“I need to talk to you now, Mr. Mabus.”
“You will, you will. Did you see those three lovelies splashing about in the pool? Like to meet one of them?” he said.
He held his eyes on mine, suppressing a grin, then suddenly broke into a laugh. He smacked me on the arm. “I had you going, didn’t I? Those are Emile’s unholy trinity. Their collective IQ is less than their thong size, that is, when they wear one. If you think they’re an embarrassment in the pool, how would you like to have them walking around in your house? At a formal dinner with the Vice President of the United States,” he said.
He laughed so hard he had to hold on to my shoulder.
Then he was gone, back with his guest, standing over him, the two of them chatting in front of the dead fireplace, sharing drinks from a decanter of whiskey, the mountainous world outside little more than a backdrop for their conversation.
The labyrinthine interior of the house seemed to dwarf its own contents, which included a bowling alley, a handball court, a playroom for children (the walls garish with cartoon art), a swimming pool divided by a volleyball net, an exercise room, and a library tiered to the ceiling with shelves of leather-bound, gold-embossed books and classics that had been purchased in sets.
But I couldn’t find a bathroom. A side door in the library gave onto a darkened bedroom, one that upon first glance appeared windowless. I used the half bath inside it, washed my hands, and came back out, not looking in a deliberate way at the decor in a room whose privacy I was violating. But this room was different from the others, its sybaritic ambiance unmistakable.
The walls were covered with red and black velvet stamped with silver designs of nymphs, mermaids, satyrs, and, on the ceiling, a depiction of Leda being raped by the Swan. The water bed and the pillows on it were sheathed in black satin. In the center of one wall was an abbreviated red velvet curtain that seemed to have no purpose. I parted the curtain slightly and looked through a fixed glass window onto a recessed boxing ring and a cockfighting pit.
When I returned to the living room, Karsten Mabus was saying good-bye to his guest at the door. The gelatinous man who seemed to have no blood under his skin looked at the light in the sky the way ordinary people look for impending rain, then put on a straw hat and shook hands before walking toward the pool to gather his companions. I would have sworn Mabus and his friend were speaking in a Middle Eastern language, but perhaps it was my imagination.
“Let me get you a drink, Mr. Holland,” he said.
“No, thanks. I’ll make this quick. Someone has created some serious problems for my family. My son received a scholarship which he sorely needed, only to discover he wasn’t eligible. Then I got stung on a bail deal for two hundred thousand dollars. Yesterday the brake-fluid line on my truck was cut and my wife almost died in the Blackfoot River.”
“I’m sorry to hear all this. Sit down.”
“I’ll stand, thanks. My purpose is to tell you neither my wife, my son, nor I have anything you want or need. We don’t know the whereabouts of the files stolen from Global Research or even who stole them. We are of no value to you or people who might work for you.”
He listened respectfully, nodding, taking a sip from his whiskey and soda before setting it down. He held his eyes on me, then began. “The research facility I own here is involved with genetically enhanced food production. Nothing else, sir. Our goal is to end starvation in the Third World. But for some reason probably known only to God, a bunch of fanatics have targeted my company as the source of all evil in the world. I don’t begrudge them their point of view, but I’d at least like to have a dialogue with them before they decide to burglarize my businesses and characterize me as the Antichrist.”
“Leave us alone, Mr. Mabus.”
He sat down on a couch even though I was still standing, his eyes searching the air as though he could not find the proper words to express his frustration.
“Long ago I stopped trying to sort out all the ethical complications that accompany the operation of a national or global enterprise,” he said. “Today, my standard is simple: I protect myself from my enemies and try to do the greatest good for the greatest number of people possible and make an acceptable profit at the same time. Occasionally, that means doing business with people like Emile Asahari. You know who he is, don’t you?”
“No,” I replied.
“The third biggest independent arms dealer in the world. He provided over two million Chinese-manufactured AK-47 rifles to rival factions all over the Mideast. On one occasion, when he thought a particular regional war wasn’t being prosecuted vigorously enough, he paid a bounty for human ears. His business boomed.
Sixty Minutes
did a special on him.”
“Not interested.”
“You should be. Emile gets along very well with a lot of people in our government.”
“I had my say, Mr. Mabus.”
“You went in the little bedroom off the library, didn’t you? Don’t bother explaining. You went in there to use the bathroom. Your hands are still a little wet.” He jabbed his finger at me, his face breaking into a grin. “Got you again, didn’t I?”
“You sure did.”
He got up from the couch. “That bedroom looks like it was transported from a Marseilles whorehouse.” He started laughing. “But the house came like that. It was built for a notorious Hollywood sex freak who blew out his doors with speed he cooked down from diet pills. Come on, lighten up. The guy screwed every starlet in the business, then canceled his own ticket because his stomach was so big he couldn’t see his schlong.” He laughed until he had to wipe his eyes. “Anyway, that bedroom is scheduled to be remodeled next week. In the meantime, don’t leave here thinking you’ve just visited a theme park for sex addicts. I’m a decent guy. In fact, you may be looking at the next governor of Montana.”
When I left, he was laughing so hard he could barely catch his breath. As I drove back toward the highway in the fading light, the wheel lines blowing haloes of water spray above Karsten Mabus’s pastures, I had to conclude that he was perhaps the most engaging man I had ever met. I also believed absolutely nothing he had told me.
THAT NIGHT,
while we slept, someone cinched a vinyl garbage bag over the head of my buckskin gelding and let him run himself to death in the darkness.
Chapter 17
I REPORTED THE GELDING’S DEATH
to Darrel McComb in the morning. He looked wired, distracted, his hands too busy on top of his desk. “You don’t have any idea who did it? An angry client, maybe some guy you defended on a traffic ticket who ended up in Deer Lodge?” he said.
“You think this is funny?”
“I’m on the desk, if you haven’t noticed. I can’t do anything for you.”
“You’re a good cop, Darrel. You’re the one guy in here who
can
help me.”
He twisted a pencil between his fingers. Two wire baskets filled with traffic reports and time sheets rested on his desk. He wore a starched white collar that was biting into his neck. He pulled at his collar and glanced through the opening in his cubicle. “Romulus Finley wanted me to get rid of Johnny American Horse for him. I thought it was because he wanted Johnny out of Amber’s life. Now I’m not so sure.”
“Get rid of him?”
“You heard me.”
“Go back over that. You’re not sure about what?”
“I thought Finley was bent out of joint because his daughter was the regular hump for an Indian. But I think the real deal is the break-in at Global Research. I got played on that, too.”
“By whom?”
“My own Johnson. I’m going to lock it in a vault.”
“Greta Lundstrum played you?”
“No, guys like me get to sleep with Sharon Stone. You really blow my head, Holland.”
I WENT DOWN
to the Federal Building on East Broadway and tried to talk to either an FBI or an ATF agent and got nowhere. But I wasn’t surprised. All the personnel there knew I had been Johnny American Horse’s attorney, and right now, in their mind, he was not only the man who had killed Seth Masterson, he was taking on the supernatural properties of a mythological hero at their expense.
There were many stories about Johnny’s elusiveness. He was seen everywhere and nowhere. Some speculated he had died from a fall or hypothermia high up in the Missions or from drowning in the Tongue River Reservoir. A trucker said an Indian fitting Johnny’s description had hitched a ride with him over Lookout Pass into the old mining-and-brothel town of Wallace, Idaho, then hooked up with a gang of bikers on their way to Sturgis, South Dakota—in the opposite direction. A rancher who raised buffalo as commercial beef by West Yellowstone, hundreds of miles away, claimed he’d seen wolves tearing apart a cow in his pasture. When he drove his truck at them in the darkness, blowing his horn, a man in a loincloth, his body streaked with blood, had separated himself from the wolf pack and raced into the woods, a torn haunch over his shoulder.
That same night a bartender in Missoula swore Johnny came into his saloon, drank for an hour, settled his tab, and left in a taxicab.
It was obvious the Feds were tracking Amber’s movements in order to find her husband. She showed up in Lame Deer, on the Northern Cheyenne Reservation, buying canned goods, dried beef, cases of diet soda, a secondhand saddle, coils of rope, rifle ammunition, and a set of animal traps. She drove her Dakota all over the Custer National Forest, pulling perhaps a dozen agents out of the Billings area with her. Meanwhile, one hundred miles away, Johnny walked out of the bulrushes on the Little Big Horn River, ate lunch with an Indian farm family in Garryowen, then swung up on a freight train headed back west over the Grand Divide.
My favorite story about Johnny and the authorities’ pursuit of him involves a Crow Indian named Half Yellow Face, who was a descendant of one of Custer’s scouts at the Little Big Horn. Half Yellow Face was a seasonal firefighter and packer for the U.S. Forest Service who could look at a hoof scratch on a dry rock and tell you the size and weight of the animal that had put it there and exactly where it had gone. Johnny had been spotted at the head of a canyon in the Bob Marshall Wilderness, then bottled up and sealed off by federal agents and Flathead County sheriff’s deputies. Half Yellow Face was helicoptered in by the FBI to ferret out Johnny’s hiding place, although he was not told the name of the man he was supposed to find. The road leading into the canyon was lined with government vehicles, the blades of helicopters thropping overhead, agents with scoped rifles and caps inverted on their heads resting by the roadside.
Half Yellow Face was six foot seven inches tall, had haunted, recessed eyes, had done time in both Vietnam and Deer Lodge Pen, and towered over the government men around him. “This guy got loose from a federal pen?” he said.
“His name is Johnny American Horse. He’s wanted on a murder warrant. You don’t watch the news?” an FBI agent said.
Half Yellow Face stared at his feet, cleared his mouth, and spat, grinding the saliva into the dust with his boot. He stared up at the gray cliffs that rose straight into a sky sealed with smoke and rain clouds. The only access to the head of the canyon was a dry streambed cluttered with slag. On one bank, among cottonwoods, were the remains of a deer that had been killed by either a cougar or a grizzly, the desiccated hide as taut as a lampshade on its ribs.
“You ain’t gonna catch him,” Half Yellow Face said.
“He’s got no back door up there. If he comes out from under the canopy, our choppers are going to grease him all over the rocks,” the agent said.
“American Horse has medicine. He don’t need doors. I’m going back home.”
“Sounds like you guys are old buddies at the bar. I thought the Crows didn’t have much use for the Sioux,” the agent said.
“ ‘Crow’ is the white man’s word for us. I’m a member of the Absarokee. That means ‘Children of the Large Beaked Bird.’ The Absarokee lived in the sky until the white man penned them up. American Horse can turn himself into a hoofed or winged creature. You ain’t gonna see him.”
“I’ll make a note of that and fax Washington right away,” the agent said.
Ten minutes later, as the sun disappeared beyond the mountains and the temperature dropped precipitously, the sheriff’s deputies and government agents along the road heard the popping sounds of large-caliber ammunition up on the cliffs. They took cover in the trees while a helicopter roared over the canyon, searchlights on, sharpshooters positioned in the doors.
The sound of firing went on intermittently for five minutes. The helicopter reported campfire smoke in the trees at the top of the canyon, and federal agents and county lawmen worked their way up the streambed, clattering over the slag, crouching each time a round popped on top of the cliff. Finally they lifted one another nine feet up a sheer stone wall onto the pine needle floor of the forest and crawled through timber shaggy with moss to Johnny’s campsite.
Inside a clearing, a big steel skillet sat in a campfire that had crumpled into ash. Empty .308 casings that had been dumped into the skillet and left to explode as the skillet heated stuck out of the ash like brass teeth. The wind blew through the clearing and feathered the smoke in the trees. From the cliff the agents could see their vehicles parked on the canyon road, their tires flat, the valve stems slashed off with a trade ax.
The farthest vehicle from the cliff, a U.S. Forest Service crew bus, had been moved and parked at an angle across the road and was now burning brightly in the dusk. Johnny was nowhere in sight. No one could explain how he had descended from the mountain and circled behind his pursuers. He had not stolen a vehicle, nor did he leave any scent for bloodhounds on the vehicles he had vandalized.
The agents and country deputies watched a solitary blue heron fly the length of the road, then lift on extended wings in the sunset and soar toward the wetlands in the Swan River drainage. The country deputies, most of whom had lived all their lives in that area, said herons did not fly into the high country and could offer no explanation for the blue heron’s presence in the canyon.