Jeremiah’s Revenge

by Sandra Brannan

  “Better. Glad to be home.”

  He had to spend some time in the Rapid City hospital after falling and hitting his head. So I knew how he felt.

  “Is that all you wanted? To know how I was doing?” He had a brilliant way of cutting to the chase with me.

  “I wanted to ask you about Paula Pierce … Winzig Jacobs … and to thank you for leading me to her grave Sunday—Sunday before last. I’m hoping for some answers.”

  “More questions?” His voice was steady and comforting.

  “What happened to her?”

  “She was murdered.”

  I knew that. I needed more. I didn’t know how to ask if the rumors I’d heard were true and if she’d been decapitated. “Did you see her? I mean, did you bless her? Before she was buried?”

  There was an interminably long pause before he answered. “Liv, sometimes answers just lead to more questions. Mine are multiplying as we speak.”

  I knew the eighty-four-year-old priest as well as anyone did. I knew he had to know where I was going before he helped me get there. So I opened up to him. “I’m in love—with Streeter Pierce. He’s pushing me away and always has. But I know he loves me.”

  I heard him shift the phone, take a drink of something, and set the mug down with a slight thud. I could envision him sitting at his kitchen table wearing a flannel shirt in the Parish house at Lead. I forced myself to remain quiet.

  “The two were very much in love. Streeter suffered such a deep loss—one from which he will never fully recover. He’s damaged severely, Liv. You can’t help him fight his demons. It’s a battle he has to fight alone—without you.”

  “That’s redundant.”

  “And sometimes you need to hear things twice.”

  He knew me pretty well, too. “I understand this is a solitary journey for him. And I understand the guilt. But how can I help him?”

  “Listen. Let him talk. He has no one to talk to. He sees himself on an island. And only he can swim to shore. You can’t save him.” After a long pause, maybe a few more sips of coffee, he added, “And I know how tempted you must be to commandeer a boat, pick him up, and drop him to safety on the other shore, but you can’t. Alone means alone.”

  I knew he was right, but I wanted more.

  “Okay, I’ll listen. I’ll do everything I can to zip my lip and open my ears.”

  “More than your ears, Liv. Open your heart. Then you can really hear him.”

  I sighed. “You know me, Father. If I’m surprised or ill prepared, I’ll ask questions, and I’ll blow it. If I’m supposed to listen, I need to know what happened—ahead of time. So I’m not shocked when he tells me.” I prayed he’d believe me. After a very long pause, he asked me what I knew. And confirmed what was true and what wasn’t.

  The door between Phil’s and my room suddenly swung open. His expression was stern. I covered the mouthpiece and told him I was almost finished talking with my priest. He rolled his eyes and stepped back into the privacy of his room.

  Once he was gone, Father Shannon told me what little more he knew beyond what I’d heard.

  Which was enough to get me started in my quest to figure out Streeter Pierce.

  STREETER WALKED DOWN the narrow aisle, hunched at the waist to avoid hitting his head on the low ceiling of the small turboprop plane.

  He could see the ten passengers ahead of him through the postcard-sized windows descending the flimsy stairs of the lowered airplane door one at a time. His heart raced like it had the first time he’d arrived in Rapid City when he had accepted his first office assignment from Quantico in this small resident agency more than two decades ago.

  He had never even heard of this South Dakota town back then. Although, he had heard of the two federal agents who had been killed on an Indian reservation two hours south, near Oglala, in the 1970s. And he knew about the demonstration at Wounded Knee.

  Agents from all over the country had gathered to assist the small FBI resident agency the day after their comrades were found murdered. The racial tension in the Black Hills of Western South Dakota became a common topic of discussion within the bureau, as well as in the private sector, for decades to come.

  Back then, young Streeter had been thrilled by the prospect of learning and understanding more about what was happening on the reservations and who the Native American people really were, and he had seen his assignment as the opportunity of a lifetime. But, he had been apprehensive about what he might discover in this isolated, sparsely populated plains state. He’d been ready for an adventure as an agent and couldn’t possibly imagine what might be exciting in such a place. There were fewer people in the entire state than there were in the Chicago area where he was born and raised. This place had more cows than people.

  The only other time he’d even heard about the small state was from an obscure Beatles song that mentioned the Black Hills and some raccoon named Rocky. He hadn’t even remembered whether it was South or North Dakota that had the four presidents’ faces carved on Mount Rushmore. But the most memorable moment was the first breath of the clean, fresh air he’d caught from the open door of the plane.

  Roger Landers, the resident agency’s Supervisory Senior Resident Agent, or SSRA, had greeted him. He’d explained the difference between bureaus and resident agencies since South Dakota had none of the first and four of the second. He explained how they not only had jurisdiction over cases such as kidnappings and bank robberies just like bureaus, but that they primarily worked with tribal police and BIA as an ICRA—an Indian Country Resident Agency—working violent crimes such as homicides, child sexual abuse, human trafficking, arson, rape, domestic violence, and assaults with weapons. It was Streeter’s first introduction, up close and personal, to reservation work.

  Landers taught him so many important realities and dispelled an equal number of myths about life for the Native Americans, starting with the fact that most of them referred to themselves as Indians and a few called themselves first people or original people—to separate themselves from other groups who were native to America.

  He’d had so much to learn back then and even more now.

  Even after all these years, the fresh air seeping beyond the opening of the door as he headed toward the stairwell struck him as overwhelmingly clean and special, even precious.

  He disembarked the plane and found Landers waiting for him in the airport.

  He shook his extended hand and patted him on the shoulder. “Friend. How are you?”

  “Old,” Landers said, rubbing his head. “And bald.”

  Streeter chuckled. “Thanks for picking me up so late.”

  “Like old times.”

  “What’s new since we talked?”

  “Too much. The funeral is tomorrow for Two Bears.”

  “Ceremony?” Streeter asked.

  “That was four days ago. It went well. After Mass, they’ll have the burial and meal. It’s tomorrow at eleven.”

  “Did you get me a car?”

  “No, I’ll drive you, Miss Daisy. And when you need to take off on your own, you can just drop me off at work.” Landers led Streeter down an escalator. “But listen. Another woman was found dead today. It’s related.”

  “To Two Bears’s death? How?” Streeter felt a chill skip down his spine. Something about all of this was off. Webber. Alcott. Two Bears.

  “Her name was Julie Good Run. No relation to Two Bears. Just a nice, clean, buttoned-down woman by all accounts.”

  “What’d she do?” Streeter asked. “For a living, I mean?”

  “She worked for BIA. She issued allotment checks. When she didn’t show up to work Monday morning, they didn’t think much of it at first. It’s the rez and all. So they didn’t even go over and check on her at home or call in a missing person’s report.”

  The two agents walked slowly through the airport, Streeter clutching his overnight bag. He’d noticed his friend was struggling to keep pace and figured he must be nearing sixty-five and may have had some
kind of surgery on his right knee or hip from the way he favored that side.

  “No family?” Streeter asked, intentionally slowing his gait, even though he was anxious to reach the outdoors.

  The instant they stepped outside the airport, he drew in a long breath of fresh air and glanced out toward the Black Hills. It was too dark to see, but he knew they were there beyond the glow of the city lights of Rapid City. He longed to see them again. The hills made him feel more peaceful than the Rocky Mountains for some reason.

  Landers shook his head. “She lived alone, but this morning when she didn’t show up for a second day, a coworker became concerned.”

  His friend led him to the cruiser parked on the curb with a police officer standing nearby. Streeter tossed his bag in the back seat and climbed in the front passenger seat. Once inside and pulling away from the curb, Landers said, “The coworker peeked in through the windows of Good Run’s house and found her dead on her bed with blood everywhere. Her throat was slit.”

  Streeter grimaced. “Two Bears was a drug overdose. Why do you say they’re related?”

  “Timeline. I think Good Run saw something on Sunday. That was the last time anyone saw Jeff alive. They were working on the high school remodel project.”

  “I thought Two Bears was a teacher?”

  “He was. But he was laying tile on the side to earn some extra money. Same as Good Run. Only she was not working directly with Two Bears. She was doing all the receiving and accounting for the subcontractor on the job. She was a goods receipt clerk or something.”

  Streeter’s mind was working overtime. “And they were both working Sunday?”

  “Two Bears was found in the parking lot. He was one of the last to leave that day. Good Run clocked out after Two Bears. Only three others out of thirty-two left after that—the rest had already left. But none of them saw anything. You hungry?” Landers was driving into town and signaled to turn right. “McDonald’s okay?”

  Streeter said, “Sure. Any of the three see anything? With Two Bears or Good Run?”

  “Nothing. But Good Run was the one who called in Two Bears’s death.”

  “I don’t believe in coincidences.”

  “Me neither.” Landers glanced around the seedy neighborhood of East North Street, looking for the bank of fast food establishments until he spotted the golden arches. “She found him in the truck. She gave a police report saying she saw a big man walk away, but she couldn’t describe that much about him except that he was tall, with wide shoulders and long grey braids.”

  “What did she say he was wearing?”

  “A baseball cap, jeans, and a button-down, long-sleeved white shirt with a wide plaid pattern—maybe maroon lines. It was a new shirt. Classy. That’s how she described it.”

  “Did she remember anything else? Anything at all?”

  Landers pulled into the drive-through and ordered two meals; then he turned to Streeter. “What do you want?”

  Streeter grinned. “I thought one of those meals might be for me.”

  “Nope.”

  “I’ll take a hamburger. And a water.”

  “That’s it?”

  Streeter nodded.

  As they approached the window to pay, Landers added, “Not much else.” After they pulled away, he added, “She gave the tribal police a rough description. But it was his eyes she most remembered. She said the instant he looked at her, she knew he had killed Two Bears.”

  “Just by his look?”

  Landers had stuffed a burger in his mouth, chomping off half, so all he could do was nod until he finished chewing. “She wanted police protection because she said she feared him coming after her. They said they’d drive by her house and keep an eye on her.”

  “And did they?”

  Landers shook his head and took another bite.

  “It’s not really their fault. It’s not like you can put protection on someone over a look.”

  Streeter’s senses were tingling. Something was very wrong. He plowed his fingers through his hair and worried about what he was missing.

  “The cap. Any particular color?”

  “Purple. With a silver logo, but she couldn’t place why it looked familiar.” Before Streeter could comment, Landers added, “And we have another witness.”

  “Who? Where? What did he see?” Streeter owed the Two Bears family. He had to prove their son didn’t overdose. He had to confirm what the dead witness suspected was murder.

  “A woman. Norma Chasing Dog. She came forward the instant she heard the rumors that Julie Good Run was dead.”

  “What did she witness?”

  “The man she believes killed Good Run broke into her home Sunday night and sliced her throat.”

  When they arrived downtown at the federal building, they both reeked of Landers’s two biggie French fry servings. The guards nodded at them as they passed through security and made their way to the second floor, where another agent kept Norma Chasing Dog company in a small interrogation room.

  Streeter glanced at the clock. It was 9:40 p.m.

  When Landers and Streeter entered the room, the female agent greeted them, introduced Norma to them, and excused herself, telling the woman she’d be back.

  Norma said, “I have to get up early and work.”

  The agent nodded before leaving but said, “Might not be such a good idea.”

  Streeter studied the woman. She appeared to be older than he was but not by much. She was maybe forty-five at the most. She had long black hair pulled up in a loose bun at the base of her skull, just above the bandages wrapped around her neck. She was a beautiful, large woman with probing eyes—wide-set above her plump cheeks. A serious woman.

  Then he recognized her. “Norma? You wouldn’t happen to be the granddaughter of Eva Yellow Beard?”

  She eyed him, squinting. “The hair. I didn’t recognize you.”

  The tension seemed to drain from her body. Streeter grinned. “You’re even more beautiful. So much like Eva.”

  “Thank you,” she said, lowering her eyes to the floor out of respect.

  “What happened?”

  She told the story of the man waiting in her bedroom—explained every detail. What he said, what he did, and how he’d left. The only time she shed a tear was when she explained how she had given up Julie’s name. “I am so ashamed.”

  “You didn’t cause this. He did.” Streeter wanted to ask to see her throat to examine if the perp had intended to kill her.

  Before he did, she noticed him staring at the bandages. “It was no mistake. He was good with the knife. He cut only to make me talk but very intentionally to let me live.”

  “How many stitches?”

  “None. They used adhesives. That’s what I mean. It was enough to make my throat sear with pain but not enough to cause me serious harm. He … spared me.” Her eyes cast to the floor, she reached up and softly touched her neck.

  “Norma’s been helping me work another case. A man was beaten and left for dead at Whiteclay.”

  “Drugs or alcohol?” Streeter asked, remembering the sorry town in Nebraska just south of Pine Ridge. With Pine Ridge’s tribal leaders banning alcohol sales on the reservation, residents headed south across state lines toward Whiteclay, Nebraska, to buy their beer—and illegal drugs. The highway, littered with empties, trash, dirty diapers, food containers, and cigarette packs, had earned notoriety as being the filthiest stretch of highway in the country.

  Landers answered, “One or the other. Some teens found the vic and dropped him off at the ER.”

  “A CCG,” Norma said.

  Streeter cocked his head.

  Landers explained, “CCG is what they call the notorious gang around the rez known as Coyote Cries Gang.”

  Streeter felt his stomach twist. His evil presence was still here. He had his hooks in the youth even after being incarcerated. He should have known. “Who is he? The vic. Is he conscious?”

  “Todd Long Soldiers. A longtime notorious deale
r.” Norma raised an eyebrow and stared at Streeter.

  He looked at Landers for an explanation. “Small time, smart, and slippery. Tribal police have incarcerated him several times over the years, but he always gets released as soon as the tribal leadership changes—which is every two years.”

  “Nothing we can do?” Streeter asked, referring to the bureau.

  “Like I said: smart and slippery. They do all their business off-rez. Probably in Whiteclay. We can’t get them.”

  Streeter seethed at the thought of Coyote Cries having such a long reach from behind bars. “Do you think the asshole who did this to you was from CCG?”

  She nodded. “I have no doubt they’re all connected. Me, Julie Good Run, Jeff Two Bears, Todd Long Soldiers, and Floyd Tice.”

  “Floyd Tice?” Streeter asked.

  “Beat to a pulp two weeks ago,” Landers answered. “He’s not talking. I personally have no doubt it was Long Soldiers, but I just can’t prove it.”

  Streeter asked, “Is this an internal gang war—a power struggle or something? And do you believe Tice was the one responsible for Long Soldiers’s beating?”

  Landers shrugged. “Could be. But something tells me no. With the escalation, the rez has become a dangerous place for anyone with CCG.”

  “Maybe a territorial grab? Another drug ring like the one from California that came in a few years ago dealing meth?”

  Landers shook his head. “Alcott took care of all of them. He chased them off before we could. There’s a pretty strong army under Alcott.”

  “Alcott’s dead,” Streeter said, trusting Norma Chasing Dog with the information. “Murdered. So the real question is how CCG is reorganizing and who is in charge now.”

  Norma averted her eyes.

  “Norma? Do you know the man who attacked you?”

  She said nothing. “Ask Logan Walking Crow. He’ll know. But I think Jimmy Blue Owl is leading CCG for the moment.”

  “Did Jimmy do this to you?”

  She shook her head.

  “We’ll find Logan and Jimmy. Can you describe the man who attacked you?” Streeter asked the question a different way.

  She dragged her stare back to him. “Big. Smart. Strong. Unafraid. Skilled. Scary.” Tears squeezed out of the corners of her eyes and down the sides of her plump cheeks.