Death Where the Bad Rocks Live

by C. M. Wendelboe

  “And for knowledge he might have about Gunnar’s death?”

  “All right. We’ll look for the judge. What else you want from us?”

  “I want Willie to camp out in Marshal’s room at Rapid City Regional until he regains consciousness. He’ll tell us if the judge shot him or not.”

  “I’ll tag along.” Janet checked her mascara in her compact mirror and dropped it into her purse. “Willie might need help. He’ll need company for sure. Bathroom breaks.”

  “You got other things to do”—Manny smiled—“If it’s okay with Uncle Leon.”

  Lumpy nodded.

  “What other things? Sit in some musty basement reading old newspapers?”

  “Close.” Manny forced down a smile. “I need you to go to Ellsworth Air Base. One of the agents in the Rapid City Field Office has contacts there that’ll grease the wheels for you. That and your natural charm.”

  Janet shook her head. “What am I supposed to do?”

  “I need you to find out everything you can about Senator Clayton Charles’s association with the Air Corps training base during World War II.”

  “That’s stretching it a bit, Hotshot.”

  Manny shook his head. “Moses and Ellis Lawler just didn’t happen to drive into the bombing range by accident. And if they were passing a jar, they’d have picked a safer place than that. My guess is that Senator Charles knew about the uranium possibilities.”

  “What the hell’s that got to do with the judge?”

  “If his grandfather knew about uranium there, and arranged for the only two witnesses to be silenced…”

  “And if Judge High Elk knew this, he’d know it would come out in the Senate hearings.” Lumpy nodded.

  “Those sharks digging up dirt on Judge High Elk would find it out. That’s why it’s important, Janet.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Well, at least when I’m done there I could keep Willie company at the hospital.”

  “Just keep the romance down,” Manny said.

  “And what will you be doing? Romancing your lady?”

  “I’ll be romancing some lady.” Manny left out it just wouldn’t be Clara.

  CHAPTER 36

  Manny adjusted the spotting scope clamped to the driver’s side window of Willie’s truck. He’d parked far enough from Sophie’s house that he was certain he couldn’t be spotted. Willie’s truck had no air-conditioning, and Manny dabbed at the sweat running into his eyes with a bandanna.

  But at least the truck had a tape player, and Manny adjusted the volume so the heavy tuba and accordion of the Six Fat Dutchmen sent shudders between his eardrums. It had been two hours since Willie called and said he and Manny’s agent were on their way to talk with Sonja.

  “I owe you,” Willie had whispered over the phone, as if Lumpy was there with him in the hospital room. “Don’t know how you pulled it off.”

  Manny smiled at his recent victory. When he’d first asked Lumpy to relieve Willie in Marshal’s room, Lumpy had balked. He had no one free and Willie would have to wait until Janet finished with her Ellsworth investigation. But then Manny suggested that Sonja was certain to make a beeline to Rapid City Regional and interview Marshal when he came around, and anyone else there with him. Manny almost felt guilty lying to Lumpy about Janet needing Willie’s help. The last Manny saw of the acting chief was him with white shirt and bolo tie northbound in his new Mustang on his way to Rapid City Regional to relieve Willie. Go get ’em tiger.

  Manny bent to the spotting scope again. Sophie, shimmering in the intense heat waves, rocked on her porch as she flattened porcupine quills between clenched teeth. The sun shone directly above her, but she seemed oblivious to it as she bent and sorted quills by color.

  Ham’s black Suburban, parked in back of her house, melded with Sophie’s floating form. Manny expected Ham to appear any time, walking free of the shimmering afternoon heat, coming toward him with that sly smile on his face.

  Sophie went into the house, coming back out within moments with a glass of water, and sat back down on her rocker. Surveillance was one of those mindless tasks he’s always hated about fieldwork: waiting and staring and documenting everything that didn’t matter in the case. For every moment that a criminal investigation was exciting, there were a hundred that a man had to fight to stay awake.

  He wished Willie were here for company. When he’d called earlier from Ellsworth, Janet’s digging into the old files of Senator Charles had mined some interesting information. The senator had been rejected as a pilot in World War I because of his eyesight, but he had remained an avid aviation fan. He had made several visits to Ellsworth for VIP tours, and had finagled a ride on every aircraft they had then, even a ride on a B-17 on several occasions.

  Manny brought his face away from the powerful scope and rubbed his eyes. He was convinced Sophie had picked Ham up somewhere at the south end of the Stronghold, convinced that Ham would show himself, convinced he would slip up just that little and confirm he was hiding inside Sophie’s shack.

  Manny needed to stretch his injured leg, and stepped out into the fading light. He flexed his knee, feeling the intense itching in the cat scratches as they healed. The staples in his shoulder tugged, and he moved it to get the kinks out. When he crawled back into the truck and back behind the scope, Sophie was gone from the porch.

  Manny settled back with a lukewarm diet root beer and munched on the last of his Tanka Bar. The setting sun reflected inside the spotting scope, and Manny adjusted it to minimize the glare. It had been two hours since Sophie disappeared inside, and the sun had dimmed over the first treeless hill west of Sophie’s house. He’d give it another half hour for Ham to slip up and come out, then make an approach with darkness as his friend.

  His phone vibrated and he flipped it open. Willie’s voice, frantic on the other end, sounded as if it was being filtered through a thrashing machine, garbled and hollow. Except for the urgency of it.

  “Got crappy reception,” Manny said over the phone. “Try again.”

  “I talked with Sonja. Don’t—” Willie was abruptly cut off. Manny dialed his number back but it went to voice mail. He left a message for Willie to call when he caught a decent cell tower and dropped the phone back into his pocket.

  Manny finished the rest of the bar, and secretly thanked Janet for getting him hooked on them. He had not eaten for hours and it hit the spot, and he washed it down with the rest of his Hires.

  The bar had been the first good vibe he’d gotten from Janet. Perhaps Reuben was right, that Manny was such a good investigator, so adept at interviewing because Wakan Tanka had given him a gift, an ability to read people, to go with his feelings.

  Which brought him to all the rest of the bad vibes he had gotten from her. He’d dragged it out of Lumpy that his niece had been in trouble growing up. She was the daughter of an alcoholic father and a mother who worked sixteen hours a day cleaning motel rooms in Hot Springs. Manny wished her well, but he also knew she was poison for Willie. The longer Janet hung around Willie, the less chance he had to patch things up with Doreen Big Eagle.

  He bent to the spotting scope and barely made out Sophie’s house in the darkness. He reached up and took the dome light cover off and unscrewed the bulb before he opened the door and eased out. When it had been light, he’d made a mental note of the best path to Sophie’s house, and he picked his way around fallen cedar trees, feeling for landmarks he’d noted in the light. He stumbled between clumps of cactus and sagebrush, around junk cars, careful not to brush his injured leg against anything.

  When he reached the edge of the porch, he paused. Somewhere inside a single light shone, and Manny heard a voice. Ham’s voice, faint as if he were whispering. Despite the miles of roadwork he did, his heart raced and threatened to burst from his chest. He took in slow, deep breaths, combat breathing, his academy instructors were fond of calling it. Manny’s hand brushed against his holster on his hip and he instinctively unsnapped the thumb break.

 
He closed his eyes, recalling the layout of the kitchen leading into the living room and the small bedroom connected to it, reasoning that the latter would be the most likely place Ham would be waiting. He studied the porch, avoiding the board that had given him away before, and sidestepped around it, flattening himself against the side of the house. The whispering, the voice, had stopped. Silence could be a man’s best friend. Or his worst enemy. Right now, it was Manny’s nightmare as he waited for some noise that would mask his entry into the house. He needed a miracle. He got it.

  A multicolored Chevy pickup with no muffler and two yelling kids standing in the bed hanging on to the headache rack sped along the road past Sophie’s house. The roar of the motor and the screaming of the kids gave Manny the chance to lift up on the creaking screen door and slip inside the house. His rapidly beating heart was matched by the pain in his chest as he took one deep, slow breath and then another. Once again, it allowed him to function, to do what he knew he had to do.

  Manny squatted and peered around the corner into the living room, the other room where Ham might be besides Sophie’s bedroom. A candle illuminated the empty room, flickering light across the I love Alexander Hamilton High Elk wall, with his smiling photos and a copy of the Argus Leader from when he’d been appointed to the federal bench. That was the only sign of Ham.

  Manny used the edge of the wall to stand. He squinted past the flickering light to the bedroom, the last room in the house. He shuffled, moving as silently as possible, unholstering his Glock, his finger shaking just outside the trigger guard. He inched his way to the bedroom, pausing long enough at the doorway to mentally rehearse his plan. He buttonhooked around the doorframe. Gun at arm’s length. Focused on the front sight. Searching for Ham.

  The room stood empty, except for a single bed, neatly made, with a star quilt draped almost ceremoniously on top. Several dresses were hung on a rod that had been mounted between walls. A plastic dresser, each drawer labeled, doubled as a bedstand, and a small, single lamp with an oilcloth lampshade on top was the only other thing in the room besides milk crates housing Sophie’s undergarments.

  Manny holstered his gun and turned. Into a rifle barrel. Sophie’s face was framed by the candlelight in back of her, the light casting shadows around her, reminding Manny of photos of the Lord in the Transfiguration. But hers was not the face of an angel, but that of a demon. Deep furrows joined her eyebrows, and her too-bright teeth reflected the light in an odd, sinister way.

  “You just don’t give up, breaking into a person’s house like you do.”

  “I need to talk with your son.”

  “He’s not here.”

  “I just heard him.”

  She nodded to a tape recorder on the makeshift bedstead. “Guess the tape of his speech he made at the Alex Johnson ran out. It was a good speech. I had to listen to it again.”

  “I need to talk with Hamilton.”

  “You always need to talk with him. What about this time?”

  “The murders.”

  “Again? You ought to know by now you can’t prove he killed Gunnar Janssen. Or that Spearfish policeman that was found a few days ago.”

  “I was thinking of Joe Dozi.”

  Sophie laughed. “Now why would he kill his best friend?”

  “He wouldn’t. But he could lead me to the real killer.”

  “And who might that be?”

  “You, Grandmother.”

  Sophie’s finger tightened on the trigger and she took a step back. Manny calculated if he could draw his gun and fire before she did. Or even if he really wanted to. “Me? You figure an old woman could kill a man like Joe?”

  “You’ve been using that rifle all your life to put meat on the table. You’re a hunter. You lure prey as naturally as you lured me in here tonight with that tape recording, making me think Hamilton was here.” Like you lured me from Marshal’s cabin and shot me. But he would save that for later. If there was a later.

  “Tell me your wild story about Joe Dozi.” Sophie backed up another step as if reading Manny’s thoughts.

  “I could prove Joe ran me off the road. At least enough that I could get the case past a preliminary hearing for aggravated assault with a motor vehicle.”

  “Doesn’t explain what Hamilton has to do with it. Or why you think I killed Dozi.”

  “The confirmation hearings.” Manny wet his lips. That pesky breathing again, interfering with his talking his way out of Sophie shooting him. Again. “It would have come out in court that he was Hamilton’s friend. Court convening right at the time of the hearings. Right when Hamilton needed bad publicity the least.

  “And you protected him. Like you always did. Joe dropped his guard when you approached him, even with that .22 in your hand. His friend’s mother was no danger. And it cost him. Then there was the phone call telling you about Joe’s murder.”

  “I don’t have a phone.”

  “I know you don’t. But when I was here the other day, you told me you already knew about Joe’s murder. Because you were there at the time. You had to kill Joe before it got out he killed Micah. Guess Joe was protecting Hamilton like you’ve been protecting him. If Micah had his way, it would get out why Hamilton’s been against mining in the Badlands…”

  “Hamilton doesn’t know about Dozi killing that old policeman. Keep him out of it.”

  “Like he doesn’t know about Gunnar Janssen’s murder? Like he hasn’t figured it out by now you killed him back in ’69?”

  “Gunnar was Hamilton’s friend. Why would I want to harm him?”

  Manny breathed deeply. His best weapon was his reasoning, his voice, and he needed all that, and more now, if he were to live. “Uranium. Gunnar was a geology major. He hired Marshal Ten Bears to guide him hunting, except he wasn’t hunting. He was looking for the legend of where the bad rocks live. He was looking for uranium deposits.

  “Hamilton wrote a paper in college against mining.” Manny kept fixated on the rifle still leveled at his midsection. “Even then, even before he hit the federal bench, he knew if uranium mining was discovered in the Badlands that White men would flock to the reservation like they always had, and desecrate the Stronghold.” Sophie shifted the barrel to Manny’s head, and it was no longer just a .22, it was something much larger as he looked down the bore.

  “Sounds like some fairy tale. You’ve got some imagination.”

  “If I’m wrong, drop that rifle.”

  Sophie’s brows came together and she kept the gun leveled at Manny. “Hamilton intended to confront Gunnar about his uranium findings. But you found him first. You knew there’d been words between them, that Hamilton’s temper would take over and he’d do something that’d prevent him from earning his degree. And prevent being accepted to law school. The thing I can’t square is why you stuffed Gunnar in that car with the two other bodies.”

  “You’re still convinced I killed Gunnar and Dozi?”

  Manny rubbed his leg. “I do. Mind if I sit.”

  “Suit yourself.” Manny sat on the couch and rubbed his throbbing leg, his shoulder muscles pulling against the staples. But if he didn’t talk creatively, these pains would be minor compared to what Sophie had in mind.

  “The other day I was here you had a sprig of purple sage stuck to the side of your shoe. That sage only grows in the Stronghold area where we found Joe Dozi’s body. And those porcupine quills: The Game and Fish has an extensive database of DNA on just about every critter inhabiting the state. I’d bet they could match those quills with porcupines living around Marshal’s cabin. Close to Dozi’s murder. The best quills, from what my uncle Marion told me.”

  “You do have things figured out.”

  Manny used the arm of the couch to stand and stretch. He held out his hand. “Why don’t we go someplace where we can talk, just you and me.”

  Sophie’s knuckles whitened on the trigger and she took a step backward. “You understand, I can’t allow you to leave.”

  Manny nodded as he said
a silent prayer to God. And to Wakan Tanka. No sense leaving anyone out in this time of need. She intended to kill him. “I guess you can’t allow the public to find out that the mother of a Supreme Court nominee had killed people just to protect her son as far back as the Vietnam War. Still, I’m fuzzy about Gunnar.”

  Sophie shook her head, the sneer replaced by a sad look that crossed her face for just a moment. Until she started talking about Gunnar Janssen. “Somehow Gunnar found out that Senator Charles arranged a B-17 courtesy flight to witness the Air Corps drop bombs into a target, which he insisted the crew target, the car that happened to contain Moses Ten Bears and Ellis Lawler waiting for the senator to arrive. The senator arrived all right, in the bomber, watching the bombs destroy the only two men who could rat him out about the uranium potential in the Badlands. Gunnar got my husband—Samuel—drunk one night when Hamilton and Gunnar were visiting here on college break. Samuel told Gunnar what Hannah High Elk always suspected about Clayton, that he’d died of radiation poisoning a year after the bombing. Served the greedy bastard right.”

  “And Gunnar would have blackmailed Hamilton—with his connections on the Reservation—to grease the wheels for mining permits?”

  Sophie nodded, the grimace returning. “Like Moses Ten Bears, Hamilton had built up a reputation as a trusted man since his Holy Rosary School days. If Hamilton endorsed mining permits to be issued to Gunnar, the tribe would have issued them. It would have been a disaster for the tribe but made Gunnar a wealthy man. And ruined Hamilton’s reputation.”

  “So you stuffed Gunnar in that car along with Moses Ten Bears and Ellis Lawler?”

  The rifle barrel drooped, moving from Manny’s head to his chest, and he inched forward. Sophie snapped the barrel up, and Manny froze. “I figured if Moses and Ellis Lawler hadn’t been discovered in the past twenty-five years, no one would find Gunnar for another twenty-five. I didn’t count on the ordnance disposal team coming on to them.”