opened his hand to show the ring. “You see, I’ve proposed marriage, and she was just about to accept. Weren’t you, darling?”

  For a moment Tom’s jaw shut tightly and his face went smooth as a stone, like her father’s did when talking to the white man. Then he said very quietly, “It’s too bad Will won’t be there for the wedding.”

  Grace shook her head hard. “For God’s sake, Tom, what’s this all about?”

  Slowly his eyes softened, until he was finally the man she knew. “You tell her, Rosen.”

  The lawyer stared hard at Tom, then nodded. “I’m sorry, Grace. Will is dead.”

  “Dead?”

  “He died on the highway—”

  “No.”

  “Listen, Grace. Will was murdered. Keeshin murdered your brother.”

  She heard the words, but they didn’t make any sense, like a drunkard’s mumbling. None of this made any sense. The rifle . . . why was the rifle pointing at Jack? He was still smiling. This was just a joke. It had to be a joke, or he wouldn’t be smiling.

  Jack said, “Congratulations, Nate. Looks like you’ve won this set.”

  “Grace, he killed your brother and left us to die in the cold.”

  She shook her head.

  “He’s a crook. With your brother and father dead, he’d marry you and use your land to make a deal with the town. He’d cut himself into the gambling, as a front for the mob. In a few years, they’d be ru
nning all the action. Isn’t that right, Keeshin?”

  Grace felt her knees grow weak. She began to sink to the ground, but Jack still gripped her. Tom took a step toward them.

  From behind Rosen, somebody shouted, “Hold it, Cross Dog!”

  At that same instant, Jack grabbed the letter opener from the desk and held it to her throat.

  Chick Cantrell stood just inside the bedroom hallway. He pointed a gun at Tom, who put his left hand under the rifle stock to balance it.

  “Don’t try it,” Jack said. “You start shooting, and something might happen to Grace. You wouldn’t want to take that chance. Now, very carefully, toss the rifle straight back, toward the door. That’s right.”

  Cantrell stepped into the living room. He wore an old flannel shirt, jeans, and work boots. His hair and beard were matted, and even from the other end of the room Grace could smell him.

  “What the hell are we gonna do now?”

  As if he hadn’t heard, Jack tossed the letter opener back onto the desk. Still holding Grace tightly, he unlocked the top drawer and took out a gun.

  “There really isn’t any choice. Get your things.”

  “For Chrissakes, we’re right across the street from the police station. The whole stinking town must be crawling with cops.”

  “I don’t think so. If Tom had stopped at the police station, he would’ve known Grace was here. Besides, he’s the kind of man who wouldn’t call any backup to bring me in. He’d want that John Wayne mano-a-mano finish.” Pulling Grace back two steps, he glanced out the window. “I believe I’m right. It’s awfully quiet out there. Get my overnight bag—top shelf of my bedroom closet. It’s been packed for just such an emergency.”

  Cross Dog said to Cantrell, “That deep set of footprints in the snow—yours. I shoulda known. You were hiding in Keeshin’s Jeep all along. When Will took the Jeep, you knocked him out, drove a few miles ahead and waited for Keeshin. After he drove the Blazer off the road into the post, you carried Will’s body to the other car—that’s why your boot-prints were so deep. You finished him off, made it look like an accident, then you and Keeshin walked back up to the Jeep and drove away.”