by Joseph Flynn
Coyote turned and leaped through a window that Bodaway hadn’t left open. He closed it quickly, knowing that wouldn’t keep the monster outside, but at least the frigid wind could be held at bay.
Stealing a car would be easy, but to give himself the biggest head-start, he’d have to leave immediately in the deepest darkness of the night. Packing the few pieces of clothing he owned and odds and ends of food in the cabin didn’t take long. He left the ham radio behind, but he took his MacBook.
He stole the Cree chief’s black Cadillac Escalade. The ignition fob was in the car.
He needed to gas up in Edmonton and he spotted an identical Caddy on the street. There was no point in stealing another copy of the same vehicle but the chief had a toolkit in his ride and Bodaway switched license plates with the other luxury SUV. The ploy was far from a guarantee that cops wouldn’t catch up with him, but it might delay things for a while, and …
There would probably be other black Escalades he could switch plates with down in the U.S. After that, if he was still on the run, and not being eaten alive, maybe he’d think of some other trick to keep going. He had to admit, it was a pleasure to be even relatively free again and using his mind in creative ways.
Looking ahead, he had to wonder: Who were these two people who had the power to scare a monster? He’d sure as hell better not get on their bad side. Well, he had his laptop with him. When he got too tired to drive, he’d find a Wi-Fi hotspot and google them.
Hayden Wolf and Serafina Wolf y Padilla.
He was crossing into the U.S., using an unguarded back road, when it finally hit him.
These people had to be related to John Tall Wolf, whom he’d once tried to kill.
Tall Wolf’s father and mother most likely.
And Coyote had to be afraid of them. Or she wouldn’t bother using him as her spy.
Despite his fear of Coyote, Bodaway thought he had to find a way to use these people to free himself from the monster. If they had the means to kill Coyote, he’d have to see that they got the opportunity.
After that, he could see if he still wanted to kill John Tall Wolf.
Florida Avenue — Washington, DC
John knew that Rebecca was an early riser, so he took the chance of calling her at 6:30 a.m. Pacific Time. She answered on the second ring. He was pleased to hear that she didn’t sound as if he’d awakened her.
“You were up before I called?” he asked.
“Yeah, for half an hour. I used to be the one who got you up, remember?”
“I do. It’s just one of the things I miss.”
“Me, too. You want to talk dirty to each other for ten minutes?”
“Sure. I’ll record it and play it back before I go to sleep tonight.”
Rebecca laughed but said, “No recording. It might fall into the wrong hands.”
“Funny you should mention something like that,” John said.
“What, the possibility of being either embarrassed or blackmailed?”
“No, the idea of people getting hold of something that isn’t theirs. That’s the core of a new case I’m working on.”
“You’re working a new case?” Excitement filled Rebecca’s voice. “Tell me all about it. You know, if it’s not government top secret or something.”
“It’s not like that, but please keep it to yourself anyway.” He told Rebecca about Dr. Lisle’s missing computer and the promising medical advance resident on it. That and the unlikely idea of three young kids being the thieves.
“Huh, that is strange,” she said.
“Especially, when it doesn’t seem there was any way a master thief could have pulled off the job, much less three munchkin criminals.” He explained the lab’s security measures. “Any overlooked solutions, on my part, that you might come up with will be gladly accepted.”
“Will do. Only it might take a bit longer than usual. I hired my first employee, Emily Proctor, a former LAPD lieutenant, and she brought our first case with her.”
John listened carefully to what his wife and her new partner would be investigating.
“So you have two signed contracts, each of which stipulates widely varying terms,” John said, “and the signatures on each are identical.”
“Right.”
“And Ms. Proctor has already considered the possibility that one of the signatures was mechanically reproduced.”
“We both thought of that. She’s having it checked out this morning. We’re inclined to think both signatures were done by hand, but only one came from our guy.”
John said, “If that’s the case, the other one might be a work of art.”
Rebecca picked right up on that. “You’re saying the other one involves an artist? We thought of that, too. We’re going to look at people who’ve got criminal records for forgery and/or counterfeiting.”
John stayed silent for a minute. Rebecca interpreted that correctly, too.
“You think we’re still overlooking something,” she said.
“I took a painting class in college.”
“You never told me that.”
“I was trying to broaden my horizons … and there was this girl.”
Rebecca laughed. “I bet there was. So you never got far with either her or your canvas.”
“Right. But my point here is the instructor was a whiz. One of the things she showed us was with a keen eye, a good hand and the ability to see the reality of an object —”
“The reality?”
“The light and shadow, the curves and planes, the varying depths and shades of color: once we could see that, we should be able to paint anything. As an example, she had everyone in the class write his or her name in a column on this big piece of paper. Then, alongside our signatures, she painted duplicates with a brush. They were spot on. The trick she said was to see each letter in our signatures as an object, not part of a name. Then, if you were any good, you just knocked out a knockoff signature.”
Rebecca was silent for several seconds.
“And you weren’t any good at it?”
“Terrible.”
“By then you knew the girl you’d had your eye on was out of reach.”
“Far out of reach.”
“Was anyone in class good at this exercise?”
“Four of five of the students,” John said.
“Are you ratting out your old classmates or teacher here?”
“I’m just suggesting you add a fine artist to your potential list of suspects,” he told her.
“Okay, that’s good. Emily and I will do that. What do I owe you for the tip?”
“Call me tonight and talk dirty,” John said. “Moans, groans, the works.”
Rebecca laughed. “Will do. You have anything else you’d like to share?”
John told her the President wanted him to be the next Secretary of the Interior.
“What? Are you going to accept?”
“I’m going to suggest she nominate my great-grandfather instead.”
“Isn’t he still in prison?”
John explained that development, too, and both of them got a later start on their days than they had planned.
After saying goodbye to Rebecca, John showered and got dressed — short of adding his tie and donning his suit coat. He liked to dress comfortably in his own digs whenever possible. Stepping out of his bedroom, he found Alan White River at the kitchen table eating dry cornflakes and washing the cereal down with a glass of orange juice.
Great-grandfather was reading the copy of the New York Times that John had delivered daily. Apparently, even at his age, the old man didn’t need reading glasses. John’s other subscription news source, the Washington Post, was neatly positioned in front of John’s usual place at the table.
How the old man knew which seat he favored, John couldn’t guess.
Scent was the only possibility he could think of. Of course, the old guy would have to be part bloodhound to do that. Then again, maybe he was.
White River w
as wearing the same denim shirt, jeans and work boots he’d had on yesterday. The old Carhartt Duck Coat he’d had on yesterday was probably neatly hung in the closet of the bedroom he’d used last night, John thought.
He didn’t think he’d have to worry about his guest making a mess of his apartment.
“Anything else I can get you to eat before I sit down?” John asked.
“I had my eye on that apple on the counter, but it’s the last one. Didn’t want to take it, if you want it.”
John rinsed the apple with tap water. Set it on a napkin in front of the old man.
“Enjoy.”
“Thank you.” He took a sizable bite. White River apparently had a healthy set of teeth, too.
John took two bran muffins out of the fridge, warmed them in the microwave, poured a glass of orange juice for himself and sat down opposite his great-grandfather. Before he could read the headline on the Post, White River said, “You are a handsome young man.”
That was a compliment John had never heard when he’d visited White River at FCI Morgantown. “Thank you.”
“You don’t need to wear your sunglasses in your apartment?”
“No.”
“You wore them when you came to see me in prison.”
John smiled. “Fluorescent light is a bit harsh for me, and sometimes I wear the shades for effect.”
White River nodded and grinned. “It’s a good one, that effect, with the size on you.”
John said, “Yeah, it can work well.”
The old man continued to look at him. His stare made John think White River had something in mind but wasn’t sharing it.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
White River said, “I think your parents must be good people, and I shouldn’t undo the fine work they put into you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think I may know a way to help you with your eyes. At least make you a little less dependent on your sunglasses. I thought maybe your parents might know the same thing, but maybe they thought having you learn to overcome a challenge would strengthen you.”
That idea left John speechless.
“Or perhaps I just know one or two things they don’t,” White River added. “I’m sure many people know far more than me.” He punctuated his self-deprecation with a grin and turned back to his newspaper.
Even so, John asked him, “How do you think you’d do as the Secretary of the Interior?”
White River looked up with a far broader smile. He was amused now. “I’m sure I’d anger so many people my tenure would be very brief.”
John liked that answer. “So would I.”
“You’ve been offered the job?” White River asked lightly.
“I have, just yesterday. The President called me. She wants another Native American for the position.”
“And you told her no?”
“I stalled. I’m holding out for Secretary of State.”
White River laughed and slapped his knee. “That would be magnificent.”
“Yeah, but I’m not going to hold my breath waiting for that offer.”
“I don’t see your idea coming my way either,” White River said. “Not at my age, even if I knew how old I am, and not with my prison record.”
“You’re right,” John said. He took a bite of a bran muffin. Swallowing, he said, “Maybe you could be a deputy secretary, though, the acting conscience of the department.”
White River laughed again. “You’re a very funny young man. Do you know of any government job title that includes the word ‘conscience’?”
John didn’t, but he told his great-grandfather about Margaret Sweeney becoming the chief ethics officer of James J. McGill’s new investigations agency.
“Now, that is interesting,” White River said. “Maybe they’d have a spot for me.”
John said, “Okay. I understand. I don’t want the job either.”
“Oh, I’d want it. I just don’t think it’ll be available before I turn two hundred.”
John said, “Let me talk to the President then. Maybe she can come up with an idea that won’t take so long.”
As if taking a cue, John’s phone rang.
It wasn’t the White House, though.
Cale Tucker from the NSA was calling.
Albuquerque, New Mexico
Bodaway parked the Cree chief’s stolen Escalade, decked out with its third set of stolen license plates, these from Arizona, in the long-term parking lot at Albuquerque International Sunport, the town’s major airport. He scoured any interior surface of the car on which he might have left a fingerprint with a HandiWipe, one of the items he’d picked up at a roadside Walmart.
He’d also purchased a cowboy hat called a Stormsnake, a pair of Panama Jack wraparound sunglasses and a disposable phone at the store. Nobody gave him a second look as he shopped, but he kept his head down anyway. Security cameras were everywhere in 21st century America. He paid cash for his purchases.
When Coyote had dumped Bodaway on the Cree Reserve in Alberta, she’d left him with his driver’s license and the credit cards in his given name, Thomas Bilbray. He’d gotten a $10,000 cash advance from his credit cards. His credit rating, despite his time in the wilderness, was still excellent. He realized now that Coyote had planned ahead to a time when she’d make use of him.
The one thing she’d withheld from him was his passport. He had no doubt Coyote could have tracked him down if he’d fled the country. It just would have taken her longer and, no question, she wouldn’t want to be bothered by the extra effort.
Bodaway walked away from the stolen Escalade. Even wearing his hat and shades, he kept his head down. The lot’s security cameras might capture a slight angle on his chin but that would be all. From behind, all they’d see that might be of interest was his backpack. The only items inside it were his remaining stash of cash and his MacBook.
He’d thought of buying a handgun and ammunition at Walmart, but New Mexico required a permit for concealed carry. You could carry openly without a permit but Bodaway didn’t think that would be a good idea. Not just yet anyway.
He caught a cab at the arrivals area of the airport and had it take him to the nearest coffee shop, a place called Epiphany Espresso. He bought a large cafe mocha and three apple turnovers, and found a quiet table where he booted up his laptop.
The first thing he needed was an inexpensive but reliable car. He wasn’t going to steal another ride. There was no need for that now. He didn’t have a criminal record, insofar as he knew, and he wasn’t going to acquire one unnecessarily.
Of course, John Tall Wolf would have heard he was the one who had planned to kill him, but there was no proof that he’d either formulated that plan or acted on it. He had tried to kill his great-grandfather and wound up shooting Marlene Flower Moon to his endless regret. There was no question in his mind, however, that Coyote had ratted him out to Tall Wolf.
Bodaway found a classified ad offering a 2002 Honda Accord with 150,000 miles on it for $2,000. The ad said, “Clean, runs great, need the money.”
He called the phone number in the ad and said he was at the airport, asked how long it would take to reach the seller by taxi. Thirty minutes was the reply. Committing the address to memory, he told the woman selling the car he could be there within an hour. He’d pay in cash if the car were what she said it was.
Having allowed some leeway with his time, Bodaway pulled up Google Earth on his laptop and typed in the Santa Fe address Coyote had given him. He wanted to get a look at the house where his targets lived. Coyote hadn’t told him to kill them, but he wouldn’t be surprised if that demand were the next order of business.
Having already shot Coyote’s human manifestation, Bodaway couldn’t plead that such a thing was beyond him.
Giving him a look at his target site was apparently beyond the reach of Google’s eye in the sky. The image that the app returned was a blurred view of a high desert garden. No dwelling of any kind showed up in th
e picture. There was what appeared to be an adobe wall around a large residential lot, but the interior space was empty.
Had the house at that street number been torn down, he wondered. If so, there were no signs of demolition. No leftover scraps of building materials that had been left behind. Not even a sign of a former foundation. Besides that, the wall around the lot looked not only intact but unblemished. If a house within its perimeter had been taken down, it should have shown either some signs of demolition damage or evidence of damage repaired.
There was neither.
Bodaway checked other houses up and down the block. Every one of them had what appeared to be an identical wall. Lot sizes varied but the walls looked to be the same in terms of both height and color. Tight zoning restrictions, Bodaway thought. Inside each of those other walls were adobe-style homes, larger or smaller, but again of a piece with the demanded traditional styles.
More to the point, each of them was clearly photographed.
Bodaway went back to his target address.
No house.
Then he remembered something he’d read in an old newspaper story. When Dick Cheney had been vice president, he’d had the pixels of Google Earth’s photographs of his official residence, Number One Observatory Circle, blurred to the point where the building seemed to disappear. Was that something that had happened to the house in Santa Fe, too?
Did the residents of the house have that kind of clout?
If so, that made him a lot more leery about snooping on them.
Problem was, he didn’t really have a choice. He finished his coffee and pastries, and left the caffeine bar to go buy a car.
John Tall Wolf’s Office — Washington, DC
“No luck finding Dr. Lisle’s laptop so far.” Cale Tucker had called John Tall Wolf to give him an update.
John had tried to suppress any expectation of good news, but he was still disappointed. He’d thought if he could wrap up this hunt quickly, he might scoot out to L.A. to see Rebecca and offer to lend an unofficial helping hand with her case. Now, that idea was shot.
Being married and living apart was proving to be a challenge.
