“I guess it can’t hurt,” Ruth agreed, but there was a doubtful look in her eyes, and her square shoulders sagged as she rode away.
Sixkiller sat with his back braced against the pew, his black eyes zeroed in on the minister. From time to time he would glance to his right, where Dani sat with Ruth beside her, then to his left, where Megan sat, her back stiff. They had met for breakfast, and he had half expected Ruth to change her mind, but she had not.
As the sermon went on, Luke tried to examine his own feelings. He was more than a little surprised at himself, for since there had been some unpleasant experiences at a small church on the reservation, he had kept clear of religion in any form. He had made a separate peace on the matter, deciding that some people were religious and some were not—then having classified himself as one of the nots, he had declined to show any interest in church. He had seen so much violence on the force that he could not hang onto the streak of gentleness that was buried deeply inside.
But something was working on him. Outwardly he maintained the same hard-nosed attitude, but he was an intelligent man, and he had never been able to shake off the notion that evolution was a humbug. His Indian ancestry and heritage gave him a “spiritual” cast, in the more general sense of believing in things that could not be measured in a test tube. He was aware of the physical world in a way that most people are not, and it seemed inconceivable to him that the great dance of the stars overhead was some sort of “accident.”
He knew this agitation had something to do with Dani Ross. When he had first met her, he had remarked, “Just another Jesus freak. She’ll get over it.” As he had watched her, though, she had not “gotten over” it, but had kept the same even frame of mind.
Luke associated most religion with some sort of mental or emotional instability, much in the same way that rationalistic intellectuals of the eighteenth century insultingly branded the early Methodists enthusiasts.
Luke moved his eyes, taking in Dani’s smooth face, the intelligence of the gray-green eyes, and the sensitive lines of the wide mouth. He had seen her quick intelligence in action many times, so her faith was a puzzle to him, as it had been to others. She’s smart as a whip, looks like a million dollars, and she’s got enough drive and stubbornness for ten men.
Sixkiller knew that Dani Ross had rocked his little theological boat, for she had shown him a razor-sharp mind and a well-balanced emotional makeup—and a steadfast set of moral convictions that nothing could shake.
The sermon was brief, but once again, Luke felt something working inside him, and when he shook hands with the minister as they left the church, he found it difficult to meet the man’s steady gaze. “I see you’re back again,” the minister noted. Then he added suddenly, “I’ll be praying that God catches up with you soon.”
Startled, Sixkiller blinked but could not find an answer. Later, when they were sitting in the restaurant where they had gone for lunch, Dani commented on this. Her eyes twinkled as she said innocently, “The preacher has your number, doesn’t he, Luke?”
“He’s been reading that poem too much, the one where Jesus is a bloodhound chasing a sinner.”
“That’s ‘The Hound of Heaven.’” Megan nodded. “I didn’t know you read poetry, Luke.”
“Never read the stuff.”
“Then how’d you know about it?” Ruth asked.
Beleaguered, Sixkiller shook his head stubbornly. “Probably somebody read it to me at the mission school. All I can remember is that it was pretty strange. Making Jesus into a bloodhound!”
“Oh, Jesus has lots of symbolic forms,” Dani reminded him. “He’s called the Lion of Judah, for example, or the Good Shepherd.”
“Yes, but bloodhound?” Luke protested. “And God doesn’t run around chasing people. People are supposed to seek God. Even I know that much, Dani!”
Dani took a bite from her chicken-salad sandwich as she thought about it. Then she said, “I can think of at least two places in the Bible that say God does pursue man. Jesus himself said one time, ‘For the Son of man is come to seek and to save that which was lost.’ And he said in John, ‘No man can come to me, except the Father which hath sent me draw him. . . .’”
“And that part you read to me last night, Dani,” Megan inserted, “with the lost sheep and the shepherd who goes out and looks for him.”
Sixkiller took a vicious bite from his cheeseburger, feeling himself hemmed in. “Well, I don’t see it that way. God’s supposed to be able to do anything, isn’t he? So if he’s seeking me, why hasn’t he found me?”
Dani said gently, “You’ve left out one thing, Luke. We’re like God.”
He stared at her with surprise on his coppery cheeks. “What does that mean?”
“It means that when God made man, he made him with a free will. Man’s the only part of God’s creation who has one. God has a will, and he gave man a will.”
“I don’t see what you’re getting at,” Ruth lamented. “Animals can decide things.”
“But they can’t pray, Ruth,” Dani interposed swiftly. “They can be taught to do things, and they have marvelous instincts. But they’re not like us. There’ll never be a time when we won’t be alive. A billion years will pass, and you and I will still be somewhere.”
“That’s a little scary,” Ruth said. “I don’t like to think about it.”
“You find it scary because you’re bound by time. But don’t you like to be with those you love? Well, that’s what we’re headed for, to be with God. He is love, and there’s no fear in that.”
“There is if you’re not sure you’re going to make it,” Luke countered, his eyes intent on Dani. “If the Bible is true, not everyone is going to heaven.”
“All who want to will, Luke.” Dani paused, searching for the best words. The other three sat there, watching her carefully. “It’s like this,” she said finally. “God could have made a race who had to serve him. But what would he have? A bunch of robots. Would you like a lover who had to love you? Of course not, and neither did God. I don’t know why he made man, but I suspect it was because he wanted fellowship.”
“That’s an odd idea!” Megan exclaimed. Then she smiled. “But I like it!”
They finished their lunch, and as they went to the matinee, Dani saw that Luke was silent. He seemed to be pondering something.
“I think that bloodhound is on Luke’s trail,” Megan stated. She had followed Dani to the horse lot and was watching her saddle Big Boy. “He’d really be something, if he were converted.”
“He’s something now.” Dani smiled. “But I know what you mean.”
“Dani—?” Megan waited until Dani turned to face her, then said, “Thanks for everything. I never knew what peace was until you led me to Jesus.”
“I’m glad!”
Then Megan confided, “Maybe we won’t have to do this rodeo bit for long.”
Dani asked instantly, “You have something, Megan?”
“Just a hunch. I’ll tell you about it later.” She reached forward and gave Dani a hug. “Be sure you win! I’ll be up in the stands hollering ‘Praise the Lord!’”
Dani smiled after her race, for she took first place. Everyone stopped her but she wanted to find Megan and go to her room. After Luke rode his steer, making a good time and taking a second, she found him.
“Luke, I’m going to my room. But I can’t find Megan.”
He snapped his fingers, then reached into his pocket. “She said to give you this note.”
Dani opened the small slip of paper and read: Dani, I’ve got a lead. Will be back at the room after the rodeo. Don’t go to sleep! We’ve got to talk. Praise the Lord! There was another phrase, but Megan’s scrawling handwriting was so bad she couldn’t make it out.
Dani asked, “When did she give you this?”
“Just as I was getting on the bull. Came running in and said she had to leave.”
Dani shook her head. “I wish she’d found me.”
“You think it’s
something about the Creep?”
“I don’t know. She hinted at something like that.” Dani turned, repeating, “I’m going to my room.”
“Check with you later,” he called as she left.
Dani went to the room and showered. It was only nine o’clock, but already she felt nervous. For two hours she glanced at the door, but only once was she interrupted. Sixkiller came by to check on Megan. He listened as Dani spoke, then shook his head.” She’s talking with someone and forgot the time. You know how she does that,” he reminded Dani.
“I suppose so. Well, good night, Luke.”
She read for an hour, then finally turned the lights out, but sleep eluded her. Finally, just as she was dozing off, a knock on her door brought her bolt upright. She called out, “Just a minute—!” and slipped into her robe. When she opened the door and found Lieutenant Stark and Luke Sixkiller standing there, her heart seemed to freeze.
“Come in,” she invited. When they stepped inside and stood there with grim faces, she asked, “What is it?”
Stark’s thin lips grew even tighter. He blinked his eyes, then quietly stated, “It’s bad news, Miss Ross.”
Dani felt her head beginning to grow lighter, and her hands trembled. “Tell me.”
“Well, Clint Thomas has been shot,” Stark said.
“Is he dead?”
“Yes. But that’s not all. . . .”
Stark shot a glance at Sixkiller, and Luke broke the news. “It’s murder and suicide, Dani.” He saw her face stiffen, but had no choice. “Megan shot him—and then herself. They’re both dead.”
15
Captain Little Gets Some Volunteers
* * *
Murders had become so common in Houston that they were usually relegated to the fifth page of the newspaper or to a footnote on the six o’clock news. But the death of a celebrity such as Clint Thomas was something else. The media swarmed like vultures, delighting in their ability to lay bare every sordid detail of the tragedy.
In exasperation, Fighting Bill Baker responded to a reporter who was pumping him, “Say, the guy’s dead. Why don’t you give him a break?”
The reporter stared at Baker as if he had said something stupid. “The public’s got a right to know,” the man had answered. Before breaking the sharp nose of the reporter, Bill exclaimed, “And I got a right to clean your clock!” Hauled into court for his misdeeds, once he had paid his fine, Bill had asked, “Can I get this same rate on some of them other lousv hyenas, Judge?”
Dani came in for her share of roving reporters. Since Megan had been her friend, she was targeted by all the television commentators. She refused to speak to any of them and finally got another room at the motel, under another name, to avoid them.
But Al Packard, the pride of the “Now!” program, outsmarted her. This burly, overbearing man billed himself as the first to get the “facts” on any story. His size, his overwhelming manner, and his connections enabled him to corner anyone he felt would add to his program; Packard bullied most people mercilessly, all in the name of journalism, though he had no training in that field. He had been an all-American linebacker for Texas A & M and capped that with a short career with the Houston Oilers. A knee injury had taken him out of professional football, but he used his controversial manners to become a sportscaster, then graduated into his own program. “Now!” dealt exclusively with sex and violence, never bothering with hard facts but filled with hints and innuendoes, delivered by Packard.
Dani never knew how he had gotten her room number, but no doubt it had been easy enough. She and Sixkiller had fled to the pond to get away from the reporters, but at noon they had returned to the motel. Lieutenant Stark had told them his superior had called a meeting with all the intimates of Clint Thomas at one o’clock at the police station, and Dani wanted to change out of her jeans.
Luke walked with her to her room, his own being only four doors away. Neither spoke to the large man standing in the side corridor containing the ice machines and the vending machines. But as Dani put her key in the lock and opened the door, a voice startled her by calling, “Miss Ross?”
Both turned to find the man standing just behind them. He was at least six four and must have weighed over 250 pounds. His face was blunt, set above a neck so thick that it looked as though he had none. “I’m Al Packard,” he introduced himself, then waited, obviously expecting the name to mean something. When neither of them spoke, he commented, “Need a few minutes of your time, Miss Ross.”
Dani stared at him. “Are you a reporter?”
“I’m host of the ‘Now!’ program,” he said. “You must not be from Texas, or you’d know it.”
“Sorry, Mr. Packard.” Dani briefly informed him, “I don’t have anything to say.”
It was the same line she’d used all morning, and turning her back, she stepped inside her room. Al Packard stepped in behind her, and when she turned, he was so close she bumped into him.
“Won’t take but a few minutes.” He nodded. “Now if you’ll—” He broke off suddenly, for he found himself being shoved to one side. Wheeling quickly, he met the black eyes of Sixkiller. A quick flare of anger came into Packard’s eyes, and he barked, “Don’t crowd me, Mac.”
“My name’s not Mac,” Sixkiller remarked. His face was emotionless as he stood looking up into the face of the hulking reporter. “It’s Luke Sixkiller. You can use it on your program. As a matter of fact, why don’t you and I go to my room and talk.”
“I’m talking to her, Mac,” Packard responded forcefully. “Maybe, if you’re a good Indian, I’ll mention your name.”
At the deliberate insult, Dani saw a smile form on Sixkiller’s lips. For all his thick shoulders, he looked frail beside the bulk of Al Packard. But something in the way Luke smiled made her nervous. Packard was on guard as well, for he had spent a majority of his life dealing with strong men who were out to maim him.
“Gee, thanks,” Sixkiller said eagerly. He put out his hand. “I’d be glad to tell you what you want to know.”
“Sure, sure—but later, all right, Chief?”
After this tolerant word, Packard nodded and took the hand Sixkiller held out. He gave it a hard squeeze, then half turned back to face Dani—when he found he could not. Sixkiller’s hand had closed on his like a vise, and he grunted involuntarily.
“Why, you punk!” Packard laughed, his face red with anger. “Try to outgrip me? I’ll break every bone in your hand!”
It was an old game to Packard, he had always been a strong man, especially in his hands. He had been a champion arm wrestler in his younger days, and though his legs were weak, and he had picked up excess poundage, he still retained most of the strength that had given him the nickname Hooks on the football field. It was his boast that once he got a hand on a runner, it was all over—and that was no exaggeration. He had used the strength of his hands to humble man after man, crunching each one’s hands with a terrible grip.
Now he threw his full strength into doing the same to Sixkiller’s hand. There was no doubt in his mind as to the outcome, for the hand of the smaller man was lost in his own huge paw. Harder and harder he squeezed—but nothing seemed to happen. Sixkiller’s hand did not give, but remained solid and firm. It was like squeezing a padded piece of steel.
Packard threw every ounce of strength into his hand, and his face contorted with the effort. The two men seemed to Dani to be frozen into place. As she glanced at their hands, she saw Packard’s whiten with the strain, his fingertips turning pale under the pressure. She glanced fearfully at Luke’s face but it seemed almost relaxed.
Packard’s mouth sprung open then, for something was happening that had never happened to him before. The hand of the Indian was contracting! Always before his opponent had collapsed under the force of his grip—but now Sixkiller’s hand was like a white-hot band of steel closing on his flesh.
Desperately Packard fought to keep his hand from giving in, but there was something inexorable in Sixkiller’
s grip. Pain shot into the big man’s hand, and he uttered a short cry of pain—which shocked him, for he had never been one to cry over pain. Yet the pain had not brought the cry from Packard, for he had known much worse in his playing days; it was something in the ebony eyes locked into his. As his hand collapsed and the bones began grinding with a fiery agony, something in Sixkiller’s eyes leaped out at Packard, and the big man suddenly felt that not until his hand was a mass of broken bones would he be released. Frantically he lunged back, hauling at his right arm. For all his efforts, his arm might have been frozen in cement, for the pressure continued to grow, and the pain grew unbearable.
Dani was shocked when Packard suddenly cried out, “Let me go!” and fell to one knee, his left hand fluttering in a helpless gesture.
Dani took one look at Sixkiller, then stepped forward. “Luke, that’s enough,” she interceded quickly.
Luke glanced at her, and the fire in his dark eyes seemed to die down. He didn’t let go of Packard’s hand, but pulled him outside. Keeping the pressure on, he moved down the walkway, dragging the big man along. When he got to the steel stairs, he released the hand.
Packard, his face white and his eyes blinking, snatched it back, trying to move his fingers. There was blood on the tip of one of them, and he took the handkerchief from his breast pocket and wrapped it around the hand.
“You’ll be sorry for this!” he mumbled. He would have said more, but he flinched as Sixkiller moved a step closer.
“You print anything I don’t like about Miss Ross,” Luke commented idly, as though he were speaking of a change in the weather, “and I’ll put you in the hospital.” He paused, then said pleasantly, “All right?”
Packard tried to meet his gaze, and he wanted more than anything in the world to smash Sixkiller’s impassive face. He stood there, trying to make himself strike a blow, while Sixkiller waited, a look of expectation on his face. When he saw that Packard was finished, Luke asked mildly, “You need any help to get down those steps, Mac?”
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