A Killing Season

by Jessica Speart

  He hadn’t balked at the mention of unlicensed guns. Hitting one out of two wasn’t too shabby.

  “Oops! I guess I’ll have to say it was an honest mistake on my part after the FBI finishes their investigation.”

  “See? I told you she was a bitch!” Cherry snapped.

  “Yeah, yeah. I know. Your womanly instincts,” I countered. “Okay, Benny. Now tell me what gives.”

  “Unbelievable! You feds are worse than the Russki Mafia and the Colombian Cartel rolled into one!” the Bopper groused.

  I stared at him without saying a word.

  “Okay, okay. I testified against a coupla mob families a few years ago. It involved a Medicare scam that was being run out of Florida and New York. We netted more than twenty-seven million big ones, and I helped mastermind it,” Benny said with more than a touch of pride.

  “Twenty-seven million? That’s quite a haul. How did you manage that?” Even I was impressed.

  “Whadda ya, kidding? It was easy! There’s no bigger or dumber mark than the federal government. The low-level stuff amounted to getting some garden-variety doctors to inflate their bills. But the real genius was when I brainstormed setting up a coupla sham radiology clinics. That’s when the Medicare checks came rolling in.”

  Benny was quite the guy—a real true-blue humanitarian.

  “Everything was going gangbusters until one of the Social Security numbers we used turned out to be fake, and some pencil-pushing bureaucrat caught it. Talk about your lousy breaks! After that, I was offered a deal: testify and live out my life playing cowboy in the middle of nowhere, or spend the rest of my days in jail. Who knew they’d turn out to be pretty much the same thing?”

  If Benny was hoping for sympathy, he was looking in the wrong place.

  “Okay, but that still doesn’t explain how you and Cherry hooked up. And don’t tell me it was at Big Bertha’s,” I warned, “because I don’t buy it.”

  “And whadda ya gonna do if I don’t feel like it?” Benny taunted. “Turn me in to the mob?”

  “Hey, that’s not a bad idea,” I responded pleasantly.

  “Real cute, Porter,” Benny smirked. “I gotta tell ya, you’re some piece of work.”

  “Thanks. I like to think so.”

  “Why doncha buy it, anyway?” Cherry Jubilee demanded.

  “Just chalk it up to my womanly instincts and the fact that I’m naturally suspicious,” I replied. “Anyway, I’m sure the truth is much better, and I’ve always been a sucker for a good love story.”

  Benny used his pinkie to dislodge a piece of lox that was stuck between his teeth. “We met over at Nearly Paradise. I used to spend a lotta time there when I first landed in Montana.”

  “Right,” I scoffed. “I can really see you fitting in with the militia crowd.”

  “Believe what you want, but it happens to be true.” Benny sniffed, as though his feelings had been hurt. “Look at it this way: they’re business people, too. Besides, there isn’t anyone else to socialize with around here, unless you’re a perv with a weakness for cows. Then you’re in bovine heaven. I thought we might be able to do some business together.”

  “What were you planning? To join forces and sell hot tubs to survivalists?” Then I remembered having seen Doc Hutchins leaving Nearly Paradise earlier this morning. “Okay, then you should be able to tell me why a guy by the name of Hutchins would be hanging around the compound.”

  “Doc Hutchins?” Cherry piped up. “He lives there, of course.”

  “I figured he’d reside somewhere on the Blackfeet reservation.”

  “No way. Hutch has been at Nearly Paradise for years. He hates the government just as much as the Lungrens do,” Cherry reported, looking mighty pleased with herself.

  “And why’s that?”

  “It’s ’cause the authorities revoked his medical license in four different states and ruined his career. After that, the only place he could get a job was running a medical clinic on some godforsaken reservation. He met Kyle at Big Bertha’s not long after he moved here and immediately bought one of the lots on the compound.

  I shot her a skeptical look.

  “She’s right, Porter,” Benny chimed in. “As a matter of fact, Hutchins used to have a fly-by-night medical practice in Flushing, Queens. I know, because he was involved with our Medicare scam.”

  “What!”

  “Don’t be so naïve, Big Apple babe,” the Bopper gloated, seemingly pleased at having trumped me. “Working with us was about the only way he could make any decent money, what with his license being jerked so much.”

  If that were true, how had he managed to land a job at a federally funded clinic? Then it hit me. “Did he happen to testify against the mob, too?”

  “Good guess. His real name is Herman Bethala. Who knew we’d both end up near Choteau? Or Shithole, as I like to call it. The feds must be running outta places to put all of us. Hutchins was already living at the compound when I got here.”

  Benny rolled the shred of lox between his fingers and flicked it on the floor. “Now there’s something that burns my butt. Giving that dump a name like Nearly Paradise and getting twenty-five thousand smackers a lot. That’s what I call criminal! Hutchins is probably helping to steer people there and getting some kind of kickback.”

  “Oh, puh-lease! You’re just sore ’cause Doc doesn’t want to work with you anymore,” Cherry tattled.

  “Whoa! Hold it a minute! Were you planning to run the same kind of scam up here as you did in New York?” I incredulously asked.

  “You know, Cherry, you got one helluva big mouth. You better be careful before it’s permanently shut,” the Bopper hissed.

  “Did you hear that? This loser’s threatening me! I want him arrested!” Cherry demanded, jabbing a finger in his stomach.

  “Wait a second!” I commanded, getting between them. “Benny, just answer the question.”

  “What the hell. I’ll tell ya, since it’s never gonna happen anyway. Sure. Can you think of a better place for that sorta scam than on an Indian reservation, where nobody knows what the hell is going on, and doesn’t give a damn?”

  “In other words, Hutchins learned his lesson and you didn’t,” I surmised. “Obviously he’s come to respect the Blackfeet people.”

  “Whadda ya, kidding me? You should hear how he talks about ’em, calling ’em blanket asses, teepee creepers, wagon burners—”

  “Enough already. I get the picture. What do you think is stopping him from working with you, then?”

  The Bopper munched on a cherry Danish, its red jelly staining his lips. “It’s hard to say. But I know the guy. If he’s not interested in what I’m offering, it’s ’cause he’s already involved in another sweet deal.”

  “Any idea as to what it might be?”

  I was beginning to suspect that Hutchins was dabbling in the bear gallbladder trade. It made perfect sense: he had easy access to Asian doctors and pharmacies via the Internet and could ship the bear galls out by overnight mail.

  Benny shook his head unconvincingly.

  “How about you?” I asked Princess Two-Black-Eyes.

  Her answer was equally nonverbal.

  Of course, it was just possible that the unsavory trio were in on it together. There was certainly enough money to be made, with bear galls selling for a whopping $5,600 per powdered ounce in Asia. In fact, Cherry was looking a little green around the gills, as though there might be something she was bursting to tell me.

  “If you’ve got information, you’d better spill it now, Cherry. You don’t want to be an accessory to a crime,” I cajoled.

  “She’ll never tell you nothing,” Benny bleated like a ram guarding his prize ewe. “Even if she did have a brain in that body of hers! Hell, she’s still in love with militia boy. Cherry thinks of him as her knight in shining trailer-park armor. She’s hoping he’s gonna slay that evil stepmother of his and beg her to move back in with him.”

  “Shuddup, you little weasel!” Cherry
angrily countered. “You’re just jealous, is all!”

  Hmm. Wasn’t that interesting? We’d been talking about Doc Hutchins only to land on the topic of militia boy. I could spend the rest of my day trying to figure out that connection.

  Cherry and Benny continued to go at each other, and I knew there was little chance of getting any more information out of them.

  “Gotta go,” I said, bidding adieu. I grabbed a couple of cheese Danish and a piece of cinnamon coffeecake, then slipped out the door.

  Twelve

  The building that housed the Indian Health Services clinic was as squat and dumpy as an overweight daschund. Inside, the facility was strewn with waiting patients exhibiting an assortment of sniffles, coughs, and fevers. That wasn’t counting those burdened with broken arms, fractured legs, and aching heads. Many sat nodding off in what few chairs there were, while the rest lay curled up on the floor.

  I knew that the rate of diabetes, as well as lung and heart disease, was skyrocketing on Indian reservations across the country. Still, the clinic was more crowded than I’d have imagined. The place looked like a refugee camp—only worse. IHS was poorly run and understaffed out in the field where it counts, just like every other federal agency in the country.

  “How long have you been waiting?” I asked a woman holding a colicky baby.

  She looked at me with the grim eyes of a war-weary soldier. “Since yesterday. I got a number and came back this morning. It seems to be moving faster today.”

  I gazed at the mass of pain-riddled humanity around me. It was amazing how hope sprang eternal. I felt like a larcenous thief as I skipped to the head of the line.

  The woman in charge of assigning numbers barely acknowledged my presence. But then, she was pretty busy catching up with the latest gossip in People magazine.

  “Hi. I was wondering if Dr. Hutchins might have a minute?” I asked and flashed my badge.

  That seemed to get her attention. She looked up at me with a smirk. “Yeah. He’s sitting in his office right now having a latte. Why? Did you want to join him?”

  Wow. A receptionist with a sarcastic sense of humor. How unique.

  “I just have a few quick questions I’d like to ask.”

  “A few quick questions, huh?” She leaned back and folded her arms. “Are you in diabetic shock or having a heart attack at the moment?”

  I shook my head no to both.

  “Well then, you’re gonna have to wait just like everyone else. Take a look around. What we’ve got is a traffic jam. You should be able to see that the doctor is busy right now.”

  I didn’t think she’d believe me if I suddenly pretended to faint.

  “You can either take a number and wait with the others, or come back after clinic hours and try to catch him then.”

  “Thanks. I guess I’ll try him later.”

  “Good choice.”

  But rather than leave, I decided to melt into the background and study the action. Needless to say, there wasn’t a lot of activity going on. I was beginning to feel drowsy myself, when Hutchins finally emerged from an examination room with a patient. They both stepped into what I assumed to be his private office, only to reappear before long. The man left with some pills and Hutchins scurried into the other exam room to check the next patient.

  “Number forty-five!” the receptionist called out, as if working at a deli.

  She impatiently ushered an arthritic old woman into the newly vacant exam room. I waited until both women were out of sight and then casually sauntered into Hutchins’s inner sanctum, closing the door behind me. With any luck, the good doctor would remain occupied and I’d be able to slip back out at an opportune moment. In the meantime, there was work to do.

  I looked around. The walls were puke green and the paint was peeling. The space was sparsely furnished with only a desk, two chairs, and a couple of filing cabinets. The pieces were obviously secondhand, sporting surfaces that were battered and scratched. My guess was that, much like Hutchins, this was the last stop in their professional careers.

  The desktop was bare but for a cup filled with cheap pens and pencils. Not a single decoration hung on the walls. There were no photos, no paintings, and certainly no framed medical diplomas. The office reeked of solitude and disappointment. Judging from the room, Hutchins—AKA Bethala—was a man without a successful past, a fulfilling present, or a promising future.

  The two filing cabinets probably held patients’ files. I opened the first, which proved me correct. Searching for any evidence to link Hutchins to the bear gallbladder trade, or that would indicate he was pushing drugs on the rez, I did a fast finger search through the folders. But they held little of interest, other than who had high cholesterol, hepatitis, and diabetes. It was time to move on to cabinet number two.

  Naturally, this one proved to be locked. I pulled out my handy dandy Leatherman tool and jimmied the catch without any problem at all. Someday, I’d have to write the company and tell them how good their product was for breaking into secure places.

  Pulling open the top drawer, I found folders categorized according to age, sex, blood type, and general state of health. Hmm. Could the IHS be involved in some sort of hush-hush study concerning health conditions on reservations? I’d learned firsthand about the federal government and secret projects, placing my own life in grave jeopardy by doing so. I hesitated a moment before taking the plunge.

  What the hell. Life is short.

  Yeah, but yours could be even shorter, quipped an inner voice.

  I chose to ignore it and pulled out the file labeled General Health. Strangely enough, a page for Elizabeth Come-By-Night lay on the very top. Listed were her age, weight, and height, as well as the fact that she was in excellent health. Her last exam was dated to have been yesterday. I quickly searched through the rest of the folder, but found nothing else of interest.

  Damn! So far, there was no indication that Hutchins was dealing in either bear galls or illegal drugs. The file also proved that Elizabeth hadn’t been lying about her doctor’s appointment. Could Running be right, after all? Perhaps Hutchins had been rushing off to an emergency. Still, why hadn’t he bothered to make sure we were all right before speeding away?

  I should have been paying more attention to my surroundings; the sound of a male voice alerted me that Hutchins was right outside the door. I managed to slip the file back in place and shut the drawer, just before the good doctor walked into the room. He looked even more wasted than I’d remembered. His sallow skin was stretched tightly across a cadaverous skull, and the teeth in his mouth were crooked and dingy.

  We both jumped in surprise, but Hutchins’s reaction was far more severe. The man slapped a startled hand to his chest and began to gasp. I worried that I’d prompted a heart attack, then realized I was witnessing guilt and fear. Hutchins’s eyes darted furtively around the room like a trapped animal’s, and he closely resembled a cornered possum as he stood with his shoulders hunched and his back pressed against the wall. What was he so nervous about?

  “Sorry if I frightened you, Dr. Hutchins. But I want to ask you a few questions, and decided to wait in your office. I’m Rachel Porter, special agent with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. You might not remember, but we literally bumped into each other at the Red Crow Café yesterday morning.”

  Maybe I shouldn’t have allowed Hutchins so much time to recuperate. He promptly launched into attack mode, his anxious expression transforming into a menacing glare.

  “Of course you’re with the government. Who the hell else would have the gall to simply walk in here and invade my private office? After all, isn’t that what you people do?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “That’s exactly what you feds did at Waco and Ruby Ridge—invaded private property, after which you persecuted and murdered its residents. And then you wonder why a patriot like McVeigh comes along and decides to blow you all up. That’s what the motto Don’t Tread on Me means—keeping a tyrannical govern
ment at bay. You’re all a bunch of jack-booted thugs who think nothing of stomping on innocent citizens’ inalienable rights. Well, people are getting damned sick and tired of it. What are you doing here, anyway? Trying to plant something in my office so that you can haul me off to jail?”

  Oy veh.

  “Actually, I just wanted to ask why you didn’t stop when I tried to wave you down yesterday. I was the woman standing out in the field.”

  It was as though Hutchins hadn’t quite realized exactly who I was until then. Now that he did, his face grew flushed and he broke into a sweat.

  “I haven’t the vaguest idea what you’re talking about,” he stammered.

  “Surely you recognized the girl that I was trying to help. After all, Elizabeth Come-By-Night is one of your patients.”

  Hutchins gave a quizzical shake of his head. But his mouth grew tightly pinched, and a nerve beneath his right eye twitched, betraying him. “You must be mistaken. I never left my office all day. And I certainly didn’t see you with a sick child, or I would have come to her aid. Now, I suggest that you leave before I call the tribal police and have you brought up on charges of illegal entry.”

  I didn’t know what was going on yet, but I’d clearly hit a nerve. “I suggest you rethink that, Dr. Bethala.”

  His mouth fell open, but no sound emerged.

  “I’m curious as to just how much the tribal council knows about your medical background. Having your license revoked in four different states is no mean feat.”

  Hutchins’s complexion darkened and his skeletal frame began to shake, until I could have sworn I was standing face-to-face with the Grim Reaper. Maybe I’d gone too far. Honey Lungren was already an enemy; I didn’t need to have the United Christian Patriots organize a crusade against me.

  “Yes, now I remember. You left the café with that tribal game officer, Mathew Running. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that you should stick to your own kind? Being paid to work with these people is one thing. Socializing with them is another. That’s a lesson you shouldn’t take lightly. Otherwise, there are those who will have to make sure that you learn it.” Hutchins’s smirk wrapped around me as tight as a boa constrictor.