Tall Man in Ray-Bans (A John Tall Wolf Novel) Read online

  Then he asked Melvin, “How do the FBI and the RCMP get along?”

  “The Mounties?” Melvin said. “Pretty well. Better than with some of the people on our side of the border.”

  John said, “If you haven’t done so already, SAC Melvin, you want to query Homeland Security, see if Annie Forger has crossed into Canada legally?”

  Ms. Forger, John thought, also might move easily across borders without official notice.

  Melvin said, “Yeah, I can do that. You think she’s headed to Vancouver?”

  “She might be a little more subtle than that,” John replied. “Her late husband’s family came from Quebec. Maybe she entered the country through Montreal.”

  Darton said, “Maybe she’s even holed up somewhere in Eastern Canada. You know, a long way from where she lived as a young wife, and from where she grew up in South Dakota.”

  Melvin thought of something else. “If she felt a need to go into hiding, maybe the place for her to hide is a Canadian reservation; up there I think they call them reserves. That’s the case, getting her out could be politically touchy … and, of course, Special Agent Tall Wolf doesn’t do reservations.”

  “Not even in Canada,” John said. “But if it comes to that, I’ll ask Ms. Flower Moon for help.”

  “Better you than me,” Melvin told him.

  Darton said, “I got some news on Julio Melendez.”

  “Who?” Melvin asked.

  John told him about the guy who’d been robbing Randy Bear Heart at Clyde’s.

  The FBI man laughed. “There is a God in heaven: the bank robber gets ripped off.”

  “Yeah, but did Julio get killed for his trouble?” John asked.

  “He did,” Darton said, “but not by Randy Bear Heart.”

  “Who killed him?” Melvin asked.

  “A Filipino immigrant with a knife. Julio had one, too. The other guy was better. A whole bar full of witnesses said Julio started the fight, just picked the wrong dude. Now, he’s buried at county expense in San Antonio.”

  “I like that, too,” Melvin said. “The guy stole blood money from Bear Heart and look what happened to him. Cascading justice.”

  John said, “Things always worked that way, there’d be damn few people left in the world.”

  Maybe just a few true followers of the Red Road, he thought.

  Them and a lot of buffalo.

  “So it’s either Randy Bear Heart or Jackson White we found in Lake Travis,” Darton said.

  “I don’t like a kid paying for his old man’s crimes,” Melvin said.

  Thinking of kids triggered a memory for John. “SAC Melvin, you think you could find out if Annie Forger’s two boys are still enrolled in college? One’s at the University of Maine; the other’s at Boston College. Both of those schools are close to Eastern Canada.”

  Melvin said, “Maine’s right next door. Good thinking, Tall Wolf.”

  John said, “Here’s another idea. See if Annie Forger set up trust funds for her sons, made sure they wouldn’t want for money.”

  Annie had told him she wanted to provide for her boys.

  Maybe a million each. The difference between the five-million dollar policy on her husband and the three million she’d told him she had.

  “I can do that, too,” Melvin said.

  Amidst all the pleasant feelings of cooperation, John got the sudden notion the FBI man was being too agreeable. He let it go unspoken.

  Because he had one idea he hadn’t shared.

  Not on a three-way call.

  John called Barbara Larson in Austin and found her at Go Native.

  He asked if she had a moment.

  “If I said no, would you let me be?” she asked.

  “Sure, assuming you don’t want to know how things work out.”

  She laughed. “You’re a smart man, Special Agent Tall Wolf. I wouldn’t be human, if I wasn’t just a bit curious about all this. Go ahead, tell me what you want?”

  John said, “The money Lily borrowed against the store, was that a one-time thing?”

  “You mean did that creep of a husband hit her up more than once? Not that it showed on the store’s books.”

  Her answer told John that Randy Bear Heart must have had another source of funds he could tap. Jerry Hopkins, the new owner of Clyde’s, had told him that Randy had an angel who had bailed him out twice a year for two years running. Having learned all he had about Randy, John would bet that angel was of the female persuasion.

  He switched to another topic.

  “When we first met and you saw I’m with the BIA, you assured me that all the merchandise in your store had been honestly obtained.

  “It was, it is, and always will be. I’m an honest woman with nothing to hide.”

  John was sorry he hadn’t been more tactful, but if you believed John Lennon everybody had something to hide except for him and his monkey.

  “I wasn’t questioning your honesty, Ms. Larson. I was just wondering if there are less scrupulous dealers who do sell Native American artifacts they shouldn’t possess.”

  “What would your guess be, Special Agent Tall Wolf?”

  “I’d say yes.”

  “You’d be right. Some are almost brazen about it.”

  John thanked Barbara Larson.

  “I’ll want to know what happened to Lily,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  He clicked off.

  Now, he had two things to think about: where the sacred objects Randy Bear Heart had stolen might be and who it was that had kept Clyde’s afloat before the place had been sold to Jerry Hopkins. Lily had thrown Randy one life preserver.

  Had the other financial rescues come from Annie Forger?

  Why would she be so generous to a man who had run off with her sister?

  Was it likely her generosity had been based on affection and/or sexual gratification?

  No, it wasn’t.

  So what else might Randy have done to earn such solicitude? Maybe play a role in the deaths of three hockey players? That turn of events had earned Annie a five-million dollar death benefit. Say Annie had set aside just one million dollars for her two sons. That would leave her with a million to play with on top of the three million she claimed to have received.

  The math worked for John.

  So maybe Randy had doubled his body count from three to six.

  That night in Canada John had the dream that had haunted him for as long as he could remember. It had occurred with great frequency when he was a young child. His cries of fear would bring both his parents on the run. Mom would hold and soothe him and give him special teas that would ease him back into a peaceful sleep. John wouldn’t take the first sip, though, until Dad came back from an armed inspection of the exterior of the house and announce all was well.

  The dream was always the same. John was out in the foothills north of Santa Fe, walking in the brush wearing nothing but a pair of shorts. His feet hurt, the soles being too soft for traipsing about without shoes. A nearby growl made him freeze in place. Then the sounds of feet racing toward him filled his heart with panic and broke the thrall.

  He ran with all his might and came to a clearing.

  There he found a rickety platform and clambered atop it.

  No sooner had he stood up than a coyote the size of mountain lion burst into view.

  Leaping onto the platform would have been easy for such a beast.

  Knocking it over would be easier still.

  If either of those things happened, John knew he would be lost.

  His only hope was the pile of stones that lay at his feet. He had to hurl them at Coyote and drive him off. It should have been easy to hit such a large target. His arm was strong. He could bloody Coyote, make him pay a high price for frightening John. The problem was, the sun kept getting in John’s eyes, not letting him get a fix on the beast.

  He threw one stone after another, and he missed each time. His arm was getting tired from the effort. The beast das
hed back and forth evading the stones and yipping as if it were laughing at him. When John ran out of stones, it would charge him and he would be lost.

  Trembling, he picked up the last stone, and that was when he decided that if his eyes couldn’t help him he would use his nose. Squeezing his eyes shut, he held his nose up to the breeze. The scent of Coyote, strong and foul, came to him in a rush.

  Told him just where his nemesis was.

  He threw the last stone as hard as he could.

  His effort collapsed the platform. He fell forward not knowing what his fate would be. Not daring to open his eyes.

  He was in mid-air when he heard a howl that froze his blood. He hit the ground hard enough to drive the breath from his body. He could all but feel Coyote’s teeth rending his flesh. Waiting for the end was the worst moment.

  Then above the pounding of his heart, he heard the beast run off.

  Only to stop and howl in anger.

  That was the point at which John opened his eyes.

  And saw he was in his bedroom.

  Rather than feel relief, when he was young, he continued to be afraid, fearing that now Coyote would come for him while he was awake. Being the Trickster, Coyote would find a way to get at him. He’d learn to avoid being struck by any stone that might come to John’s hand.

  As the years passed and John matured, Coyote showed his cunning by assuming other shapes: sometimes a friend, a classmate, a colleague, an attractive woman in a public place …

  Oftentimes Marlene.

  Now, the dream came less frequently and, as a man, John was the hunter as often as the hunted. There were still times he found himself at a disadvantage and had to make a narrow escape. That night was one such time. He awoke with a sheen of sweat on his face, sat up in bed and scanned the hotel room with his heart racing.

  On the night stand, his cell phone rang.

  Answering, he heard Marlene Flower Moon’s voice.

  Austin, Texas — July 15, the present

  SAC Gilbert Melvin, still at his borrowed office, replayed in his head the conversation he’d had with John Tall Wolf and Darton Blake. His two counterparts in law enforcement had been models of cooperation with him, doing their best to keep him fully informed. He’d played along, acceding to Tall Wolf’s request to do the scut work the Indian as easily could have done.

  At least, he hoped the BIA was up to querying Homeland Security about Annie Forger making a legal border crossing and checking on whether she’d set up trusts for her kids. He had to smile at the way his mind worked. He wanted other agencies of the federal government to be up to snuff in their means and methods, but he wanted them to bow and scrape, defer in every way possible when the FBI put in an appearance.

  Melvin thought he must be a royalist.

  Or a narcissist.

  Either way, he felt good about himself.

  TallWolf had asked how the FBI got along with Mounties.

  Melvin had understated his answer. He had a friend in Ottawa high in the RCMP.

  His friend liked to work late, too. Melvin tapped out his phone number and waited for it to ring. He asked himself if he’d done anything to give himself away to Tall Wolf or Blake.

  As his call was answered, he decided no, he hadn’t.

  Chapter 24

  Vancouver, B.C. — July 16, the present

  When John woke up, he wasn’t sure whether he’d spoken to Marlene last night or if the conversation had been part of a dream — but he seemed to remember pressing the record symbol on his phone. He was careful about documenting discussions with his boss. He didn’t put it beyond the realm of possibility that someday he might be sitting in front of a Congressional committee or a federal judge.

  He saw that there was a recording on the phone time stamped 03:44.

  He tapped the play symbol and listened to himself answer the phone with a groggy hello.

  “What are you doing in Canada?” Marlene asked, sounding irritated.

  John heard himself clear his throat and answer, “Promoting international good will and understanding.”

  He hadn’t asked how she knew where he was. Coyote had her ways. His ways?

  That was another thing. You couldn’t even pin down the Trickster’s gender.

  “You’re supposed to call me before you leave the country on a case.”

  “Thought I’d be back before you could miss me.”

  “You are a pain in the ass, Tall Wolf.”

  This from the woman who had interrupted his sleep.

  “You recruited me,” John said, “and you keep me on. I must fit into your plans somehow.”

  Marlene had no comment on that subject. John felt she was about to end the call.

  “I could use some help,” he told her.

  Throw Coyote a bone.

  “What kind of help?”

  “Would you know of any Indian reserve near Vancouver?”

  “First Nation Reserve,” Marlene said.

  “Pardon?”

  “The politically correct term.”

  “Oh, yeah, that.” John remembered having to scratch himself just then. “So, any FNRs near Vancouver?”

  “Let me check.” John heard the muted click of a keyboard being tapped. No wonder Marlene scared people, he thought, if she could go without sleep all night and hatch her schemes. That and deny other people their rest. “There’s a place called Gitlakdamix.”

  “Easy for you to say.” She ignored his drowsy attempt at humor. “Nice place? Eco-tourism outpost maybe?”

  “Overlooks a lava flow in the Nisga’a Lava Beds Provincial Park. That might be interesting. But there are only eight hundred residents and the original settlement was destroyed by a flood.”

  John said, “Mmm.” Imagined Marlene tossing him into the lava flow.

  He’d try not to let that image crop up in a dream.

  “Not what you’re looking for?” she asked.

  “If Annie Forger is hiding out because she and Randy Bear Heart got back together, I don’t see it happening in a place like that. Are there any First Nation resorts up here for local folks who have made good?”

  Marlene laughed. “As far as I know, Donald Trump doesn’t work with our people.”

  “He’ll get around to it,” John said.

  Marlene told him, “Regarding another task you set for me, Randy Bear Heart had no siblings, and the only two cousins I was able to locate are both female. Why did you ask that? You thought Julio Melendez might be family?”

  At the moment, he couldn’t remember whether he’d already told her about Julio or she had found out on her own.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Thought that might have been a reason Randy had trusted him to handle his money. They were supposed to have shared a physical resemblance.”

  “Might have been more a matter of character. Attitude.”

  “Spirit?” John said. “Something beneath the skin that people can still perceive?”

  Coyote didn’t laugh, but John could imagine that she had smiled.

  “Yes, something like that. Call me later today, wherever you are, and let me know if you’ve found out anything new.”

  “Abso—” Marlene clicked off before he got to “—lutely.”

  John hit the stop symbol.

  He recalled that as his head had hit the pillow last night he was working on dream management, avoiding any thoughts of heated magma. That was when he’d seen his father’s face, and had known that Haden Wolf might be able to help him with his case.

  Awake now, he called home.

  Chapter 25

  Austin, Texas — July 16, the present

  Coy Wilson went into the room in her house where she and Jackson White used to write their songs. It held two comfortable love seats, a desk, a Baldwin spinet piano that needed dusting, and Jackson’s acoustic guitar in its case on a stand in the corner. The guitar case needed to be dusted, too. Whole damn room needed to be cleaned. Had to be five degrees cooler in there than the rest of the house, w
hat with all the dirt on the windows.

  Sunlight didn’t flood the room, it fought its way in.

  Coy sat down at the desk. A pad of paper lay on it, the first line of a song that never got finished was written there in Jackson’s boyish but legible handwriting. He’d told her neatness counted. You never wanted to let a great idea slip away because you couldn’t read your own writing.

  The first line of Jackson’s song was:

  If I had known it would be like this with you …

  That was all. He’d said that was okay because he had the rest of it in his head, and Coy feeling particularly amorous that night had dragged him off to bed. Lily’s phone call had dragged Jackson out of bed, and that was that.

  No more Jackson, no more song.

  She had tried to finish the song on another pad. Never got anywhere with it. Couldn’t make it work either lyrically of musically. She wasn’t even able to write any new songs of her own. All she had left was the ability to play her own guitar, maybe pick out a basic melody on the piano. She thought even her playing had been affected. Her range was limited compared to the old days. Most of the studio work she did now was bluesy stuff. Everybody said she had a feeling for it that she’d lacked in her younger days.

  Anything happy and uptempo, make you want to get up and dance, forget it.

  Despite the passage of time, Coy had refused to let go of the last shred of hope that Jackson would come back to her. That Red Hawk would be reborn. They wouldn’t be as young as they were when the band should have broken through, but they’d still make it.

  Now, after the visit from the cops, she felt sure that Jackson was the one whose body had been found in Lake Travis. She knew it in her soul. The pain was almost enough to keep her in bed all day, but there was also the beginning of acceptance and peace. She would pray for Jackson’s soul and let go of her sorrow.

  She even saw a ray of hope that her ability to write music might return.

  The first thing she did was open the room’s closet. She’d long ago stashed Jackson’s clothes in there. She patted the dust off the first few items within reach. She checked the clothing for signs of wear and found none. Jackson hadn’t been flashy or fixated on designer labels but he’d liked to look good. Someone would be glad to have these clothes. Coy put everything into four boxes to take to the Salvation Army store.