“He’s a one of a kind, all right,” Gilmore responded.
“What’s the deal on this guy?”
Coyote Cries glanced down the stairs and leaned closer against the door, so he could hear.
“Did he get railroaded just because he was Native American or something?” Dewitt asked bluntly. “He seems like such a nice guy. Not much of a talker.”
Gilmore laughed. “He is a nice guy. They call him The Reverend over in the pen. Some like him. Some hate him. But most stay out of his way. He was in for life with possibility of parole. Been in for twenty years. He was granted parole yesterday morning. First time in front of the board, and they let him go.”
Dewitt whistled. “That almost never happens, does it?”
“Not often,” Gilmore went on. “But what he had going for him was some of the prison guards spoke on his behalf. And no one spoke against him—not even the guys from the FBI who put him in prison originally.”
Dewitt whistled again. “I thought bureau guys never missed a chance to keep their perps behind bars.”
“Apparently the parole board sent a notice to the arresting FBI agent about the hearing. Everyone expected him to show up to testify against Coyote Cries. There’s some sort of personal problem with Coyote Cries.”
“What kind of problem?”
Gilmore said, “I can’t say that I blame the guy. The agent’s wife was murdered during the trial, and he thought Coyote Cries had something to do with it. But they could never prove it.”
Coyote Cries grinned. He remembered Thirteen. He fantasized about that white meat often.
“That’s rough.”
“The agent had a nervous breakdown or something.”
Good to know, Coyote Cries thought. He hadn’t heard that.
“Anyway, the guy is located at the Denver division, but he didn’t show up. The parole board just assumed that by his absence, it meant the bureau had no objection to granting Coyote Cries parole. So there you are.”
Dewitt grunted, “Well, I sure like him. He’s one hell of a worker. I’ll take anyone you got over there like Coyote Cries. Has he called in as you instructed?”
“Yep,” Gilmore answered. “Talked with him an hour ago. He said he enjoyed the work so far. Said the guys were really good to him.”
“Look forward to seeing him again tomorrow at two o’clock.”
“Unless something comes up between now and then,” Gilmore quipped.
Without a sound and knowing his plan was working, Coyote Cries tiptoed back down the stairs.
What Bernie Dewitt couldn’t know is how his weekend was destined for nothing but a shit storm. First, one of the primary 250-horsepower motors on the press machine would fail shortly after Coyote Cries left at midnight, and his three maintenance men would spend much of their weekend on the phone trying to locate a replacement motor.
The floor would be chaotic as employees scrambled to keep the other machines busy by running stockpiled and scrapped pieces through the process. His production team would stumble with their quotas since the motor wouldn’t arrive at the plant until the next morning.
He would have a rough day, indeed.
And in all that chaos, no one would notice—until twenty minutes after midnight, early Sunday morning—that Jeremiah Coyote Cries had not reported to work on Saturday.
Dewitt’s world would further erode to shit when he received the call about this from one of his supervisors.
The federal escort would pitch a fit, wanting to know what had happened to his prisoner, Jeremiah Coyote Cries. But Dewitt would have no answers—even if the cameras did confirm the escort’s story that he’d dropped Coyote Cries off for his shift. But the new employee had never clocked in.
No one ever noticed that Jeremiah Coyote Cries had never shown up for his shift.
He’d be long gone. Nowhere to be found.
Missing.
MATT JUZLIG WORKED THROUGH various mix designs for a customer’s special project.
“Look who’s here,” the woman behind the desk called to her boss.
He didn’t have time for her games. “Who is it, Judy?”
“That snake, Dick Roth.”
Juzlig glanced over his monitor toward the front door. On a Saturday? “Weekends are becoming a pattern for him.”
Judy’s disgust was obvious. “Because he wants to catch you doing something wrong. And he figures you won’t be expecting him on the weekend. Am I right?”
He didn’t answer. Of course she was right. The last thing he needed today was a visit from Roth—not because he was doing anything wrong, but because he was busy.
It was the busiest time of year for construction. His biggest customer had a pour starting on Monday, and he still needed to find a mix design that would meet specs and be profitable for his company. He had a lot to do, and he didn’t need an unannounced inspection on top of everything else.
He’d been working since five o’clock that morning trying to deliver mud to customers. This time of year, there never seemed to be enough daylight hours or enough ready-mix trucks, and the demands on his small company seemed to be growing exponentially each day.
He’d already visited three job sites this morning. Customers were grateful but wanting more and wanting it faster.
The last customer Juzlig visited had actually thrown his hard hat against the newly poured basement wall because Matt refused to double the agreed-upon number of trucks delivering. The subcontractor on the new jail being built in Glenwood Springs had expected a different reaction from what he got: Juzlig had simply waved and left the job site.
Demands by the ever-growing number of people in the small mountain town were increasing faster than Matt could supply. He was having trouble hiring drivers and purchasing new trucks. Almost every job was delayed in the area because no one could find the people to complete them. Unemployment in the booming economy of Colorado was at an all-time low, and although his profits were soaring along with the growth, Juzlig couldn’t capitalize on the natural expansion of his small business as much as he wanted.
He knew the game: The subcontractors were using him to tighten their construction timeline, so they could either minimize penalties for completing the jail late or earn bonuses for finishing early. Either way, he wasn’t going to jeopardize his business to profit that subcontractor.
There was too much at stake. And other projects needed his mud.
He’d only been back in the office for fifteen minutes, enjoying the first peace and quiet he’d had all day, when Roth showed up. For Matt, that surely meant another drain of cash from his growing business. And if he knew the slimy inspector, it probably meant the greedy bastard would want even more than last quarter.
It wasn’t that he couldn’t afford the protection money. What bothered him the most—disgusted him, really—was how much power such a small-minded man as Roth wielded. It made his skin crawl.
The federal government, and the EPA in particular, were designed to protect people from those in the industry who were unethical enough to put profit ahead of health and the surrounding environment. Although the majority of businesses in the industry were ethical and practiced corporate responsibility, they were all considered suspect under the regulations.
Yet here was this guy, working for the powerful regulatory agency, who was more unethical than those in the industry who were ignoring their responsibility or snubbing the laws. Matt just wanted to do his job and do it right—without interference or a shakedown.
He had been paying this slime for over two years, and each time it seemed to become more difficult for him. It was getting painful. He just couldn’t keep his mouth shut any longer. He’d called the FBI because he was sick and tired of Roth’s demands and the people like him who got away with bad behavior—while people like him worked their asses off to earn an honest living.
He’d told the special agent that he was fairly sure it was not Congress’s intent when they passed the Clean Air Act to allow someone li
ke Dick Roth to extort money from operators like him using his air permit.
Yet, that’s what had happened.
He not only called the FBI but also contacted all his friends in the industry, warning them.
Two years earlier, Roth had threatened to issue a notice of violation with a stiff monetary penalty and possible jail time. Matt couldn’t believe what that short, pot-bellied man had told him on that cool day in September. It had been so unbelievable that he’d asked Roth to leave the property or he would call the police. Roth responded with a stubby-toothed sneer that sent a shiver up Matt’s spine. From that moment on, he understood that the man was not playing any other game but hardball.
He reluctantly paid Roth and had regretted it ever since.
What I wouldn’t give to see Roth rot behind the same bars he threatened to put me behind two years ago.
With exasperation, he reminded himself that he was in trouble as deeply as Roth. Matt had continued to make the extortion payments—payments the federal government would simply consider bribes—that were just as illegal as Roth’s demands. Somehow it would be his fault, despite the special agent’s reassurance to the contrary.
The dilemma between doing the right thing—reporting Roth to the authorities, risking his own reputation, his business, and his freedom—and doing nothing, jeopardizing his own self-respect and morals, had been intensely perplexing and burdensome. A day hadn’t gone by that Matt didn’t struggle with the dilemma. Every time Roth slithered out from under his rock to pay Matt a visit, he was only reminded of how in peril his principles had become.
Today was no different.
He hadn’t heard anything from the FBI, so he’d assumed they had ignored his call, filed the report, and forgot all about him as small potatoes.
What can I do now?
“Tell him I’m not here,” Matt shouted to Judy.
“Then where are you?”
“On a job site. Anywhere. Just get rid of him for now. Tell him I won’t be in until next week.”
He rubbed his eyes with both hands. He got up and shut the door to his office and turned out the lights. Just as he shut the door, he heard the front door to the small office building open with a jangle of bells and then slam shut. Roth’s irritating voice greeted Judy. With each word, he pictured Roth’s tongue flicking between his almost nonexistent lips like a snake’s.
Matt quietly slumped back into his chair as he listened to Judy’s feeble lies. In the dark office, as his gaze scanned his cluttered desk, something in the daily newspaper caught his attention. The headline of a small article in the bottom corner of the front page gave him an idea. Without another thought, he lifted the receiver and pushed a button. He could hear Judy respond to his call both on the phone and through the door.
Matt whispered, “Tell him to come back next Tuesday morning. Tell him you’re sure that’s when he can catch me in the office since that’s when accounts payable checks are due, and I’ll be in signing the checks. Just pretend this is Junior.”
He quietly hung up the phone. He heard Judy’s muffled voice saying goodbye to Junior, one of their loader operators who hadn’t shown up for work today. He heard her repeat to Dick Roth what he had just told her.
He lifted the newspaper and read the small article regarding the FBI’s involvement in an embezzlement case by a federal employee at the Immigration and Naturalization Service. The immigrant had taped a wire under his shirt and captured the INS employee’s racist comments. Matt Juzlig’s migraine and stomachache instantly disappeared with his decision to offer proof to the FBI. He would be wired the next time he spoke to Roth.
Tuesday.
Maybe then Special Agent Pierce would listen to him and pay attention to his calls.
And do something about Dick Roth.
COYOTE CRIES WAS a free man.
His parole officer wouldn’t know for hours that he hadn’t shown up to work this afternoon. By the time he knew, The Reverend would have settled several scores and regained a firm hand as the sole proprietor of his business now that Dan Alcott had ceased being his partner. Number Forty-One.
So much to do. So little time.
He’d put business first and pleasure later.
It wasn’t even ten o’clock, and he’d learned more about his employees on the rez than he’d ever learned while behind bars: who had remained loyal, who had not, who had skimmed, and who had been honest.
Dan Alcott had been willing to tell him more than he wanted once he realized his life depended on it—which it had. After arriving at Pine Ridge a half hour ago, he’d been busy assessing the business firsthand. Nothing in the world could take the place of boots on the ground. If he’d learned nothing else, at least he had learned that in prison. He’d been cheated for so long not knowing what was really going on out here.
He stood quietly behind a tree, listening.
“Come on, baby. At least try it.” Todd Long Soldiers could be convincing, even charming. The young girl he had pressed himself against next to the bonfire stared at the flickering flames in the late night and bit her lip. Todd slid his arm around her thick waist and slipped his hand underneath her shirt. At first, she tensed and pulled away from his grip. Then, as he continued to coo in her ear, she began to relax and allowed him to touch her. An older teen was watching the two from twenty yards beyond the bonfire’s light and was the only one separate from the crowd gathered around it. The boy was small and wispy, a twig, sitting on the picnic table in the dark, seemingly bored. Coyote Cries would need to keep an eye on him, although he didn’t see him as much of a threat yet.
His attention returned to Todd Long Soldiers. He’d nearly convinced the teen to do something she didn’t want to do. She wouldn’t be able to resist—not Long Soldiers. He was the best pusher he had.
Noticing movement on his left, the twig drained the last of his pop and threw the empty bottle to the ground as he slid off the picnic table. Apparently, he thought Todd Long Soldiers had gone too far. Perhaps the girl was related or a best friend’s baby sister. Drugs were one thing. But pedophilia was entirely different.
“She’s only fifteen,” the twig called to Long Soldiers.
“Who?”
“Edith Walking Crow,” the boy said, bunching his fists.
“Old enough.”
“I’m fine, Larry,” the girl said as she straightened her shirt.
Larry, the twig, closed the distance.
“Bug off, Standing Bull,” Long Soldiers said.
So the older teen’s name was Larry Standing Bull. He was clearly not a fan of Long Soldiers—or his business.
“Just leave her alone.”
Edith stared at the two men. She wasn’t a very pleasant looking girl. But to Coyote Cries, she appeared thrilled by the attention.
“You and Jimmy do your thing and take off,” Larry said. “It’s our party.”
Jimmy Blue Owl was another employee of Coyote Cries. Both were responsible for Pine Ridge High School and Middle School. Both charged with increasing demand, and he wanted to observe their skill level and commitment. He needed to decide if they had grown too old to get away with their tricks. He’d seen Jimmy sneak off behind the cluster of bushes near the creek with another teen just as he’d arrived. Clearly Jimmy wasn’t too old.
Larry reached down at his feet, groping in the dark for the pop bottle. His fingers wrapped tightly around the neck, lifted his hand high above his head, and slammed the bottom of the bottle against the picnic table. The glass shattered.
Coyote Cries grinned. The twig has balls, he thought.
Larry quickly glanced over his shoulder at Todd Long Soldiers and Edith Walking Crow. They hadn’t noticed him. The roar of the other high school kids partying near the bonfire had drowned out the sound of his bottle’s crash. Larry walked slowly toward them, breathing heavily.
Coyote Cries wasn’t the least bit tempted to warn his employee. Instead, he wanted to see how he handled Larry.
“Leave her alon
e.”
Todd Long Soldiers ignored Larry. “Just try one of these Quaaludes,” he said to Edith Walking Crow. “They’re the best. They’ll make all your problems go away. I can get you more next week if you like them. Try this one on me.”
Larry’s nostrils flared. His wispy arms trembled beneath his oversized, mesh-material football jersey. He gripped the broken bottle.
Coyote Cries chuckled.
“I said leave her alone, Long Soldiers.”
This time, Long Soldiers noticed but only because the girl had taken an interest in the twig. “Larry, what’s the matter with you?”
Long Soldiers clutched Edith’s thick elbow, pulled her away from the angry twig, and resumed his conversation with her. Larry reached up and gave Long Soldiers a shove.
“Hey, buddy. Watch it, will you? Are you drunk or something?”
“I don’t drink.”
“Then leave us alone here, you freak.” Long Soldiers straightened his silk muscle shirt.
Larry squinted in the firelight. “You don’t even recognize me, do you?”
Long Soldiers squinted back at the small man. He stepped aside so the glow could shine on the twig’s face. “Yeah, I know you. You’re the wimp who stopped buying from me last year because you found Jesus. What a pussy.”
“Keep your hands off Edith, and leave her alone.”
Long Soldiers laughed. “Or you’re going to do what?”
Larry held up the jagged bottle. “Or I’ll cut one of your nuts off.”
Long Soldiers took a step back and nearly stumbled backward into the fire. “Whoa, little man. What the hell has gotten into you? Put that thing down. I was just seeing if Edith wanted to party with me. That’s all.”
“I said, leave her alone.” Larry Standing Bull jabbed the broken bottle at Long Soldiers, who had distanced himself.
“I heard you, man,” Long Soldiers replied, his hands defensively in the air in front of his chest. “No problem. I’ll leave her alone.”
Coyote Cries was impressed. Long Soldiers opted to dissipate the situation, rather than escalate the tension. Mature. Smart. They didn’t need the Bureau of Indian Affairs intervening.
Jeremiah’s Revenge: A Liv Bergen Mystery Page 10
