“Nothing’s been released yet. Not even the murder weapon.”
“Good. Second piece of advice. I’ve gone through your records here. Impressive. Impressive with the West Virginia state police force. Impressive in training here. It won’t surprise me to see you moving up quickly. Don’t ruin your chances by spending so much time on this that you forget about the reason Warner sent you in. He might not care, but some paper-pusher somewhere will, and all your reports stay on file forever. If you can tie this in to what you’re doing, fine. If not, go slow. Nothing gets you a red flag quicker in this organization than a reputation for playing the game outside of the team. Got it?”
“Sure,” Clay said slowly. He wondered why Flannigan had gone to the effort of pulling his records. He wondered if Flannigan had read far enough to know about a loaded coal truck on two-lane asphalt shiny with rain, and how badly ten tons of equipment at fifty miles an hour had crushed a Datsun pickup truck with Clay’s wife and daughter inside.
“Third piece of advice,” Flannigan continued, “keep yourself out of what you do.”
“I don’t understand,” Clay said, grateful Flannigan hadn’t brought up the subject of the accident.
“Don’t let any of today’s liberal psychology fool you. If you’re up against a serial killer, you’re not up against someone who society has forced into' wrongdoings. You’re up against evil. Real evil. If you let it get inside, it’s like letting him inside.”
There was a long pause before Flannigan spoke again. “I want you to know something a philosopher noted,” Flannigan said softly. “When you look at the monster, it’s looking back at you. And, Garner?”
“Yes?”
“This one’s not in its cage.”
8:40 p.m.
The Watcher stood among the trees and watched Kelsie’s bedroom window until the light was finally turned off. There was always the hope she might walk past her window. Out here she had no need for privacy. The Watcher smiled a love smile as he waited and hoped for a glimpse of her. She had not spoken to anyone about the letter. And because she had not spoken about the letter, The Watcher knew Kelsie understood their secret love and that it must be kept secret. The Watcher had learned well from the woman in his past, hadn’t he?
“Do you love this kitten, Little Bobby?”
The boy nodded. It had been days since he had tried to tell her that his name was not Little Bobby. He almost believed he was Little Bobby, but he could still remember his own mother, and he missed her badly.
"Say it, Little Bobby. You love the kitten.”
“I love the kitten.”
“‘I love the kitten, Mommy.’” She shook her anger at him in mock anger. “Don’t forget to call me Mommy.”
“I love the kitten, Mommy.”
The kitten was gray. He had played with it all day. In the afternoon, it had fallen asleep on his chest. The boy had listened to the kitten purr as it curled up against him.
“I’m glad you know what love means,” she said. “Do you know what dead means?”
“That’s when you go to sleep and wake up in heaven.”
“No,” the woman said, “Dead is much, much worse. Be a good boy, Little Bobby, and watch your Mommy. She’ll show you what dead means.”
She scooped the kitten in one arm, and with her other arm, took Little Bobby by the hand. She led him into the kitchen.
The kitten meowed as she set it down on the cutting board.
“Little Bobby," she said, “if you close your eyes, I will get the clothes-pins again. You must watch. It is important for you to know what dead means.”
The boy did not take his eyes off the kitten. He wanted to hold it again.
“Good,” she said. “Remember, you must watch to learn.”
She grabbed a large butcher knife from beside the sink.
Day 3
10:02 a.m.
As the lawyer approached on foot, George Samson was leaning back in a rocking chair on his wide front porch. His eyes were closed, his breathing deep. To the lawyer, George Samson appeared to be asleep.
The lawyer coughed. George remained undisturbed.
The lawyer flicked his eyes beyond George to the small cabin. It was tucked into a hill, facing south toward the lake. By the saw marks on the weathered, peeled logs of the cabin, the lawyer knew they had been cut by hand. The chimney was made of irregular-sized stones set in concrete, and the lawyer could imagine this older man, working on a similar sunny July day decades earlier, taking joy in building his own house.
The lawyer knew exactly how long George Samson had lived on the edge of the reservation, for he had personally searched the deed to this land and seen Samson’s signature etched in black ink nearly thirty years before. The lawyer even knew some of the story behind it: Five machine-gun bullets had stitched through George’s right leg as he pulled a fellow soldier away from oncoming German tanks. He had taken home a Purple Heart, and he had also taken home four years of army wages and poker winnings, which he had used to buy the land. It was an extremely mature decision for someone only twenty years old.
Looking at the man and his cabin, the lawyer envied George Samson the apparent simplicity of his life. The lawyer also felt some regret for the man. Samson’s simplicity was about to end.
The lawyer coughed louder. George Samson opened his eyes without alarm.
“Good morning,” the lawyer said. “My name is Earl Madigan.”
George Samson watched the lawyer. He was not hostile, merely curious. It discomforted Earl. The older man had not yawned, nor blinked, nor shifted, nor stretched. Yet he seemed totally alert.
“I have business with you,” Madigan told Samson. “County business.”
“Join me up here,” Samson replied. “It’s a long walk from where you must have parked your car. I’ll get you some water.”
Earl did not want to accept the courtesy, not with the business he needed to discuss. George Samson’s words, however, held a measured peace. Refusal seemed ridiculous in the presence of the man’s dignified strength.
Earl climbed the short steps onto the front porch. George Samson rose to greet him, extending a hand, which, again, seemed ridiculous to ignore.
The older man wore jeans and a faded denim shirt. His hair was a brilliant white, corded into a ponytail. Although the skin on his face and neck had loosened with age, he was still straight-shouldered handsome. The steadiness of his posture and the unwavering confidence in his black eyes gave him an aura that mesmerized Earl.
“I’ll have no quarrel if you loosen your tie, Mr. Madigan,” George said as he stepped toward the cabin’s front door. “We’re not in your law office.”
Earl loosened his tie and stared at Samson’s back. How did this backhills Flathead know Earl Madigan was an attorney?
George Samson returned a few minutes later with two Mason jars of water and a plate of sliced apples. He set them on a stool and gestured for Earl to take a chair on the other side of the stool.
Earl sat.
George pulled up another chair and faced Earl. “How old are you?” George asked. He offered the plate to Earl.
“Thirty-five.” Earl took a slice of apple and bit into it.
“Family?”
“Yes.” He chewed and swallowed. "Two young boys.”
“See much of them? Or does work keep you from them?”
“I provide,” George said defensively. How had the conversation gone this far this quickly?
“I imagine that is a considerable load on your shoulders.”
“No more than any other father. In this world, you do what you have to.”
“I meant it literally,” George Samson said. “Tight muscles. You carry your shoulders high. Your head is almost hunched from the strain. I saw it as you stood and now as you sit. You have my sympathy.”
Slowly, Earl relaxed his shoulders and discovered the old man’s observation had been correct. The difference in position was considerable. How could he not have noticed the strai
n himself?
George Samson smiled and offered more apple slices. “Mr. Madigan, good news is never important enough for anyone to visit here. What bad news do you bring?”
Five minutes before, Earl might have stalled for time by countering with a question. Five minutes before, however, he had regarded George Samson merely as an older Indian.
“The county wants to annex your property,” Earl answered, surprised at how refreshing it was to speak without games. He braced himself, though, for outrage.
“I would prefer not to sell, Mr. Madigan.” George Samson spoke calmly. “I am fond of this land. I built this cabin myself, and it has many memories for me.”
“You’re in a difficult position, Mr. Samson. There are provisions in the land-act laws. Moreover, there are now environmental issues resulting from chemical spillover from the recent freight-train derailment. By the time the dust settles, you may have no choice. My advice to you –”
George Samson held up a hand. He smiled as he spoke, voice still level. “If you are representing the county, wouldn’t any of your advice to me be a conflict of interest?”
“Well...”
“I know you are a younger man, Mr. Madigan. So please understand I am taking liberties because of our age difference.”
“Yes?”
“My advice to you is to listen carefully before speaking. I told you I would prefer not to sell. That doesn’t mean I will fight you to the end on this. If it seems more sensible for me to sell, I will. Save your impressive threats until you need them.”
“Yes sir.” His own words surprised him. Earl wondered when he had last called anyone “sir.”
“Why don’t you leave your papers with me,” George Samson said. “Let me consider the county’s offer before you and I decide what to do next.”
“You and I? It’s the county. They sent me –”
“You and I. There will be much to discuss. I cannot talk to a county. I can, however, talk with you.”
“You and I,” Earl said, hiding a smile. This man had put him off balance from the beginning and, in lawyer’s terms, had handily won every round of the first fight.
“One other piece of advice,” George Samson said. “As you walk back down to your car, look around you with new eyes. There will be a day when you are not young and healthy. You will wish then you had enjoyed the sun on your face and the cries of the birds in your ears. There will be plenty of time later in your office to worry about this matter.”
Had the old man just warned him to expect a battle? Or was this a firm dismissal? Either way the conversation seemed over.
Earl stood and thanked George Samson for the water and sliced apples. Then the lawyer walked back down the hill, wondering if he should have offered the old man condolences on the death of his granddaughter, Doris Samson.
Long before the lawyer was out of sight on the winding path that led down from the cabin, George Samson closed his eyes and returned to the time of prayer that the lawyer had interrupted.
1:05 p.m.
Sheriff Russell Fowler walked into the Kalispell First National Bank carrying a small briefcase. It was new, made of simulated leather, and the lights of the bank interior reflected dully on the material.
Fowler nodded at a few tellers. They smiled back. Although Fowler was in uniform, they saw him often and found nothing alarming about the presence of the sheriff.
“Marge, is Wayne in?” he asked a woman who was flipping through ledgers at a desk to the side and back from the tellers' counter.
“Go on back, Sheriff,” she said without looking up from her work. “It should be fine.”
Fowler stepped past her and into Wayne Anderson’s office. Anderson was standing near a window staring down the street. He was a tall, thin man, clean-shaven, with lines beginning to show around his mouth and eyes. His hair was still glossy brown, although Fowler believed some of the color came from a bottle. Anderson wore one of the new-fangled leisure suits and burnished cowboy boots. He nodded at Fowler.
“Morning,” Fowler said. He tossed the briefcase in a slow, high are toward the banker.
Anderson caught it easily.
“Just like high-school football, Wayne. You had the surest hands in the county.”
“And you had one of the worst throwing arms, I recall. It’s a miracle we won the three games we did.” Wayne set the briefcase on the desk. “What’s with this?”
“Look inside,” Fowler said.
Wayne flipped open the latches.
Fowler glanced around the office. Anderson’s desk took most of one side. There were two chairs near the door. A high bookshelf, filled with hardcovers, stood against the far wall. Diplomas and community service awards hung on the walls, including a photo of Fowler and Anderson holding a string of thirty lake trout they’d caught on a trip into the Northwest Territories of Canada well before either had grandchildren.
“What am I supposed to be seeing here?” Wayne asked, looking down at the now-open briefcase.
“That stuff is from the motel room where we found the dead squaw. See if any of it looks familiar to you.”
“I don’t like that talk,” Wayne said. “I like it less in the bank.”
Fowler shrugged. “In those plastic evidence bags, you'll see a jackknife, some cuff links, and a piece of a ripped tie. Chances are, they came from the killer. All I want is for you to take a close look. See if it belongs to anyone you know."
Wayne frowned. “Russ, you’re flogging a dead horse. None of us did it.”
“Wouldn’t you like to be certain? If I’ve got to cover up a mess, I need to know who to cover.” Fowler paused long enough to make it significant. “Chances are if one goes down, all of us do.”
Wayne stepped away from his desk, moved past Fowler, who remained motionless, and closed his office door.
Wayne returned to the briefcase and sifted through the plastic bags. “No,” Wayne said at last. “Nothing is familiar. I haven’t seen any of this with anyone we know. Satisfied?”
Fowler shrugged again. He’d have been surprised if the banker recalled ever seeing any of the items. None had come from the motel room murder scene. Fowler had accomplished his goal, however. By now the briefcase and the evidence bags carried plenty of Anderson’s fingerprints.
“Hope you don’t mind,” Fowler said. “I’m going to have Larry take a look.”
“Do you think that’s wise?”
“Sure.” Fowler grinned. “That way he can tell me none of this belongs to you.”
“Is that an attempt at humor?”
“A bad one,” Fowler said. “Sorry.” He reached across the desk, snapped the briefcase shut, and picked it up.
“How’s the FBI making out on the train wreck?” Wayne asked.
“Stonewalled. The judge arranged to have him called back in the next day or so.”
“Good,” Wayne said. “Everything is going as planned.”
“Not that you were ever worried.”
Wayne gave a small, cool smile of triumph. “Don’t lose the evidence that puts Rooster and Lawson at the train site though. It never hurts to have a couple of fall guys in place.”
Fowler thought of the beer can and corkscrew sets of fingerprints he had waiting to compare against the banker’s and smiled an equally cold smile in return. “You’re right, Wayne. A fall guy or two for backup never hurts.”
2:31 p.m.
“Hey, Johnny,” Sonny Cutknife said, “you think staring like that is good for you? You’re gonna scorch your eyeballs.”
Both men were well past the main barn. They stood at the side of a pickup truck, its back end filled with fence posts. They had unloaded less than a quarter of the posts and were pausing to allow Sonny a cigarette break.
Johnny Samson looked away from the blonde girl in jeans and a T-shirt where she was putting a coat of paint on a shed a couple hundred yards closer to the ranch house. “I wasn’t staring.”
“And my lips don’t move when I talk. If Old Man Mc
Neill finds out you’re thinking those thoughts, he’ll bury you ten feet under.”
Sonny took a long drag, squinted his eyes against the cigarette smoke and hot afternoon sun, and changed the subject. “People in this valley, they’re going to learn the price it costs to oppress the native sons.”
“Yeah,” Johnny said, although his heart was not in it. Sonny’s diatribes were becoming tiresome. He had listened for an hour on the way into Kalispell to go to the lumber yard and an hour on the way back. How Johnny figured it, you had white skin or you had red skin. White or red, you did the best you could with what life gave you. Without complaining.
Johnny pulled on his leather work gloves and reached for a fence post.
“Not so fast,” Sonny said. “Still got my smoke.”
“You finish, then. It don’t mean I can’t start unloading.”
“Johnny, I got a lot to teach you. White man, he works against a schedule. You got to learn to be natural. Relax, man, get into the rhythm of the day, don’t worry about no time clock.”
“My rhythm tells me we got to unload these.” Johnny grunted and pulled at two fence posts. “Nothing natural about expecting them to jump out themselves.”
“Johnny –” Sonny did not finish his sentence.
Johnny lifted his head to see what had interrupted Sonny.
A man was walking toward them, a tall, gangly man in a suit and tie. He stopped to talk briefly to the rancher’s daughter.
Johnny watched as she pointed up at them and the pickup truck and the small stack of fence posts already on the ground. The man nodded. It looked like he handed her something before he continued his way toward them.
* * *
“Watch where you step, city boy,” the older one said. “Around here, cows ain’t been potty-trained.”
Clay didn’t rise to the bait by looking down. He smiled blandly and hoped the one with the attitude was not Johnny Samson. His headband, the tattoos, the silver and turquoise jewelry – all of it reminded Clay of the photographs he’d seen of the American Indian Movement guerrillas who had occupied the church building at Wounded Knee. Clay’s patience was wearing thinner by the day, and the last thing he wanted to face was a radical.
Blood Ties Page 6
