by Jackie Lynn
“What’s the matter with you?” he asked as he stood up and slowly made his way from his desk to where Rose was standing.
“This FBI agent that the sheriff was supposed to meet—did he mention his name?” Rose asked.
She assumed that there was a connection between the sheriff’s long absence and the two men being escorted away by the impersonating officer.
The deputy seemed to be thinking. Rose couldn’t wait.
“This is important,” she said. “Did he say his name was Caldwell?”
The deputy noticed her agitated state and thought again for a minute, “No,” he replied. “I don’t remember him saying his name. He just said where he was from.”
Rose’s face instantly lost all its color. “Where was that?” she asked. “Where was the agent from?”
“Natchez, I think,” the deputy replied, not following the woman’s line of questioning or her sudden concern. “Somewhere from over in Louisiana,” he added.
Rose ran to the door, stopped, and turned to the deputy.
“Call for backup, and go to the impound lot. See if they’re there. I’ll go to Sheriff Montgomery’s house first. Hurry! And be careful,” she added. “The sheriff is in danger!”
Rose ran to her car and jumped in, not waiting for a response from the deputy. She didn’t know what she might find at Sheriff Montgomery’s house or even if she should go alone. She only hoped that she wasn’t too late.
TWENTY-FIVE
Rose remembered where the sheriff lived because she had visited him during the holidays. The entire gang from Shady Grove—Lucas, Rhonda, Ms. Lou Ellen, Mary, Thomas, and Rose—had driven together to the farm near the edge of town for his annual West Memphis Christmas party. Rose had heard it was the town event of the year, and once they arrived, she realized that assessment was true.
Sheriff Montgomery had hay rides for the children on sleighs pulled by horses. There were two bonfires down near the finger of the Mississippi River, which marked the edge of his property. There was a pig roast, tubs of coleslaw, eggnog, and more than a dozen desserts.
They had a bluegrass band playing music, and the high school chorus sang carols. He even had gifts for everyone when they departed. It seemed to Rose the entire town was invited to his party, and it was one of her favorite memories since arriving in West Memphis.
She sped down the main road and then exited onto the gravel one that led down to the sheriff’s farm. She hoped that no one was there, that no trouble had yet occurred, and that the deputy would find everybody at the city lot before anyone was hurt.
She glanced around the wooded property as she drove down toward it. She checked out all of the places where people could be hiding and tried to convince herself that everything was going to be fine. She held to that thought as she continued down the driveway. She saw the house and immediately noticed that there were no cars in front. She let out a deep breath, then decided to make a quick turn around beside the house and return to the impound lot on Second Street.
Just as she whipped around the corner, she immediately came upon the dead man’s camper parked just behind the house. It surprised her and she wondered how it had gotten there and who was with it. She stopped the car, waited for signs of somebody, saw nothing, and finally got out and searched around.
Rose tried to guess how many people might be on the property, if Caldwell and the agent were the only bad guys involved. She wondered if they had already found what they were looking for and had left the sheriff and the two family members somewhere near the house. She tried not to think about what condition they might be in.
She crept around the vehicle and the house, hearing nothing, seeing no one. She was about to go into the house, check the inside, and then place a call to the deputy, when she suddenly heard voices from out near the riverbank.
She listened, and the conversation sounded as if it was coming from the lane beside the house and then she heard noises down by the barn. It seemed as if there were people either in the small wooded area in front of the water or all the way down at the river. She headed cautiously in that direction.
She sneaked down the lane, easing into the barn. She decided to search for a weapon, since she didn’t have anything to protect herself. She looked around, finding only fishing poles and brooms. Finally, she saw the handle of an ax. She picked it up, thinking it would at least be something to swing, and then she slipped into the woods.
Moving from tree to tree, she heard two voices. She recognized only one, the sheriff’s, although the other one sounded vaguely familiar.
As she edged her way toward the river, she peeked from behind a scrub oak and saw a man. He was holding up a ladder, a beautiful, rugged stone-laden ladder. She guessed that it was the ladder Caldwell had wanted, the one she had fallen upon in Mr. Sunspeaker’s camper. She studied the man holding the ladder and recognized him immediately as the tall, dark stranger she had encountered twice before.
He was no FBI agent, she knew, and once she saw his big rugged hands, she guessed that he was the strangler and that he must have tied up the sheriff or captured him in some manner. She figured that the lawman was somewhere close by, since she could still make out his voice, though not his words.
Without knowing what else to do, she charged from the woods and, relying completely upon the element of surprise, knocked the man down with one swift, hard swing of the ax handle, right across his shoulders. He fell like an old tree.
“Rose!” the sheriff called out, running up from the river, throwing down a handful of plants. “What on earth have you done?”
She was surprised to see the sheriff completely unharmed and apparently gardening. She was startled that he appeared totally fine and obviously in no danger.
He hurried to the man and knelt down beside him, rolling him over. The man began to cough and sputter.
“The ladder?” he asked, stammering to talk. “Did I break the ladder?”
The sheriff glanced down beside the injured man and examined the object he had been holding. He shook his head.
“It’s fine,” he said, “but I’m not so sure I can say the same thing about you.”
“What did you hit him with, Rose?” he asked, trying to pull the man up to a sitting position.
Rose was confused. She still held the ax handle above her head.
“Put that down!” the sheriff commanded when he spotted her stance. “What are you thinking?” he asked.
The stranger sat up. He reached behind him and felt his shoulder blades. He coughed a few more times.
“I … I thought you were being held captive by the killer,” she said, lowering the weapon she had used. “I came to help.”
“Well, you helped Mr. Lujan right into a serious backache,” the sheriff said, reaching down to feel the man’s spine. “I don’t think she broke anything.”
The man bent forward a bit and grimaced.
“I’m still waiting for the justification for this unwarranted attack,” the sheriff said heatedly.
“He’s not FBI,” Rose said, explaining. She recognized the name Lujan as the one Mary was trying to pronounce when she told about the phone call to Shady Grove.
“I know he’s not FBI,” the sheriff responded, kneeling beside the man, holding him across the shoulders.
“Then why has he been telling people he’s FBI?” she asked.
“BIA,” the man said, sounding short of breath.
“What?” Rose asked.
“Bureau of Indian Affairs,” the sheriff said. “He’s Philip Lujan, an agent of the Bureau of Indian Affairs.”
“Oh,” Rose said timidly.
“Now, do you want to tell me what on earth is going on?” the sheriff asked Rose. “Here, help me get him up.”
She moved closer to the man and helped the sheriff pull him to his feet. He stood and then stumbled a few steps, leaned his hands on his knees, and took a few deep breaths. Sheriff Montgomery hurried over to the bank and brought up a plastic chair that he k
ept by the river for fishing.
“I told you I saw him in your office the day I gave my statement.” Rose helped get the man in the chair. She lifted his shirt and saw the large red mark that was starting to swell. She had hit him pretty hard.
“I don’t remember that,” the sheriff said.
“Do you have any ice?” she asked.
“Yeah, but it’s all the way at the house,” he replied. “Philip, can you walk that far?”
“Give me a minute,” the man responded.
“Keep talking, Rose,” the lawman said to her as they stood beside the seated man.
“Well, I saw him next at the library and then I heard that an agent had called Mary at the campground, said he had talked to you, only you told me that you had not spoken to an agent,” she explained.
“An FBI agent,” he said. “You asked me about an FBI agent?” He shook his head, slid a hand through his hair.
Rose began to think through the mix-up, the fact that Mary, just like the deputy she had just spoken with, had simply guessed that Bureau meant the Federal Bureau of Investigation and that she was the one who had initially called Lujan a FBI agent.
“I came to find you because you didn’t show up for work this afternoon,” she continued.
“I called Roy and said I would be in later,” he said.
“Yes, but—” Rose wasn’t able to finish her statement. She’d intended to say Roy had told her about the call but that everyone still thought the sheriff would show up sometime.
“And then Philip and I got to talking,” he continued, despite Rose’s brief interruption. “And he explained why he was here and how the deceased had contacted him. The officer brought the camper to my house last night because he didn’t have the keys to the impound lot. So, after I met Philip in town, we came home and searched it. And we found the ladder.” He checked on Mr. Lujan again.
The man nodded his head to say he was feeling better.
“Well, why are you down at the river?” she asked.
“Because I grow yaupon here,” he replied, remembering the holly plants he had dropped when he ran up.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Not that it’s any of your business,” he said, walking over to pick up the strewn pieces. “It’s what the Indians used to brew to make a white drink, a tea,” he explained. “I was giving a few of my plants to Agent Lujan.”
She nodded as if she understood, even though she didn’t, and then she bent down to check the man’s wound. “I think I need to go get him some ice,” she said, recognizing that would certainly help with the swelling that was starting.
Suddenly, Rose remembered the real imposter, Patrolman Caldwell, and the fact that he had taken the victim’s family members hostage. She knew she had to tell the sheriff about that. However, just as she remembered what had led her there to his house, all three of them heard a car door slam. She and the sheriff immediately looked up in the direction of the barn.
Before she could warn the sheriff or the man from the Bureau of Indian Affairs, three men with guns walked out of the woods. John and Daniel Sunspeaker had their hands tied and were slowly being led out front.
TWENTY-SIX
“What the—” the sheriff began.
Mr. Lujan tried to turn around to see what was happening behind him. He groaned, unable to twist himself while seated in the chair.
“Hello, Sheriff,” the man pretending to be the Highway Patrol officer said. He had his gun pointed in the lawman’s direction. “Let’s get those hands up, shall we?”
He walked down to where Rose, Sheriff Montgomery, and Agent Lujan were gathered.
The other two guys had their guns on the men from New Mexico. Rose could see right away that the Sunspeakers were very frightened, but it appeared as if they had not been harmed.
Rose and the sheriff raised their hands. Caldwell glanced over at Rose.
“And so we meet again, Ms. Franklin,” he said, moving to stand beside them. “How is it that you keep showing up everywhere I’m searching for something?” Then he turned around to get a better look at who was in the chair.
“What’s the matter with you?” he asked. It was easy to see the man was in pain.
“I’m fine” Agent Lujan replied, choosing not to call attention to his injuries. “Just a cramp.”
The man studied the agent.
“You’re Lujan,” he said. “I remember you from Natchez,” he added. “And of course,” he said, noticing the ladder on the ground beside him, “you came for the same thing we did.” He grinned. “How kind of you to have this out for us,” he said in a mocking tone. “It makes the rest of our time together so much easier.”
Caldwell, dressed in a uniform, reached inside his pocket, took out a glove, and placed it on his left hand. Then he picked up the ladder, still closely watching those he had cornered. The gun was still in his hand.
No one moved.
“Where’s your boss?” Agent Lujan asked, apparently familiar with the criminal.
Rose and Sheriff Montgomery faced each other. They were surprised that the two men were acquainted.
“I’m right where a good boss should be, behind the goons,” a voice said, and a man emerged from the woods.
Rose turned to see the newest arrival at Shady Grove, Robert Wellington, moving in their direction. She shook her head and whispered to herself, “I should have known.”
He walked right over to Rose, who still had her hands up in the air. He slid his thumb beneath her chin. She jerked away.
“Hello, neighbor,” he said with a great deal of amusement in his voice. “I told Caldwell when he phoned me from Oklahoma to say you were in the camper that I could count on you to get me what I wanted.” He winked. “And of course I was right.”
Caldwell was holding the ladder. Wellington smiled when he saw the item and then faced Rose. “I recognized right away that you had a good eye for collectibles.”
She did not respond.
“So you’re the one who was harassing Sunspeaker. You’re the one who murdered him,” Lujan said, remaining in his seat.
“Well, well, well, Agent Lujan, you know the kind of businessman I am.” He walked over to the man sitting in the plastic chair.
“I know that you’re in the business of stealing Indian artifacts, that you’re in the illegal trade of sacred pieces,” Lujan said.
The agent tried to stand up, but he was immediately pushed down by Caldwell, who was standing nearby.
“Now, you should know that I try to conduct my business on the up-and-up to begin with,” Wellington explained. “The old man wouldn’t bargain. I offered him a fair price. He wouldn’t do business with me.” There was a cold, eerie calm to his voice. “We always try to work things out before we resort to other means,” he said, smiling at the agent. “This was just one of those times when things didn’t go as smoothly as we had hoped.”
It was clear that he didn’t have a gun and that he was completely relying upon the others for the dirty work. They did not appear as if they were planning to let him down. They remained standing, pointing their firearms at Rose and the others.
Wellington went over to Caldwell and took the ladder from him. He held it up and examined it.
“You have to admit it’s a spectacular piece,” the man reported, nodding. “And of course, we can agree that I am very picky about what I collect.”
“It’s not yours to collect,” John Sunspeaker called out suddenly.
His voice and his comment startled everyone. “It belongs to our people.”
“Your people?” Wellington replied. “Your people are in New Mexico and have nothing to do with this ladder.” He studied the stones. “You’re Zuni.”
“The first keeper of the ladder came from the east to my people. He put the pieces together, only to have it stolen later by your people. For more than three generations, we have searched for this ladder. It was my mother’s brother who was given the dream to fulfill the promise of our a
ncestor. He was the one who recovered it and the one who replaced every missing stone. It became his responsibility to make sure it was returned to the tribe where it belongs.” The dead man’s nephew was flushed and visibly upset.
“Your mother’s brother was a bad businessman,” Wellington responded, giving the ladder to Caldwell, who unfolded a large plastic bag he had taken from his backpack and placed the ladder inside it. “A pretty good silversmith, but he was way over his head with this.”
The man moved closer to John Sunspeaker. “Your family could have gotten a lot of money for this piece. You could have taken care of your people without even building a casino,” he said, mocking him.
“Besides,” Wellington added as he watched Caldwell seal the bag over the ladder, “the Natchez tribe isn’t even a tribe anymore. What does it matter now if it’s returned or not?”
“It belongs at the burial site,” the nephew insisted.
“See, that’s the trouble I have understanding you people right there,” Wellington commented. “That’s exactly the problem with this entire story! Why would you want to recover this exquisite piece of art only to bury it in the ground?”
“Because it is where it belongs,” John Sunspeaker replied.
“Well, now it belongs with me, and if makes you feel any better, I can promise you I will treat it with the utmost respect.”
Wellington nodded at Caldwell and then started walking toward the house.
Caldwell motioned to the other two men to bring the Sun-speakers closer to the trio by the riverbank.
The two men pushed the family members down toward Rose. As they obeyed their orders and moved closer, she recognized them as the two men she had seen in the diner when she had stopped with Sheriff Montgomery on their way home from Checotah.
John and Daniel moved as they were directed. The older man had a sound look of defeat about him.
“Now, what do we do with so many of you?” Wellington had stopped and turned around to face them.
No one answered.
“Why don’t you let the dead man’s family go?” the sheriff finally said, trying to negotiate. He remained with his hands above his head. “And the woman,” he added, referring to Rose. “Let them go and we can talk.”
