A Nation of Mystics_Book II_The Tribe

by Pamela Johnson

  “O’Brian. Please. If you could just take a minute. I’d really like to get in touch.”

  The woman grabbed at a big dog trying to follow the kids inside. “Out till you get sprayed,” she cried, brushing hair from her eyes. “Oh, alright,” she sighed, regarding Joe’s anxious face. “If you could just wait here, I’ll be right back.”

  Joe wasn’t sure at first, so he waited a few minutes before once again checking the rearview mirror. He was driving a dark road on what he hoped was Hoopa Reservation land.

  There was no mistake. The lights were there. Every once in a while, he’d catch a glimpse of them if they were on the downside of the hill.

  There’s nothing out here, he warned himself. Not even a fucking phone.

  The reservation was a lot farther than it looked on the map, and he’d spent a lot of time driving in circles, trying to find Samuel Dark Elk. But the last old man had seemed friendly enough. Maybe this time, he’d gotten a straight answer. Again, he looked into the rearview mirror.

  “I’m just being paranoid,” he mumbled aloud, talking to himself as he often did when he was nervous. “Other people can use this road, too.”

  Perhaps it was the night that unsettled him. Or the haunting information Marge Halloway had given him about the Indian boy who’d been shot. Maybe it was the townspeople’s indifference to the boy’s death. Whatever it was, he was acutely aware that someone wouldn’t like him walking out of town with this new information.

  “Guess I’d better call Lance with the news as soon as I go back to town.”

  On a flat stretch of road, he turned off his lights and pulled to the side, waiting.

  The other car should just cruise on by, he decided.

  Five minutes passed. Nothing.

  Okay. So they’ve turned off.

  Joe started the engine, and slowly drove back onto the narrow country road. Lights once again flashed into view. The car had stopped, only to start again as he did.

  “Shit!” he hissed between his teeth. “Why don’t I have a goddamned gun?”

  Because you were always going to use your brain. So use it.

  He was tired, hungry, frustrated, and paranoid. He wanted a drink, but a cigarette would have to do. He was taking no chances on getting picked up in this town for an open container of booze in his rented car. How much farther? Where was the Dark Elk farm?

  Behind him, a siren answered. The scream filled Joe’s ears like some raging storm, close, uncontrolled and ferocious, headlights coming up fast. He accelerated, trying to buy a little time. That farm had to be very close.

  “Police! Pull over to the side of the road and stop!” an electronic voice commanded through the car’s megaphone.

  Joe had no choice. He veered to the side, parked, the motor still running. The patrol car pulled up behind. A searchlight cut through the night, lending the spot a sense of surreal daylight.

  “Turn off your engine. Come out of the car with your hands up!”

  Here we go, Joe winced. We’re going to go through the whole goddamned routine!

  “Come out of the car. Now! Keep your hands above your head,” the voice ordered.

  Joe argued with himself, scared, but angry. He didn’t want to go through the humiliation. White fingers gripped the steering wheel. Then, he turned off the engine and roughly threw open the door. He stood up into crystal white light, hands well above his head. His eyes squinted against the glare.

  Within moments, two men emerged, guns in hand, crouched, walking slowly toward him, dark shadows, illuminated only at their shadow edges. With his arms held high above his head, he was vulnerable, chest and stomach open, a waiting target. The men continued toward him slowly, bathed in light.

  “We got him, Tom!” one of them shouted.

  Joe realized many things all at once, all in the same slow motion, the same blinding light. Someone was still in the police car. The men were not in uniform. No identification had been shown. No charges made. Just guns in the night.

  “Turn around. Put your hands on the top of the car.”

  “I’d like to see some identification,” Joe said into the new stillness.

  Once the siren had stopped, there was only heat filling the night, the smell of pine, and the sound of scraping feet moving through road gravel and pine needles. One of the men laughed. Joe’s forehead beaded with sweat at the sound. An arm shoved him face down against the car.

  “Spread ’em.”

  Joe grit his teeth, felt the man’s hands on his body, feeling along his arms, his wet armpits, across his chest, stomach, and back, down his legs, the lingering pat between his thighs.

  “Turn around. Keep your arms up.”

  “I want to see your identification and know why I’ve been stopped.”

  “Attempted robbery,” the man said, holding up his badge with his free hand.

  “Robbery,” Joe laughed. “That’s absurd. Get your chief on the radio. He knows me. I was in his office this afternoon.”

  “Chief, huh?”

  The police car door opened, and in the light, Joe could see the darkened shape of a huge man, his frame lit and glowing from the spotlight. “Well, Mr. O’Brian. I didn’t expect that when we met again, it would be this way.”

  “Chief?” Joe asked trying to shield his eyes, and now he was furious. “You know I’m no robber.”

  “Get your hands back up.”

  “What is this?” Joe demanded.

  The absolute silence of the forest continued to unsettle him, the only reality the light and the sound of human voices.

  “You’re going to have to spend the night in jail, Joe. Until I can verify your story. You fit the description of an armed robber we’ve been looking for. Get the cuffs on him, Dan.”

  “Come on, chief,” Joe tried another tack, made his voice soothing. “How can you do that to me? I thought we were one Irishman to another.”

  The chief held up his hand. “Okay, then. As one Irishman to another. What the hell are you doing out here?”

  “You know what I’m doing. I’m going out to see Dark Elk. You told me he was head of the Reservation Council.”

  “Are you now? What for?”

  Joe realized he’d come full circle. “My business is private.”

  “Then you have two choices. You can get in the police car and spend a few days in jail. Or you can let us take you to the airport.”

  “The car’s a rental. I can’t leave it here.”

  “Choose,” O’Dell told him.

  The man holding the gun nearest Joe laughed nervously. The stakes doubled. Joe wasn’t sure he’d make it to the airport, even if that were his choice. A lone, unknown body might take a long time to discover in these mountains. Another unsolved murder. Just like the Indian kid.

  In the eerie stillness, he heard the click from the revolver, the safety released, another laugh. His eyes blinked in the direction of the click, focused on the officer who had not yet spoken, registered the six-shooter. Nonregulation. Private pistol.

  A second later, behind him, the sound of a snapping twig cracked like lightning in that still night. Joe’s head swung around to look over his right shoulder. Out of the darkness stepped six or eight men with flashlights. Joe took a deep breath and began to shake.

  “What are you doing on the reservation, O’Dell?” The voice was hard, tough, and without fear.

  “Who’s that?” O’Dell asked, squinting now against the light in his face.

  “Roundtree. What are you doing on the reservation?” he asked again.

  “Well, Roundtree. How are you? Got a few of the boys with you tonight?”

  Silence greeted the question.

  O’Dell cleared his throat. “Chased a suspect out here. Armed robbery. Guess we’re a bit over the reservation boundary.”

  “A bit.”

  “We were just gettin’ ready to bring this fellow in.”

  “We heard him say he came out to see Dark Elk.”

  O’Dell shuffled. Pin
e needles crackled. “How long you boys been standin’ there listenin’?”

  “Us boys been listenin’ long enough. We stepped in because it looked like another accident was going to take place. I think you’d better leave the reservation … chief.”

  “The prisoner?”

  “He stays. You know you have no jurisdiction here.”

  “You gonna let him do that, Tom?” the man with the nervous laugh squealed.

  Behind the flashlights, O’Dell heard a carbine cock as a bullet was loaded into the chamber.

  “Dan, you heard the man. We have no jurisdiction here.”

  The three men slowly pocketed their guns and walked into the glaring light of the police car’s spotlight.

  Roundtree lifted a finger, pointed left, then right, playing his men into the trees. Joe lowered his arms. The police car backed and turned around, spitting gravel as it pulled away.

  Joe sighed deeply. “Thanks. How did you know this was happening?” he asked, turning to Roundtree.

  In the new light of flashlights, Roundtree stared at him intensely. “We heard the siren. O’Dell’s not wanted on the reservation. We don’t need white law.”

  “I don’t have much use for it either. Not that kind.”

  “I don’t have use for any kind.”

  Men reemerged and formed a semicircle around the pair. A lone woman walked forward from the forest. She held the carbine.

  “You seem surprised by O’Dell,” Roundtree pushed at him.

  “Not really. It’s not the first time I’ve been arrested. Or seen men like him.”

  “What’s your business with Dark Elk?” Roundtree demanded.

  “My business is with Dark Elk,” Joe told him, his voice flat.

  Silence filled the space between the two men. No one moved.

  “Look,” Joe said, anger in his voice. “What do you want me to do? You want me to lift my arms again? You and the Chief trading places?”

  Another moment passed, then Roundtree said, “Alright. I’ll take you there.”

  He turned a half circle away from Joe looking to the men behind him. “Three of us can ride in the back seat. I’ll ride up front with you. Let’s go.”

  BREMER

  EUREKA, CALIFORNIA

  OCTOBER 1968

  For the first time in many years, Bremer was truly worried. He sat in his office, alone, thinking, wishing he had broken his number one rule—no bottles of booze hidden away in his desk. O’Brian had finally got to him. He wanted a drink.

  That son of a bitch! The months of tailing him, letting him know someone was listening to his phone. The verbal threats. Even the Chief’s drama tonight. None of it scared him off.

  Bremer was certain O’Brian knew. Knew, but couldn’t prove. What worried Bremer now was what O’Brian would do with the information. His hand reached out absently, groping for the imaginary glass he needed, his fingers coiling into an empty fist. He shook his head and covered his eyes with his hands, rubbing them hard. He had thought it was behind him. Over. He didn’t want to think about it.

  He’d gone back alone after Roger had left him. He hadn’t liked the smart-mouthed sneers he’d been given earlier. The kid was still there, where he’d left him—too drunk to move, alone now, the friend disappeared.

  Bremer rubbed his eyes harder. But his ears could still hear the easy, envied self-assurance of the boy. The glib, drunken comments.

  “Hey, old man, where I’m goin’s my business. What’s your bad mood anyway? Didn’t you get fucked today?”

  That filthy-mouthed kid. Damn him! And damn all those Indians out on the reservation! Alcoholics. Noisy. Disturbing the peace. Worthless.

  “You smell like you been drinkin’. I’m not sharin’ mine.” The laugh and sloppy lift of the bottle sheathed in a paper bag.

  “You’re under arrest!”

  “What for, man? You can’t arrest me. This is the reservation.”

  That arrogant, sly smile. Turning his back on me. Walking away.

  “Stop!”

  The boy glancing back over his shoulder, hurling insults.

  “Get fucked!”

  “I said stop!”

  Behind his closed eyes he could still see the surprise in the kid’s face when he’d drawn the six-shooter, the quick sobering fear in his eyes, picking up his pace, gathering speed, swift as a deer running toward the forest, then … the sound of the gun firing …

  Oh, God, it was a mistake! An accident! The kid was under arrest. He shouldn’t have run. That lousy, worthless drunken Indian forced me to it. It was my duty.

  A picture formed of the boy’s contorted lift into the air as the bullet slammed into his back, exploding blood and bone. The image replayed itself over and over on his closed eyelids. The running, the flash of the gun, the leap, the drop to earth. The body hit the ground and quivered for what seemed an eternity before it was still. Even the forest had become silent …

  Bremer abruptly stood. His chair scratched hard against the floor.

  Jesus, what’s happening to me? He shrugged his shoulders. I just did my duty. My badge and oath forced me to fulfill that duty.

  Opening the top drawer of his desk, he picked up the pearl-handled Colt .45 and rubbed the cold surface with his free hand. The weight steadied him.

  What to do about O’Brian?

  Bremer smiled.

  If I can’t get to O’Brian’s person, I’ll get to his heart. Wasn’t his line something about human rights? Didn’t Phillips say he believed he was in business to help the downtrodden? A real do-gooder?

  Holstering the .45, he closed his desk drawer and turned out the lights.

  A half mile away, he stepped into a bar and downed three double Jack Daniels before heading for home and another bottle.

  CHRISTIAN AND KATHY

  HUMBOLDT COUNTY, CALIFORNIA

  NOVEMBER–DECEMBER 1968

  During the first week of November 1968, Christian received an unexpected letter from Amsterdam. With some trepidation, he opened the envelope to find that it ended a hope.

  My dear little brother,

  Certain happenings in and around my work have led to the writing of this letter.

  First, Interpol agents questioned my superior in regards to the purchase orders for a certain product from a small chemical company here in Amsterdam. The next shipment requested has been suspended. This incident I learned of totally by accident, a product of my department’s gossip.

  Also, I should mention that my department controls the warehouse. Recently, a young American worked there for several weeks. He was going to school in Germany, but claimed he needed to work for a semester to earn money before returning to school. At first, he was a quiet, able worker, but then questions began, carefully concealed in pleasant conversation. After a few weeks, he disappeared from the job. I’m afraid, dear Christian, that he had a double purpose.

  While at the front desk of a small company a little over a week ago, a secretary with whom I am acquainted was asked many questions by a charming young salesman, one who suspiciously matched the description of our warehouse worker. She smiled, said her boss was away at the moment, but that he would be happy to return a phone call upon his return.

  I believe the company has now folded, and the secretary is halfway to Nepal with a friend named Franz.

  I’m sorry, my friend, but nothing else will be forthcoming in this manner.

  I look forward to seeing you again.

  Heinrich

  Christian sighed, closed his eyes in disgust, and handed the letter to Kathy.

  “I spent the entire months of January and February in Amsterdam buying the lease on a building and establishing a pharmaceutical company. The whole purpose was to obtain ergotamine for the lab. All the months of setting up the connection! The energy and money!”

  Kathy took the letter, read it quickly, and afterward, was almost relieved. From the misery on his face, she had expected something much worse.

  “Doesn’t look go
od,” she said, passing it back to him. “I’m sorry. Looks like your base source has dried up.”

  “There are other sources,” Christian said, setting the letter aflame with his lighter. He turned the paper as it burned, then let it float down into the center of the fireplace. “I’ll find them.”

  Kathy wrapped her arm around his shoulder. “I think I know someone who may be able to help you. Want me to check?”

  Even before the plane from Hawaii landed, Kathy knew she had to make a decision about how her relationship with Christian would work. The whole scene at the airport agricultural station had freaked her out, and even with their death and rebirth together in the Hawaiian sunrise, she was anxious about many things—the assumptions about the role of women, self-determination and the power of money, the boundaries of love and business.

  When she had gathered herself after the outburst on the plane, she had lifted Christian’s hand into her own and had taken a deep, shaky breath. “We need to talk.”

  “So talk, beautiful lady,” he said, touching her face.

  “Danny … my partner … he’s meeting me. I’m going to owe him some explanation of why I’m late.”

  “When he sees me, I think he’ll know,” Christian had answered, grinning.

  “There’s more. The decision about how this is going to work. I’ve made it. Please hear me out until you say anything.”

  “Kathy,” the grin faded and he had an uneasy premonition, “we made some promises to each other. Can you forget the intimacy between us so easily?”

  “No,” she cried, shaking her head. “I want us to be together.”

  “Then what is it? You have something going with your partner? Or anyone else?”

  “That’s just it! If I don’t want to live with you, then it must be because I want to be with some other man, right? I’ve been straight with you. About everything.”

  “Okay, I’m listening. What’s going on in your head?”

  “We’re going to have to find a way to live together … but not in the same house.” She tried to sound sure. “I’m keeping my business. And my apartment. I need a place to do deals.”