by Joseph Flynn
All John wanted at the moment was a phone call from Rebecca.
But he could see one day wanting what Great-grandfather did.
That or Rebecca wanting to be with him again.
White River tried the chicken and gave that a nod of approval.
He told John, “Mr. Morley is going to give me a great gift.”
“What’s that?”
“He’s going to do a painting of Awinita for me. He did a pencil sketch under my direction and the likeness was so true to my memory it brought tears to my eyes. The painting will be in oils and that might cause more longing for me than I can bear. The man is a great artist and his talent with his computer images is truly magical.”
More real than reality, John remembered.
Only now the idea of magic brought another subject to mind.
“Grandfather, how well do you know Marlene Flower Moon?”
White River took a sip of his sparkling water and set the bottle down.
He hadn’t bothered with his glass.
Looking John in the eye, he asked, “Are you asking if I know she is Coyote? Yes, of course, I do. We have met many times over the course of all my years.”
John found that very interesting. Maybe Coyote was interested in more than just him. Maybe there was a familial link, a dance of generations in play here. John asked, “Has she ever threatened you?”
“Many times.” White River chuckled. “Not so much anymore. The closer my time comes to passing on from this life the less fearful any threat becomes … and I’ve told Coyote she will have to deal with Awinita’s angry spirit if she causes me too much trouble. Coyote didn’t like that idea at all.”
The old man returned to eating his chicken and rice. John looked at him without speaking. To be at peace with yourself at White River’s age was a great gift. John was glad now that Great-grandfather had stolen the Super Chief. Pouring the laments and sorrows of an overwhelmed people into an icon of the new age had been an act of both courage and genius.
Awinita’s spirit surely must have been proud.
She may even have looked upon John with favor because that was when he had an epiphany. If the spirit of one strong woman might stand up to Coyote, why couldn’t the spirit of another strong woman do the same? John wasn’t thinking of his own wife. Rebecca certainly had the courage, but the idea of dealing with otherworldly challenges would be hard for her to accept, much less rise to the fight.
His mother, however — and his father, to be fair — would have no trouble going against Coyote in whatever plane of being either side chose. They’d already saved his life when he was a newborn. But why would they renew the battle now?
If that was indeed what was happening.
In his bones, he felt it was.
Marlene had gone into hiding because of something his parents had done.
He’d have to find out exactly what was going on, but not tonight.
“Very good food,” White River said.
He’d finished eating before John had.
John said, “Would you like me to ask President Morrissey to grant you clemency? Remove any conditions from your release or your freedom of movement.”
The old man smiled. John thought he even saw Great-grandfather’s eyes misting.
“Will you still let me live with you?”
“Always. Right up until the end. Yours or mine, whichever comes first.”
White River laughed. “We’ll both pray mine does. Yes, I would like clemency. It is another magical thing that my grandson is so close to the person who can do such things.” He got to his feet. “And now I must have my rest.”
“You’re okay sleeping on the floor?”
White River nodded. “The carpet is deep pile and nicely padded, quite comfortable with the quilt and pillow.”
“Say hello to Awinita for me,” John said.
The old man smiled. “Your grandmother is proud of you, too.”
John was cleaning up the kitchen when his phone rang.
It was Rebecca. She said, “Guess what I’m wearing.”
“What?”
“Nothing at all.”
Chapter 3
Wednesday, January 25, 2017
Florida Avenue — Washington, DC
John rose early that morning. He silently looked in on Great-grandfather, supposing that would be a daily obligation from now on. Making sure the old guy was still present and accounted for, hadn’t left to rejoin a mate that even death hadn’t been able to take from him. White River’s eyes danced beneath their lids; he was dreaming. The corners of his mouth turned up as if he had good reason to smile. John eased out and closed the door soundlessly.
Great-grandfather’s resting happiness brought to mind John’s phone conversation with Rebecca. She’d made believe he’d never seen her nude before. He’d played along, oohed and aahed at appropriate points of the narrative. It was all good, silly fun. They’d laughed and promised to find time together as soon as possible, and John slept soundly the whole night through.
He couldn’t remember having any dreams, but he woke with a spring in his step and a feeling that everything would work out, if not perfectly at least to his general satisfaction. As a sign that he was not just being foolishly optimistic, he’d awakened with an idea that might help him solve one of his problems.
After eating breakfast and waiting as long as his patience allowed, he called Cale Tucker at the NSA. Maybe a young guy like him was a go-getter and would be at his desk first thing in the morning. Of course, if Cale had a girlfriend who wasn’t on the other side of the country …
The NSA whiz kid answered on the first ring. “Director Tall Wolf, wish I had some good news.”
“So nothing yet,” John said.
“Sorry, no … and word came down that this matter is now the FBI’s case exclusively. So I was told to butt out until and unless otherwise advised.”
“It’s not the FBI’s case until Saturday. That’s the word I got from the White House.”
“Yeah? Who at the White House gave you that word?”
“Byron DeWitt. You know who he is?”
“Oh, yeah. So you know the President’s husband.”
“We’re buds.”
The NSA kid was silent for a moment, evaluating John’s claim.
Then he said, “I don’t suppose you could ask him to give me a call.”
“Verifying what I just told you? I can do that. Might not be for an hour or two. Wouldn’t want to wake him up or pull him out of a therapy session. So why don’t I tell you what kind of help I need, and you can get a head start while awaiting confirmation.”
“I … suppose I could do that quietly, but I would need official word before I could get back to you.”
“Understandable. I wouldn’t want you to lose your job.”
“Glad you understand my position. What do you need?”
“The deputy director of the National Museum of the American Indian is a woman named Nelda Freeland. I’d like to know the names and phone numbers of anyone she called either from her office phone or personal phone from, say, three p.m. until midnight yesterday.”
John had the thought that his visit to Nelda might well have provoked her to call Aunt Marlene. If the NSA could pinpoint where Marlene had taken the call, if one had been made, that might be helpful to John’s understanding of what devilry she was planning.
“This is related to the case we discussed?” Cale asked.
“No.” John didn’t want to lie to the kid. “It has to do with another case, but regarding the missing item we discussed, I do have a possible suspect. His name is Wilbur Rosewell. He lives in Omaha, Nebraska.” He gave Cale the man’s street address.
“How’d you find this guy?” the kid asked.
“He took a run at my Great-grandfather and me. Tried to assault us.”
“Wow. So what happened, you got his info but let him get away?”
“No, we turned him over to the MPD. They handed him to the
FBI. They cut him loose.”
“Because?”
“They think it’s possible he’s just a screw-loose street criminal.”
“But you think otherwise?”
“Dr. Lisle is also from Omaha. The native half of her family has been there for hundreds of years. You think it was just a coincidence someone else from Omaha decided to take a run at me?”
Cale said, “You put it that way, no.”
“You know what, something else I should have thought of earlier, can you check the phone records of everyone who works in Dr. Lisle’s lab?”
“We can, yeah, but you’ll need some real juice to get that approved.”
John sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to call the President then.”
Cale asked, “She’ll take your call?”
“No doubt,” John told him. “She’s waiting for it.”
Then he added, “Let me know about Nelda Freeland as soon as you can, okay?”
“An assistant museum director? Sure, I’m authorized to snoop someone like that.”
John had just clicked off when his phone rang. Cale calling back with a question he’d forgotten to ask, he thought. But his caller ID said Metro Police. Had to be Captain Rockelle Bullard, and it was.
“Good morning, Mr. Director,” she said.
“Captain.”
“Just following up on Mr. Wilbur Rosewell. Two of my people, independent types, figured that since they weren’t being asked to make an arrest or otherwise assert their police powers, they could drive across jurisdictional lines like any other citizens. They followed Mr. Rosewell to Dulles Airport. They saw him purchase a first-class seat to Omaha, making a connection in Chicago along the way.”
“That’s some fine eyesight your people have,” John said.
“Yes, well, they got that information from a ticket agent. They didn’t have to show their badges or claim they were working on official business.”
John got the picture. “Your people look like cops and they talk like cops. The airline person understood the situation implicitly and exactly.”
“Uh-huh. They did give their names and badge numbers when they called the Chicago PD. Officers from that department working at O’Hare Airport confirmed seeing a man matching Rosewell’s description exit the flight from Dulles and board the one to Omaha.”
“I bet your people called the Omaha cops, too,” John said.
“They did. Gotta give them points for follow-through. Omaha officers saw Rosewell deplane there and followed him to the address he gave to the FBI. Being thorough types themselves, the Omaha police followed Rosewell to their city’s downtown business district this morning and saw him enter a commercial high-rise.”
“That was where their collegiality ended?” John asked.
“As far as surveillance, yes, but they gave my people some background on Mr. Rosewell. He once wore a badge in Omaha himself. Then he went into private investigations.”
John said, “Quite a few people doing that.”
“Sure are,” Rockelle agreed. “Anyway, Rosewell seems to have done well. Commands some serious money for his services. Serious for Omaha, anyway.”
John thought for a moment. “Someone with police experience, how would he explain taking a run at me? Makes me wonder what kind of story he gave the FBI. I’ll have to call Deputy Director Benjamin.”
Rockelle said, “No need. I’ve heard his story from her already. Rosewell said he was minding his own business, walking down the street, when he remembered an appointment. He saw he’d be late if he didn’t hurry, started to jog and your Great-grandpa stuck out a foot and tripped him. The fall left him dazed and by the time he pulled himself together the FBI had him in custody.”
John said, “All a big misunderstanding, huh? That wasn’t the way Great-grandfather and I saw it but it would be hard to argue with his story nonetheless.”
“One other thing,” Rockelle said. “Rosewell left the Omaha cops after killing two people. The first was an on-duty shooting deemed to be self-defense. The second was an off-duty bar fight. Words were exchanged and a much bigger guy pulled a knife on Rosewell. He not only took the knife away from the guy, he used it to slash both of the big guy’s arms in just the right places and he bled out. That was when Rosewell moved to the private sector.”
“How long ago was that, the knife fight?” John asked.
“Just a second. Okay, here it is. Eight years ago. What’re you thinking, he’s slowed down some?”
“Can’t say,” John said, “but we know he still has no fear of larger opponents. Something to keep in mind. Thank you, Captain.”
“Happy to help. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”
John was sitting at the breakfast table drinking a cup of green tea with honey and thinking about his conversations of that morning when White River appeared. John had set out a cup for him and poured some tea.
“Still hot,” he told the old man.
“Thank you.” White River took his tea straight. “Very nice.”
John only nodded.
“Something is bothering you, Grandson?”
“The man who tried to attack us the other night, did he strike you as … dangerous?”
“His intent was serious.”
“But what about his ability?”
“We can’t say. I did something unexpected, and he was focused on you. Had I let him pass, as he expected I would, he might have had some trick to use against you. And then he might have come back to attack me.”
That made sense to John. In Rosewell’s position, he probably wouldn’t have expected a man of White River’s age to intervene, and if Rosewell hadn’t wanted to leave a witness, he would have gone back to dispose of the old man.
“Thank you for sticking your foot out, Grandfather,” John said.
The old man chuckled. “It was the least I could do, also the most. I spoke with Awinita again last night.”
“That’s good.”
“Yes. She said you have powerful forces watching over you.”
“Including the two of you?”
“Of course, but others also.”
“Would you care to tell me who?”
“You will see,” White River said.
Just what John needed: another puzzle.
Farnam Street — Omaha, Nebraska
“You did what?” Brice Benard asked Wilbur Rosewell.
The Midwestern real estate titan and the cop-turned-PI sat in Benard’s office, separated by a desk that reminded Rosewell of the flight deck of the aircraft carrier on which he’d once served: a place from which engines of destruction might be launched at a moment’s notice.
Himself being one of them these days.
“Got arrested, just for a little bit,” Rosewell said.
“What the hell does that mean?” Benard asked. “The cops were full up and they didn’t have room for you?”
Rosewell laughed. “No, if it comes to that, they always make room. What I mean is no one came to any harm, and I denied doing anything wrong, which in this case is the truth because I was stopped short.”
“Start at the beginning and go slow,” Benard told Rosewell.
“I followed these two big Indians, the ones your friend in D.C. said might be trouble. They were tall but not bulked up. Sort of lean, both of them. One was older than original sin; the other looked like he might play a mean game of darts. Well, maybe, he might land a good punch, if you let him have the first shot, but I didn’t intend to do that.”
Benard saw fresh abrasions on Rosewell’s forehead, nose and chin.
“Somebody besides you got in the first lick,” he said.
“The old bastard, he moved faster than I ever thought possible. He stuck out his foot and tripped me. I got my hands up in time to keep from breaking any bones in my face, but …”
He shrugged.
“What the hell did you hope to do?” Benard asked.
“Lower my shoulder, slam it into the young guy’s
sternum, knock him on his ass, maybe step hard on an ankle and be on my way.”
“Figuring he would be smart enough to learn his lesson right off?” Benard asked.
“Yeah. You said you didn’t want anyone sticking his nose into this deal of yours.”
Rosewell had known better than to ask just what Benard’s deal was.
The less he knew, the smaller his area of legal exposure would be.
“So the cops let you go because they had nothing more than two Indians’ word that you tried to cause trouble?” Benard asked.
Rosewell shook his head. “The younger guy, the one your friend in D.C. is worried about, he’s a fed with the Bureau of Indian Affairs, the director of their Office of Justice Services. The Indians’ top cop. The local cops turned me over to the FBI.”
“Jesus,” Benard said.
“Yeah, exactly, but they were busy with other stuff, and, like I said, I hadn’t actually hurt anyone except myself. The feds offered to give me back to the local cops, but they weren’t interested either. I caught the first plane out and here I am.”
“Nobody followed you?”
Rosewell thought about that. “No police cruisers. An unmarked car?” He shrugged. “What was there to see? I already gave the FBI my right name and address. Maybe some cop saw me board a flight to Chicago. The trail might end there or they could’ve checked my ticket and saw I was flying on to Omaha. If they did that, so what? I went home. What could be more innocent?”
Benard wanted to argue that point but didn’t see a flaw in Rosewell’s logic.
Instead, he asked, “If you’d been successful, knocked the big young Indian on his ass, but he still didn’t get scared off, what did you have in mind then?”
“Nothing specific. Just take advantage of an opportunity to make it seem like genuine misfortune. Maybe set up an auto accident involving a tree, a body of water or a sixteen-wheeler. Something fatal but impossible to prove malice aforethought.”
Cops, especially one who’d already put two guys down, understood the legal liability of taking a life. Murder-for-hire could get you the death penalty in Nebraska. A 50-year sentence was another possibility, but not if the victim was a federal agent. Even if he was an Indian.
