The Man Who Fell from the Sky

by Margaret Coel

  “He never took Cutter! Why do you doubt me? When did you talk to Cutter?”

  “We had dinner last night.”

  “Really!” Ruth pushed back a clump of reddish hair that had blown over her forehead, then mopped at her forehead with the back of her hand. She was breathing heavily, chest rising and falling beneath the yellow blouse. After a long moment, she seemed to will herself to calm down. “I get it now,” she said. “Cutter has been trying to reconnect with people. He’s trying to find his roots here. But you have to understand your anonymous caller is a liar. Robert was alone when he died. Nobody else was there. I challenge the caller to come here and lie to my face.”

  Vicky took a moment before she said, “He sounded like he knew what he was talking about, Ruth. I believe he was telling the truth, and I think he’s scared.”

  “That’s crazy.” Ruth started pacing, from one metal pole to the next, eight steps forward, eight steps back. “I’m starting to think you’re crazy, too.”

  “If there is any truth to what he said, you would want to know, wouldn’t you?”

  Ruth stopped and glared at her. “There is no truth to it.”

  “You said Robert had a map handed down in the family. What about the other cousins? Did they know about the map?”

  “My God. The map! You can buy a map in any town in Fremont County. Yeah, the map was in the family, all right, and Robert got it from his grandfather, who”—she laughed—“bought it in a store somewhere. They’ve been selling Butch Cassidy maps for a hundred years. All phonies. There’s no buried treasure, except in the dreams of people like Robert.”

  “But Robert’s map predated the maps available today, and the piece of map I found was on rough, yellow paper. It looked old.”

  “Yes. It came from a store that predated the tourist shops today. Please, Vicky.” Ruth held out both hands, palms up. “No more of this nonsense. If you want to help me, talk to Gianelli. Talk to the coroner. Tell him to release Robert’s body. I have to get through this. I have to get him properly buried.”

  * * *

  HIGHWAY 287 SHIMMERED beneath the little clouds of dust and tumbleweeds blowing off the prairie. Except for the sound of the wind and the occasional scratching noise of a tumbleweed against the Ford, it was quiet. Traffic was light; a few cars passing, a truck ahead. Vicky had rolled the windows partway down, and now she drove with one hand on the wheel, the other holding her hair out of her eyes. She thought about talking to Gianelli again, but what did she have? Nothing. Except a small disagreement. Ruth insisting her husband always went treasure hunting alone, and Cutter saying he had gone with him. A problem between Robert and Ruth, probably. Let Gianelli figure out the reason behind the discrepancy.

  She squinted in the bright glare coming toward her, the sun glinting off the bumper of a truck. A loud roar as the truck passed, and then, the quiet of the plains again. It filled her with memories, as if the past were here, all around. A little girl in the back of Grandfather’s pickup, driving down this very road, narrower then, the paving rough and broken. Riding her pony across the fields, the wind in her face, cousins racing alongside. Always cousins, always family. She understood why Cutter had come back. Yes, it made sense. She had come back herself.

  She spotted the dark truck halfway down the block to her office. Parked at the curb, as if a client had dropped by, but it wasn’t a client. Cutter was here.

  16

  HERE, IN THE middle of the day? He hadn’t made an appointment, hadn’t said anything last night about stopping by. Vicky left the Ford in the driveway next to the brick bungalow she had turned into an office. She let herself through the front door and stopped.

  A ladder open in the middle of the reception area, and Cutter on the top step, setting a fluorescent lightbulb into the sockets. Balanced on the ladder top was the long, plastic light covering. “Hey, Vicky,” he said, without looking down.

  “What’s going on?” Stupid question, she thought. She could see what was going on. Annie jumped up and inched herself between the desk and the ladder. All black hair, shiny under the new light; dark, smiling eyes.

  “We’re finally getting that bulb replaced. Isn’t it great?” She pushed her hair back behind her ears and grinned. “Cutter offered to help, and I said, ‘Sure, why not.’”

  “You called the landlord? It’s his responsibility.”

  “Called and called and called.” Annie lifted both arms, as if she were beseeching heaven.

  “I’m glad to be of help.” Cutter fit the plastic covering into place and started down the ladder, a sureness about him. He snapped the ladder together and said, “I’ll just return this to the garage.”

  Vicky moved away from the open door as he hauled the ladder past her, out across the small porch. She could see the ladder bobbing outside the front windows. “When did he show up?”

  “He has been here an hour waiting for you. As long as he was hanging around, he wanted to know what he could do. I immediately thought of the bulb.” Annie glanced up at the white light streaming out of the fixture. “I really needed the light.”

  “Did he say why he came by?” Vicky threw the question over one shoulder as she walked past the beveled-glass doors into her private office. She could hear Annie’s footsteps behind her, and something hesitant in them now, second-guessing.

  “It’s okay, isn’t it?” Annie had rearranged her face, erased the grin as Vicky dropped into her swivel chair.

  “That he came by?”

  “I mean replacing the lightbulb. He’s so friendly and helpful.”

  “What did he want?”

  Annie stepped forward, set her hands on the edge of the desk, and leaned forward, as if whatever shadow had fallen between them had now vanished. “To see you. He waited and waited. The man is nothing if not patient.” She paused and leaned closer. “He’s interested in you, Vicky. He’s such a nice guy, and he’s a warrior.”

  “Got a minute?” Cutter poked his head past the beveled-glass doors.

  “Hold on,” Vicky said, and Annie stepped back and shut the doors, smiling at the man on the other side as she did so. “Anything else this afternoon?”

  Annie walked back to the desk. “Anonymous called again,” she said, her voice low. Sound traveled through the beveled glass. “He said you should be at Miner’s Café at five o’clock. He will call.”

  Vicky spun a ballpoint pen over the top of a legal pad. This was crazy. And yet, and yet . . . he could be telling the truth. “What else did he say?”

  “Nothing. I just took the message. Oh, I almost forgot.” Annie drew in a long breath. “I filed the motion with the district court to review the social services finding on Luke Wolf’s custody case. And Bernie White Horse made an appointment for four o’clock. She didn’t say what it was about.”

  Bernie White Horse, one of Robert’s cousins. It was almost four now. “Okay. Tell Cutter to come in.”

  Annie walked back and flung open the doors. “Vicky only has a few minutes.”

  The man hurried past her: the trademark grin, the longish black hair that he pushed back with one hand. “A few minutes is all I need to convince you to let me take you out tonight.”

  Vicky shook her head. “I’m sorry. I have other plans.”

  “Break them. There’s a fair down by the river. Food, art, music. We’ll have a great time.”

  Vicky got to her feet. Just wanting to reconnect, she told herself, and yet something about his insistence, the way he had inserted himself into her life made her feel off-balance, a little dizzy. “I appreciate the invitation . . .”

  “Say yes.”

  Vicky hesitated. She was being foolish. Annie was right. A good man, a warrior. There was no reason not to say yes; no other pressing plans, no plans at all. It would be the chance to ask Cutter if Robert had ever mentioned taking anyone else along on his treasure hunts. There was t
he sound of the outside door opening and closing, the hush of voices in the outer office.

  Cutter must have seen her hesitation, sensed it in the half minute of silence, because he said, “Pick you up at seven?”

  “I’ll meet you on the corner at Third Street.”

  He bowed, as if in acknowledgment of a great performance, smiled, waved, and backed out of the office. She sat down again and waited for Annie to announce Bernie White Horse.

  * * *

  THERE WAS A family resemblance. Bernie might have been Robert Walking Bear’s sister; the same stout frame, thick arms and neck, narrow eyes sunk above rounded cheeks. A serious look in her eyes. Grayish hair pulled back into a bun, pink beaded earrings that matched the pink dress she wore. “You’ve met my husband.” She indicated the heavyset man a few steps behind her. “Big Man White Horse.”

  Vicky nodded and gestured them to the chairs in front of the desk. She had probably met Big Man at a powwow or fair; most likely he was at Ruth’s the day of Robert’s death. She had no memory of him. “I’m sorry about your cousin,” she said, trying for the polite pleasantries. Expected, even in a law office. “How are you doing?”

  “That’s why we’re here.” The woman scooted back in the chair and clasped her hands in her lap. The pink fabric folded over her fingers. “Robert stole from me. I want what belongs to me.” The man beside her nodded his massive head and clapped his cowboy hat over one knee.

  “Wait a minute . . .”

  “Let me take it from here.” The man interrupted. “This is hard for Bernie, accusing her own relative, but Robert was a sonofabitch. Ask anyone, they’ll tell you. Bernie’s grandfather wanted her to have the treasure map.”

  “That’s a fact.” Bernie jumped in, leaning forward now. “I remember when he brought me out to the barn and took a brown box off the shelf. He opened the box and . . . I can see it today. There was a real old map, the only thing in the box, and Grandfather said, ‘This is yours. It belongs to you, and don’t you forget it, and don’t you let any of them thieving relatives take it from you.’”

  “Talking about Robert, you ask me,” Big Man said. “Soon as her grandfather died, Robert hightailed it out to the ranch and cleared out everything. Took the map. Been looking for the treasure ever since.”

  “Listen, Bernie.” Vicky held up her hand. “I can’t help you. I’m a friend of Ruth’s, and it would be a conflict of interest.”

  “I don’t get it.” Bernie shifted toward her husband, who snorted but didn’t say anything. Then she turned back to Vicky. “You know a lot of people on the rez. You grew up there. Probably related to half the population. You help people all the time. You telling me when you help other clients, you don’t have a conflict of interest? I can prove the map is mine, you know. I can prove it.”

  “I’m not sure anyone knows where the map is.”

  “Robert kept it on him.”

  “Robert’s death is still under investigation.” Vicky shifted forward and forced herself to meet the burning looks of the couple across from her, as if she were looking into a campfire. “I doubt you need a lawyer. If you have proof that the map belonged to you, you should take the proof to the tribal police. They can help you recover stolen property.”

  Bernie pushed herself to her feet. “I thought you were one of us.” She was sputtering. Little flecks of spit littered the top of the desk. Big Man stood beside her and patted her back, murmuring something like, “We don’t need her. We’ll take care of this matter ourselves, like I told you. We got our own ways.”

  Vicky stood up. “I strongly advise you not to do anything illegal.”

  “Don’t look like you’re our lawyer, so we don’t need your advice,” Big Man said, guiding his wife toward the beveled-glass doors. Vicky could see the woman’s thick shoulders trembling under his hand, then Bernie burst into sobs that trailed behind them until they had crossed the reception area and the front door had slammed shut.

  Annie took a step into the office. “Everything okay?”

  Vicky sat back down. She closed her eyes against the image of Bernie’s husband, the mask of hatred on his face. The words reverberating silently around her: We got our own ways. What had he done? Killed a man for an old map that had already been destroyed? She forced the thought to the outer reaches of her mind. The anonymous caller had given an alternative story, and now that story, against all reason, had taken hold of her. She was like a juror: well, something else might have happened.

  She realized Annie was waiting, and she opened her eyes and tried to concentrate. “Everything’s fine,” she said.

  “Well, Roger and I will be at the café at five. If you’re going.”

  “It’s not necessary. The caller will have to come out of the shadows if he wants to talk to me.”

  Annie didn’t say anything for a moment. “We’ll hang around here past five o’clock.”

  “Thank you.” It was kind, Vicky knew. Kind and thoughtful, and God knew, she had been longing for kindness and thoughtfulness. “But no sense in your leaving late. I’ll finish up some work before I meet Cutter.” The court might set the hearing at any time, and she had to be ready to argue that Luke Wolf’s reports were positive. The man hadn’t had a drink since he had lost the right to see his son unsupervised. The neighbor who had called social services happened to be a friend of Luke’s ex-wife’s. And the ex-wife, planning to marry her boyfriend, had every motivation to remove Luke from their child’s life.

  “You’re meeting Cutter?” Annie said, a smile of approval now, all worry wiped from her face. “I like him, Vicky. To tell you the truth”—she lowered her voice and gave a backward glance toward the reception area—“if it weren’t for Roger, I’d be tempted to give you some competition.”

  * * *

  AT FIVE FIFTEEN, Annie stuck her head into the office and said she and Roger were off, but her cell was on in case Vicky needed anything. Vicky heard the front door close, the lock snap, and went back to working on the arguments she intended to make on Luke’s behalf. He had told the truth. No police calls to the house he and his wife had occupied, no record of any domestic abuse. She thumbed through a second report from the investigator she had hired. All the neighbors, except for the ex-wife’s friend, said he wasn’t a troublemaker. Stuck to his own business. They had seen him outside playing with his son, giving the kid horseback rides on his back.

  She realized some part of her was waiting for the phone to ring, muscles clenched, hand ready to grab the receiver. Once she thought she felt the tiny surge of energy before it was about to ring, but it hadn’t rung. She imagined the phone ringing at the Miner’s Café, a waitress picking up. Vicky Holden? No one here by that name. Wrong number.

  At twenty to seven, she shut down the computer, cleared her desk, and locked the papers in the filing cabinet. The wind was blowing, knocking at the eaves. A cottonwood branch scratched the window, an eerie sound, like that of a small animal trying to get inside. She turned off the lights and looked out the window. Clouds moving across the mountains were outlined in shades of purple and orange. A white carpet of cottonwood pollen lay over the backyard. She could probably ask Cutter to rake it up, she thought. He would do anything she needed. He wanted to help, just as he was helping Ruth. He wanted to be useful.

  She lifted her bag out of the desk drawer and walked through the office, turning off the lights in the reception area as she went. It was silly, this uneasy feeling about Cutter Walking Bear.

  17

  CUTTER STOOD ON the corner like a statue with people flowing around him toward the fair at City Park. Families with strollers and toddlers, couples holding hands, teenage girls in cutoffs and tee shirts, boys in blue jeans and cowboy hats—Cutter stood his ground. Cowboy hat tilted back, hands on his waist, a friendly, fixed smile on his face. Vicky had parked in a residential neighborhood several blocks away. Now she hurried around the groups of people
and waved. Cutter waved back and started toward her.

  “Glad you could make it.” He took her arm. “For a couple minutes there, I thought maybe you’d . . .” He took a moment, then hurried on: “Maybe something had come up.”

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve gone to a summer fair.” Why had she told him that? It made her sound pathetic, chained to her desk, tied to legal briefs.

  She was aware of the warm pressure of Cutter’s hand on her arm, guiding her across the sidewalk and onto the lawn that ran along the Popo Agie River. Crowds milled about the food and craft booths under white tents that swayed in the evening breeze. Still more crowds poured off the sidewalk and filled up the benches that flanked the wooden tables. Music was playing over by the riverbank, drums pounding, flutes singing. Through the crowd, Vicky could see the Arapaho dancers, blue, red, and silver regalia flashing in the sunlight.

  “I’ve checked out the place,” Cutter said, his grip tightening on her arm. “What’s your pleasure? Meatball or pork sandwiches, fried chicken, stew, Indian tacos.”

  “Definitely Indian tacos,” she told him.

  “I knew you’d say that.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him grin.

  They joined the line in front of the booth, a cacophony of sounds around them, the drums, the singers, the people chatting and calling to one another. Vicky recognized the two grandmothers behind the counter, Irene Hunting and Mo Fallsdown, punching small circles of dough until they were the size of a dinner plate, then dropping them into a pot of boiling oil for a moment or two, then flopping the tacos onto two paper plates. Spreading cooked, seasoned ground beef followed by chopped onions and tomatoes and sauces. Cutter ordered two iced teas. Together, the two of them, each balancing a taco plate and plastic glass of cold tea, made their way to a table that four teenage boys had vacated. They sat across from each other at one end, while a family filled in the rest of the benches—a white family with plates of chicken nuggets and glasses of Coke.