“Is there any way I could get some time with him? Try to explain? Before everything gets out of my hands?”
“That’s up to the feds. Maybe Vanessa would have some say. I’d guess your chances were poor.”
“What’ll happen when we land?”
“It’s up to the feds. You’ll be well treated.”
“There’ll be a trial … public disgrace.”
“Christ, Doc. You should have thought of that before you started all this!”
“They’ll never understand what I was trying to do.”
“No, Doc. They sure as hell won’t.”
“And Picketwire—he’s still free? Still out there?”
“Count on it, Doc.”
“How old are you, Beau?”
Suddenly, Beau’s heart blipped, and he felt his belly tighten. A cold wind blew across his backbone.
He looked down at the wheeling earth ten thousand feet below.
“Too young to die in a blaze of someone else’s glory, Doc. Let’s get this over with, okay?”
Hogeland’s seamed and leathery face was closed, his thoughts gone inward. “Don’t fly, do you, Beau?”
There wasn’t much to say. Beau watched the old man and tried to keep himself under control.
“I won’t get the death penalty, will I, Beau?”
Beau considered it. “No. Criminal conspiracy. They’ll call the baby trade ‘kidnapping.’ One thing sure, though, you’ll do a fair stretch of prison.”
“Deer Lodge?”
“That’s the usual destination.”
“A lot of Indians in Deer Lodge. A lot of Crow and Lakota.”
Beau saw the point. “They could sequester you, or your counsel could argue for transfer to an out-of-state prison.”
“That might take care of my fellow prisoners. But what about this man?”
“Picketwire?”
Beau looked out the window, stalling. The answer was very clear. Wherever they put Hogeland, Gabriel Picketwire would find a way to get to him.
“Tell you the truth, Doc, I think the guy will come after you. I think he’ll do whatever it takes to get you.”
Beau watched the ground coming up. It was an honest answer, and it was probably going to get him killed.
The doctor’s face was heavy, his eyes hidden. His hands moved on the stick, and the little jet started to climb.
“Doc, there’s nowhere to run to. And if you take me down, that’s a real killing. Doc … Doc …”
Hogeland pulled on the stick. The turbines kicked in, and the jet rose, banked, rolled right, and fell away through the black night. Cold stars rolled across the windshield, and the earth rose up to meet them like a flat denial of metaphysics, vast, limitless, solid as death.
26
2100 Hours–June 19–Billings, Montana
Vanessa Ballard could hear the sound of a television set as she came down the hallway toward the heavy wooden doors of Doc Hogeland’s office. Mrs. Miles, the doctor’s secretary, was waiting for her outside the doors, lines of concern and uncertainty marking the satiny perfection of her face, her hands clasped tightly across her stomach, elbows in, her posture rigid with anxiety. Beside her, a large young man in a security guard’s uniform stood with his arms folded across his chest, a Maglite in his hand, a large pistol visible at his belt. His face was flushed and shiny.
Other than the sound of the television from inside the office, the suite was silent and dark, the only light coming from concealed spotlamps that cast a dim yellow glow over the oil paintings in gilt frames that lined the oak-paneled hallway.
“Thank you for coming, Ms. Ballard. This is Frank, the night guard. He’s the one who called me.”
Vanessa nodded and looked past Mrs. Miles and Frank at the heavy wooden doors, the brass cartridge cases hammered into the wood.
“Is he still there?”
She dipped her head once, a birdlike gesture. “Yes. I’ve tried to reach him on the intercom. He won’t answer.”
“Can you open the door?”
Frank spoke up. “We can, ma’am. But I’m not sure we should. I’ve talked to him once, over the phone in Mrs. Miles’s office. He says if we try to break in, he’ll hurt himself. What I think, ma’am, I think we should wait for the police. I think the guy’s a little unstable.”
Vanessa considered the man. “If we call in the police, they’ll turn this into a sideshow. Right now, he’s done nothing illegal—”
“Criminal trespass, ma’am.”
“Not really. His father’s the director here. Dwight’s firm is on retainer to the hospital. He used a key, didn’t he, Mrs. Miles?”
She nodded briefly.
“Then it isn’t trespass, Frank.”
“He’s been drinking, Ms. Ballard. I could hear it in his voice. My recommendation would be, let the cops have him.”
Vanessa smiled at him. “Let’s just see how it goes, Frank. He asked for me, and here I am.”
Frank grunted and stepped away from the door. Vanessa reached up and knocked on the wood panel. “Dwight, it’s Vanessa. Open up.”
The sound of the television cut off abruptly.
“Vanessa?” Dwight’s voice was muffled, slurred.
“I’m here. Now open up. It’s late, and I’ve got a lot on my hands right now.”
“Are the police with you?”
“No.”
“Is the guard still there?”
“Look, Dwight, I want to answer a skill-testing question, I’ll stay home and watch Jeopardy. Now open up, or I’m going back to the station.”
A few seconds passed. Then the doorlatch buzzed and clicked. Vanessa twisted the steerhorn handle and stepped inside. Frank tried to follow her, but she turned and put a hand on his chest. “Thanks, Frank. If I need you, I’ll call.”
Doc Hogeland’s office was in darkness, except for a small green-glass lamp on the big oak desk, and the flickering blue glimmer of a television set in the bookcase. The desk lamp illuminated a pair of hands holding a glass full of amber liquid. Beyond the desk, the city lights of Billings glimmered in a haze under a broken moon. Past the lights, the bluffs on the south bank of the Yellowstone bulked dark and massive, cutting into the stars. Vanessa walked over and sat down in the old leather armchair in front of the desk.
“Drink, Vanessa?” Dwight leaned forward into the light. His tie was loose and his shirt undone. His bruises were fading, but he looked gray and sweaty.
“Yes. Scotch, if you’ve got it.”
Dwight reached down beside him and picked up a silver bucket filled with ice. He pulled out a bottle of Laphroaig and poured a shot into a glass. He pushed it across the desk.
“Your health, Vanessa.”
“Cheers.”
Dwight gestured at the television. “You’re missing all the excitement.”
On the screen, a female reporter was talking to the camera in front of a low cinder-block building. A sign beside the building read KBOY TV. A crowd milled around in the background, and a line of Highway Patrol cars was drawn up in front of the entrance, red and blue lights flashing crazily. Rifles were out, and uniformed officers were walking the perimeter. Vanessa could see Frank Duffy in the background, in the middle of a crowd of men in gray suits and tan overcoats.
“So are you, Dwight. I expected you to be right in there. The ACLU’s all over this, and Maya BlueStones has a whole crowd of SPEAR members there.”
“I see a few people missing.”
“Beau’s coming back from Los Angeles.”
“Oh, yes. That I heard. Dad’s flying him back.”
Vanessa kept the tension out of her voice with an effort. “So Eustace says.”
“Yeah. I don’t see Meagher around, either. I guess he’s out at the airport, waiting for Dad.”
“I guess.”
On the television, there was a sudden stir as a convoy of cars and pickup trucks appeared, coming up the highway outside the television station. A Highway Patrol car was leading it. T
he cameras bobbed and jumped as the convoy pulled into the curved driveway. Hard white lights played over the lead vehicles, a white sedan and a battered old pickup. The pickup was full of Indian men carrying rifles and shotguns. The white sedan was driven by a man Vanessa recognized as Charlie Tallbull.
Maureen Sprague was sitting in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead, her face stiff with fear. Ice clinked in his glass as Dwight drained it and poured himself another shot.
“There she is, la belle dame herself. We ought to be listening to this, Vanessa.” He picked up the remote and keyed it. The television burst into loud chatter.
“—just arrived. According to authorities, this is the woman who was named by the SPEAR spokesperson. We’re told her name is Maureen Sprague. She’s a nurse at the Julia Dwight Clinic in Hardin. We’re going to try to talk to her—”
The female reporter came back into view, jogging along in front of a crowd of people, talking breathlessly into her mike. They came alongside the white car as it pulled up in front of the station doors. The pickup parked behind it, and several Indian men got out, rifles at port arms. They gathered around the white car, facing the surrounding policemen and federal agents. The reporter was being pushed and jostled. The image jumped and bobbled. She shouted questions into the crowd around the cars, finally cornering a wiry older man with ritual braids and a beaded headband.
“Can you tell us what will happen now, sir?”
The man blinked in the harsh light. “She’s going to talk to all of you inside.”
“You’re talking about Maureen Sprague, the nurse who has been accused of stealing babies from the clinic?”
Dwight laughed once, and took another drink.
“She is part of it. Charlie Tallbull is the man you want to talk to. He’s—”
“Did you attack the policeman yourself? Are you a member of this gang?”
“What gang? Lady, will you—”
“We’re told there are others involved. Can you tell us who? Can you give us names?”
“You’ll get them inside.”
“Are you all members of SPEAR? We see a lot of guns around. Do you think there will be violence?”
“No—look, that’s it, lady.”
“Is SPEAR condoning the kidnapping of this woman? Is SPEAR behind the assault on the police officer at the time of the kidnapping?”
The man brushed past her and into the doors. A cordon of police officers held the crowd back as Maureen Sprague walked into the station building, flanked by Indian men carrying Winchesters and hunting rifles. As she disappeared inside, the reporter stepped back into the picture.
“We’re told that there will be a televised press conference in just a few minutes. As you can see, the scene here is pretty wild. I’ve counted at least six different news crews here, and you can see all the police. So far, the authorities are being pretty silent about the charges, but sources close to the case say that this is the end of an ongoing FBI investigation spearheaded by Special Agent Frank Duffy. We’re also told that charges are being drawn up that will implicate individual staff members at clinics in at least two reservations in South Dakota. We can’t tell you any more until the conference begins, other than to say that apparently the nurse we have just seen here, Maureen Sprague, is involved, that she was kidnapped in a violent assault earlier today, during which her police guard was seriously injured. She’s being turned over to the FBI here by members of the militant Indian group SPEAR. I guess we’ll just have to wait for more details, since the police aren’t—”
Dwight shut the sound off.
They sat in silence for a while, watching the woman talk. Dwight shifted, and Vanessa heard a scraping sound. Yellow light flared up briefly.
“You quit smoking, Dwight.”
“Not anymore. Maybe this is where you tell me what’s going on?”
Vanessa exhaled, smelling the cigarette smoke, watching the blue cloud curl into the darkness above the green desk lamp.
“I’m not sure I know, Dwight.”
“You know more than I do. I’m getting used to it.”
“This isn’t about you, Dwight. Don’t get maudlin. There are more important things at stake than your opinion of yourself.”
On the silent screen, the camera was panning across a news-desk as several people filed into the scene and took their seats behind it. There was Frank Duffy, crisp and brisk and freshly starched, and next to him Maya BlueStones, in a traditional Ojibway doeskin dress, her expression bright, her black eyes full of calculation, reading the room. Charlie Tallbull stood behind her, flesh sagging over his hard-boned face, his broken arm out in a brace, bruises and scratches over his right eye. Maureen was sitting next to him, looking up into the glare of the studio lamps, clutching a sheet of white paper. Her green eyes glittered, and she looked leathery and old in the brutal white light. Around her neck, a heavy gold chain sent back shards of yellow fire as she moved. At either side of the news-desk, solemn-faced Indian men stood with their weapons visible, facing the crowd beyond the lights.
“Look at her,” said Dwight. “What a piece of work. Five bucks says she comes out of this with a six-figure advance for a book, an hour with Oprah, and the cover of People.”
“She’ll be lucky to come out of this at all. They haven’t handed her over yet.”
“There’s no way she did this all alone.”
“Well, we agree about something.”
“I got a call from a cop named Moses Harper. He wanted to know about Merced. Asked me about Dad’s Cadillac and his plane.”
“Did you tell your father about the call?”
“Yeah.”
“What did he say?”
Dwight sucked on the cigarette, exhaled in a burst. “He said, ‘Thank you, son.’ ”
“That’s it?”
“No. He said, ‘You take care of yourself.’ And he told me he loved me, said he was proud of me.”
Vanessa said nothing. She was thinking about Beau, up in the night sky with Doc Hogeland, about that shiny blue missile against a field of cold stars.
“Doesn’t sound like my dad, does it?”
“I don’t know, Dwight.”
“Does Meagher think I was in this? Do you?”
“I don’t know, Dwight. Were you?”
Dwight coughed, inhaled again. “Vanessa, I don’t even know what this is.”
“Somebody’s been dealing in fetal tissue—or worse. It’s hard to imagine that you could be that close to it all and not know something.”
Dwight was quiet for a few beats. Vanessa watched the screen. Maureen was reading from the paper in front of her. Vanessa wanted to hear what was being said. But hell, they’d play it over and over again. And anyway, a case like this, the DA would take it over. He’d never leave it on her desk. To be honest, she didn’t even really want it. It was dirty, one of the dirtiest things she’d ever come across. It would mark anyone who came near it.
“I guess … I guess I knew there was—something. Dad was having me set up these holding companies. I couldn’t see what he wanted with Merced. And a freight company? It wasn’t like him. All these years, it had always been the hospital. The Hogeland Wing, more equipment. The clinics. Then suddenly, he’s into beef and shipping. I asked him, why the shift? He said it was an investment in the future. In my future, he said.”
Meagher had told her what he knew, and what Beau had found at 220 Ditman in Los Angeles. About Danny Burt and Farwest Beef. About Beau’s suspicions. By then, Beau was already in the air. It was too late to stop him. She’d had the chance. She could have taken a leap, told Eustace he could have his warrant. But no, she had to play the cold-blooded, square-the-corners, by-the-book assistant DA. Now it was too late to keep Beau out of the plane. She’d have to live with that, whatever happened. Now here she was, sitting across from a man who was just now finding out that his father might be a monster, and all she could think about was how she was feeling and what it meant to her. She’d lost a lot over the y
ears. Tonight it was becoming clear to her that perhaps she had lost herself. She felt a rush of sadness, for all the people on the reserves, for what those women had suffered and lost, and even some sadness for Dwight.
She lifted her glass and finished her drink, feeling it burn down her throat. She set it down carefully on the desk.
“Dwight, your father—no matter what he’s involved in, that doesn’t change all the good he’s done in his life.”
“No? If he’s done what it looks like he’s done, I’d say that’s all there is. He’s … not human. And I’m his blood. Maybe I’m hiding behind the law all the time because I’m afraid of what I’ll do if I haven’t got the rules in front of me, in black and white. You don’t know what it’s like, living with a legend, and now the legend turns out to be a lie.”
“Yes, I do. I know all about that.”
“Oh, sure. Vanessa Ballard. You know what they call you, around the courthouse? The Tactical Nike. Everybody jumps when you come into a room. There isn’t a man in town wouldn’t open a vein to get your attention—me included.”
“Sure, I’m popular as hell. My social life’s a mad whirl. Ever wonder why?”
“We all do.”
“Nobody gets to me because my father … my father was a monster too.”
She couldn’t say it. Not even for Dwight. She didn’t have the strength or the mercy.
Dwight lit another cigarette.
“I’m sorry, Vanessa. I forgot about your father.”
That rocked her. Dwight sat forward in his chair and looked at her through the smoke and the green light, his eyes in shadow, a pool of yellow light lying on his hands on the desktop.
“Mom told me about it a long time ago. She said that’s why Bonnie drank, because she knew that at night, your dad would get out of bed and … Mom said Bonnie would lie there at night in the bed, and she’d try to get up and go stop him. But she couldn’t.”
“Oh, yes. Poor Mom.”
“Yes. She—she failed you. Maybe, these days, maybe it would be different. But back then, people looked away.”
“If you knew this, then how could you bring those charges against Beau? How could you let Maureen go ahead with that charade?”
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