Astride a Pink Horse

by Robert Greer

  “Nervous as hell, Grant,” she repeated, staring out one of the shed’s two slightly off-kilter front windows and up the hill toward her darkened house. She drummed her fingers on her thigh, wondering when Buford would be home.

  Fed up with her whining, Grant Rivers, who’d spent most of the afternoon and evening in Cheyenne buying fencing materials and looking for a new brush chopper, said, “Everything will be all right, Sarah. Just calm down, for God’s sake, and stop complainin’.” His cell phone erupted with staticky interference.

  “Where are you, anyway? The reception’s terrible. Between the static and that asthmatic voice of yours, I can barely understand you.”

  “In Cheyenne at Menards. I drove down to pick up a piece of equipment and a load of metal fence posts.”

  Not at all surprised that her penny-pinching former lover had driven 175 miles from Casper down to Cheyenne and to within an hour of her doorstep in order to save ten bucks, Sarah shook her head and said, “I talked to Kimiko a little bit ago. She sounded scared and a little angry. Claimed she might even drive over here to talk.”

  “Now, that’s hard to believe. I always thought the only thing that old bird was afraid of was that she might not live long enough to mete out punishment to the sons and daughters of the people she holds responsible for her time at Heart Mountain. I’ve talked to her, too, by the way. Did she tell you that she came home from a trip to Heart Mountain just this morning, or that she had an FBI agent camped on her doorstep this afternoon? She said he peppered her with questions for close to forty-five minutes. Asked her about her protest days and about her connection, and of course ours, to Thurmond Giles. She said he even had photographs of all of us from back then. Your mother included.”

  “Oh, my God! Was Rikia with her?” Sarah asked, hoping Rikia had been present to keep the increasingly forgetful Kimiko from saying the wrong thing.

  “No. She said as soon as they got home from Heart Mountain, Rikia left for El Paso to present a research paper to a bunch of math eggheads at a conference.”

  “Not good. Not good at all. You know how badly Kimiko needs a buffer.”

  “Well, she sure doesn’t need Rikia. He’s as off-the-wall as her, as far as I’m concerned. Forever mutterin’ about how he and his contributions to science have been disrespected. What frickin’ science? The man counts credit-card receipts and totals up people’s phone calls, for God’s sake.”

  “So, what do we do?”

  “What we do is sit tight. Bide our time and let the cops, the air force, and now the FBI do their thing. We aren’t the ones on the front line with this Thurmond Giles killin’, anyway.”

  “What my mother saw in a letch like Giles, I’ll never know,” Sarah said, her voice brimming with disgust.

  “The same thing you saw in me a few years later, my dear—sex! What does it matter, anyway? What kind of connection can the FBI possibly make between you and Giles from back then? You were just sixteen.”

  “The kind that would let them know I hated the man for destroying my mother.”

  “She made her own bed, Sarah.”

  “She was an out-of-touch college physics professor with no grasp whatsoever of the real world, Grant. A homely semirecluse, and she was taken advantage of by that womanizing Elmer Gantry of a black pervert. He stole her money, her dignity, and her soul.”

  “I’ve heard it all before, Sarah. Let’s move on, okay? The operative word from here on out is chill. Don’t talk to the FBI, that Platte County sheriff, any air force OSI type, or even Kimiko without talkin’ to me first. Got it?”

  “I’ll try. But if they dig deep enough—”

  “They’ll find China.” There was simmering anger in Grant Rivers’s gravel-throated reply. “Lean on Buford if you have to,” he said sarcastically.

  “He’s not here.”

  “Then go read a book, make some damn pots, go to bed. Do whatever in the shit you have to to focus on something other than Thurmond Giles. Do like I did after our meetin’ in Casper this morning. I decided to concentrate on a fencin’ project at the ranch, and it did wonders for me.”

  “Your analogy’s idiotic, Grant. Are you sure all those steroids you take to keep your airways open aren’t affecting your brain? Besides, I’m not you. I can’t turn things on and off like a water spigot, in case you’ve forgotten. Are you headed back to Buffalo?”

  “As soon as I’m off the phone with you.”

  Sounding calmer, Sarah said, “Drive carefully. You know how bad the deer are this time of year along I-25.”

  “Yeah, I know. But after all these years, I’ve learned how to dodge ’em,” Rivers said, laughing. “You need to think about doin’ the same thing when it comes to Tango-11. Nobody says you have to be at home when the authorities show up wantin’ to chat.”

  “I’ll consider the possibility.”

  “Good. I’ll talk to you later,” Grant said, snapping his cell phone closed to leave Sarah staring at a half-dozen pots that needed to be fired and wondering why she’d called someone for moral support whom she’d seen shoot elk out of season and leave wounded deer lying in the field to rot.

  An hour later she remained as disgusted as, and no less nervous than, when she’d been talking to Grant. Buford still hadn’t come home, and two calls to Kimiko Takata had gone unanswered. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the blame for the Thurmond Giles killing would soon be headed her way. Upset with herself for hanging on to tired old friendships and long-extinguished love, she decided to put away her pottery tools, head up the hill to the house, and go to bed.

  The crunch of tires on the gravel driveway outside the shed filled her with a momentary sense of relief. Telling herself that Buford was finally home, she rushed to the front door and swung it open, only to realize that the vehicle idling just feet from the door wasn’t Buford’s. Unable to recognize the driver in the darkness, she barely had time to yell, “What?” when two blasts from a sawed-off shotgun took away most of her face. Moaning, with her hands clutched to her face, she fell face forward onto the gravel. She rolled around on the driveway screaming as the driver reloaded, stepped from the car, and pumped a third blast into the back of her head before slipping back into the vehicle to drive away.

  Buford Kane found his common-law wife’s body, her head in a pool of blood, thirty minutes later. For half those minutes he’d nosed around the house absentmindedly looking for snacks and sorting through a stash of porno tapes. When he finally decided to look for Sarah in the potter’s shed, his stomach was growling from the five cans of beer and the nearly dozen chicken wings he’d consumed earlier at a bar in Chugwater. When he found Sarah lying facedown in the dark as the shed’s open front door swung lazily in the night breeze, a projectile of sour beer and partially digested chicken parts shot from his mouth. It was only the lengthy scream that ensued that stopped the flow.

  Wiping vomit from his face, he ran into the shed, called 911, and then checked Sarah’s dead body for signs of life before racing up the hill to the house. Barely able to breathe and with tears streaming down his cheeks, he located Bernadette Cameron’s card in a kitchen drawer. Certain that Sarah’s death was connected to the Tango-11 murder, he dialed Bernadette’s cell-phone number and waited.

  When Bernadette, who’d stayed up to read for a bit after coming home from dinner, answered, Buford said breathlessly, “I need your help, Major. Sarah’s been murdered. Right here at our house. I found her lying outside her potter’s shed a few minutes ago. Half her face is missing,” he said, shivering uncontrollably, barely able to get his words out. “It’s all connected to that murder at Tango-11, goddamn it! Help me, Major, please! Help me!”

  “Have you called 911?”

  “Yes. Can you come, too, right now, Major Cameron, please?”

  Feeling helpless, Bernadette said, “I’m afraid I’m not involved with the Tango-11 investigation any longer, Mr. Kane. You’ll need to contact Colonel DeWitt.”

  With
sirens wailing in the background, the still sobbing Buford said, “I don’t want to start with somebody new.”

  Bernadette swallowed hard, fighting to maintain her composure. “All I can do, I’m afraid, is give you Colonel DeWitt’s number.”

  “Then give it to me, damn it!”

  Bernadette gave him the number and added, “That’s his direct line.”

  “Wait a minute. I’ve gotta find something to write with. Okay. Let me have it again,” he said, fumbling with a ballpoint pen.

  Bernadette repeated the number. “I’m so sorry.”

  “The paramedics are here! Oh, my God, I came home too late! Too fucking late.” Buford slammed down the receiver to leave a wide-eyed and visibly shaken Bernadette listening to a dial tone.

  Seconds later, as she dialed Cozy’s cell-phone number and her throat went dry, she whispered, “Answer, Cozy, please.”

  The Southeastern Oklahoma State baseball T-shirt and jeans Cozy had hastily thrown on after Bernadette’s midnight phone call were wrinkled and in need of washing, and as he sat in her hotel suite, hair barely combed, feeling slightly self-conscious, drinking a Coke, and watching the normally unflappable major pace the floor, he found himself thinking that his unkempt look might be adding to her upset.

  Bernadette, who was dressed in loose-fitting khaki shorts and one of her father’s oversized air force–blue dress shirts, was typically barefoot. Cozy locked eyes with her and, in response to her description of the disjointed conversation she’d had with Buford Kane, asked, “And Kane really sounded that bad?”

  “He was crying like a baby, Cozy. It was terrible.”

  Cozy nodded understandingly and said, “But you’re off the case, Bernadette.”

  “I know.”

  “What could you do, anyway?”

  “Help him, I guess. And maybe solve what are now two murders.”

  “How many times do you need to be reminded? You’re not a cop, Bernadette.”

  “Yeah, I know. But somebody needs to pick up the pace on the Tango-11 investigation. Colonel DeWitt sure won’t.”

  “There’s still Sheriff Bosack.”

  “Come on, Cozy. The man’s probably more interested in grooming his horse.”

  “Well, you certainly can’t take it on yourself to find out what really happened there. You’ll buy yourself more trouble.”

  “Yes, I can,” Bernadette said, surprising Cozy with the swiftness of her response. “But I’ll need your help.”

  “Are you serious?” Cozy asked, shaking his head.

  “Absolutely. As for trouble, I’ve been there before.”

  “Okay, Ms. Trouble’s My Middle Name. Where do you plan to start?”

  “I think that we, Mr. Coseia, should start from the rear of the bus. Begin with Sarah Goldbeck’s murder and work our way up to the front from there.”

  “Fair enough,” Cozy said, uncertain whether he was out to simply placate Bernadette or truly help her.

  “So, here’s the first question. Why kill Sarah Goldbeck if you’re Sergeant Giles’s murderer, and how are the two murders connected?” Bernadette stopped pacing, sat down on the floor, stretched both legs out in front of her, and leaned back against a leather ottoman, deep in thought. As her partially buttoned shirt separated to reveal her navel, she said, “Might as well get comfortable,” to Cozy before leaning forward to tug the uncooperative shirttail back into place. “We’re going to be here a while. I’ll call room service and order some coffee. What time is it, anyway?”

  “A little past midnight.”

  “Late,” she said, sighing. “Anything you’d like besides coffee?”

  “Yeah. Ask if they have any French raisin rolls. My grandmother used to bake them by the dozen and send them vacuum-sealed to me in Oklahoma. Freddy and I lived on those things.”

  “You’re on, mon ami,” Bernadette said, smiling. “I’m partial to them myself. Got semiaddicted to the things while I was touring with the U.S. tennis team in France the summer after I finished college. They’re right up there on my list of favorite pastries, right behind sticky buns.”

  “Too gooey for me,” Cozy said, frowning and shaking his head.

  “You’re badly in need of expanding your horizons, Mr. Coseia,” Bernadette said, smiling and again leaning back against the ottoman. This time she made no attempt to tuck the navel-revealing shirttail back into place.

  After diagonally crossing Missouri and half of Oklahoma, Silas Breen had reached the outskirts of Oklahoma City. It was twelve thirty a.m., and as he rolled past billboard after billboard beckoning him to bed down at this or that motel for the night, he planned to stay where he always stayed when he was on the road: Motel 6. He’d have easy access to I-40 in the morning, and the coffee and doughnuts were free. Thinking that even if he slept in until eight, he’d be able to make Lubbock by two, he slowed down to fifty and relaxed.

  Despite the trip’s rough spots, which now included an Oklahoma Port of Entry citation and a three-hundred-dollar fine for running on illegally recapped tires, he was still making progress. He’d been delayed for nearly an hour at the port of entry while some overzealous POE officer had called God knew where to verify the origin of his load. But things were now pretty much back on keel. By this time the next day, he planned to have a wad of cash in hand and a big-chested girl on each arm to help him spend some of it.

  The bizarre trip had one other downside, however. His delivery deadline had forced him to bypass Kansas City, so he’d missed hooking up with his father. He and Otis had had their differences, especially after he’d lost his basketball scholarship and dropped out of college. But now that he’d successfully started his own business, those differences appeared less magnified, and OT, the initials Otis Breen preferred to be addressed by, seemed to be less the snap-to-attention, drill-sergeant personality he’d been raised by.

  Cruising beneath an overhead sign announcing that his exit was two miles ahead, he patted his belly. It was his late-night way of telling himself that his day would soon be done. His only lingering worry was that he hadn’t heard from F. Mantew all day, and although he’d vowed not to obsess over that fact, he was worried, especially since Mantew had indicated that he’d be in touch one way or another every day of the trip.

  He rubbed the underside of his jaw thoughtfully, slowed to take his exit, and once again found himself wondering what on earth F. Mantew actually had him hauling. The issue had begun to bother him so much that before going to bed, he planned to call OT to discuss the issue. Then he might uncrate one of the boxes he was hauling and have a look inside.

  The Motel 6 he pulled up to looked like any of the dozens of cookie-cutter sleep boxes he’d stayed at since starting his trucking business. The woman at the front desk, tired-looking but friendly, gave him a first-floor room that was clean, had towels aplenty, and had a bed that, although a bit too rubbery for his taste, at least didn’t sag.

  By the time he’d finished a soda, brushed his teeth, and changed into the Notre Dame running shorts he’d bought in South Bend, it was a quarter past one. Exhausted, he sat down on the edge of the bed, checked his cell phone to make sure it had a healthy charge, and punched in his father’s number, knowing that even though the friction between them had lessened, OT would be unhappy to hear from him or anyone else at one fifteen a.m.

  Otis Breen’s response to the call was a groggy “What?”

  “OT, it’s Silas. I’m in Oklahoma City.”

  “What the hell time is it, boy?”

  “A quarter past one.”

  “And you couldn’t’ve called me earlier?”

  “I was on the road trying to make up time.”

  “Well, did you?”

  “Yep.”

  Offering his usual critical counsel, Otis said, “Then I guess you’re finally learnin’ what responsibility means. Where you headed for, anyway?”

  “Lubbock.”

  “Hell, if you’re in Oklahoma City, you’re almost there.”

&n
bsp; “Six and a half more hours of driving at the most. But I’m dog tired, so I decided to bed down for the night. Need to ask you something important first.”

  “Get to askin’.”

  “It’s about the load I’m hauling and the person who hired me to haul it. I’m worried about them both.”

  “What are you transportin’?”

  “Used hospital equipment—at least that’s what the manifest says.”

  “Sounds safe enough. So, what’s got you spooked about your employer?”

  “Just the fact that the son of a bitch is weird. I don’t really know if I’m working for a man, a woman, a midget in tights, a seven-foot giant, or a drug runner and thief. All I know is that whoever it is goes by the name F. Mantew and that we communicate generally by fax. Even stranger, I’ve had my destination changed midstream. Started out on my way to Amarillo.”

  “Does sound a little odd.” Otis flipped on the lamp on his nightstand and sat up in bed. “How’d you get the job, anyway?”

  “The easy-money way, OT. The same way white folks get jobs—contacts. In fact, this one came by way of an old friend of yours, Thurmond Giles. He called me about seven weeks back and hooked the whole thing up.”

  “What!” Otis leaped out of bed.

  “What’s the problem, OT?”

  “You mean you ain’t heard about Thurmond?”

  “No.”

  “He’s dead, Silas. Murdered. They found him hangin’ inside an abandoned Minuteman missile personnel-access tube a few days back.”