The Man Who Fell from the Sky (17 page)

DALLAS SPOTTED DEER
dead. No wife or children. Closest relative, the wife of a cousin. A lonely man.

The thoughts tumbled through Father John's mind as he drove back down the mountain, across town, and onto the reservation, columned in shadow. Stars popped like diamonds in the silvery light of early evening. The image of Dallas Spotted Deer on the litter had imprinted itself in his mind: eyes staring into nothingness, face contorted with bruises and broken bones, the right side of his head smashed in. Dallas had been found half in and half out of the cab, left leg nearly severed beneath the truck.
Dear God, have mercy. Mercy. Mercy.
All time was present to God. The past, the future, all caught up in the present.
Have mercy on him.
He prayed out loud for Dallas Spotted Deer
then
, shocked, terrified, going off the edge, rolling and plummeting down the mountainside, doors flying open.

The state patrol officer assumed Dallas had been drinking. Why would he have taken the curve so close to the edge? Fast enough to go over? Well, the autopsy would show his alcohol level. Another question bothered Father John: what had taken the man up a narrow, steep mountain road in the first place?

*   *   *

AHEAD, OUT ON
the prairie with the darkness coming down, was a small house, lights glowing in the window. Father John slowed for a left turn, then crawled over the borrow ditch, part of him thinking how terrible an accident could be, even a pickup overturning in a borrow ditch. He had seen accidents like that, passengers and drivers taken to the hospital. He stopped next to the front stoop and waited.

The door flung open immediately. Ruth stood in the opening, leaning forward, peering into the night. She let her gaze run over the pickup, leaned out farther and surveyed the yard. Then, a little wave as she drew herself back inside, gripping the edge of the door, her skirt billowing in the breeze.

Father John followed her into the house and closed the door behind him. Ruth had walked into the center of the small living room and turned to face him, shades of surprise and disappointment moving across her face. Finally, she said, “I was expecting someone else.” In the kitchen at the back of the house, Father John could see the table set for two, plates and glasses neatly arranged, napkins tucked at the sides of the plates. A pair of candles stood in the middle of the table. “You being a priest,” she said, “I sure hope you're not bringing bad news.”

“Why don't we sit down?” He kept his voice low: the voice of the counselor, the voice of the
priest.

“Oh my God! Oh my God, no!” She sank onto the edge of the sofa, lifting both hands into the air, as if that might keep her from falling to the floor. “Not Cutter. Please tell me nothing's happened to Cutter.”

Father John pulled over an ottoman and perched in front of her. He took both of her hands into his own. They were cold and moist. He could feel the tremor erupting from somewhere deep inside. “It's Robert's cousin Dallas Spotted Deer.”

“What?” Ruth looked at him as if she could pry the rest of it out of his features. “Dallas? What happened?”

“An accident. His truck went off the road in the mountains. It was a steep drop. He didn't have a chance.”

She seemed to be absorbing the news one word at a time, as if she were stepping across the boulders in a rushing creek. “In the mountains? Where in the mountains?”

He told her the road and explained that it was close to Bull Lake. “Any idea of where he might have been going?”

Ruth pulled her hands free, leaned back against the sofa, and stared at the ceiling. A new thought moved behind her eyes. “How would I know what Dallas was doing? Like you say, he was Robert's family. He tried to hang around Robert, but Robert didn't have much use for him. Said he wasn't the shiniest tool in the box, if you get my drift. I expect nobody knows what Dallas was up to.”

“Is there someone else I should notify? Who was closest to him?”

She reached across the table next to the sofa and picked up a cell. Tapping the face, she said, “I'm going to call Cutter. He'll know what to do.” She placed the phone to her ear and listened a moment before she said, “It's me again. I need to talk to you bad. Dallas is dead.” She pulled the phone away and studied it as if she
expected Cutter to call back immediately. Finally she set the cell on the table. “I don't understand why he doesn't answer.” There was a tightness in her voice. “When I saw him this morning, he said he'd be by later. I made his favorite dinner, fried chicken and mashed potatoes.” She gestured with her head toward the kitchen. “My way of saying thank you. He's been such a good friend since Robert died. When I didn't hear from him, I got to thinking something must've happened. That's why, when you came over . . .”

“I understand.”

Ruth looked at him straight on, as if to make sure he did understand. Then she said, “The rest of the Walking Bear cousins? Pretend they love you, and all the time they're figuring out how to screw you. Bernie takes me for a nice girls-night-out so Big Man can trash my house. Of course they denied everything. So the police say, ‘We don't have any proof.' You ask me, Big Man left his filthy DNA all over the place, but the police don't want to be bothered. Indian family. Let 'em duke it out.”

Father John gave her a moment before he said, “I'm sorry to bring this to you when you're still dealing with your husband's death.”

She was patting at her hair, refastening a barrette in a clump of curls. “Yeah, I got my own problems. Coroner's taking his time deciding Robert's death was an accident, and the fed keeps poking around and asking questions. Meantime I can't get on with my plans.” She stopped and drew her lips into a thin line, as if she might keep herself from saying any more. Then she reconsidered. “Does it surprise you that I have plans?”

“No,” he said. “Robert's dead; you're in a different situation now. I'm sure you've been trying to figure out what you want to do.”

“Yeah, that's it.” She seemed to jump on the idea, as if it were new, something she hadn't considered. “I had to figure out what I want to do. Soon as I can, I'm going to L.A. Been wanting to move out there for a long time.” She hesitated again. “I mean, me and Robert used to talk about leaving here, all the snow and cold in the winter. Who needs it? Sun shines all the time in L.A. Now I figure I'll go by myself. I'll rent out this place, get a little money coming in, and I'll be fine.” Her voice rose with excitement, her hands leaping over her lap. “I'm going to go to beauty school, like I always wanted. I got a real talent with fixing hair. I looked up beauty schools on the internet, and there are about a thousand in L.A.”

“Look, Ruth.” Father John tried to bring the conversation back to the present. “Is there anyone else you can call? A friend who would come over?”

She gave a brittle laugh. “They're all Robert's people, his family, his friends. There never was much here for me. My people are scattered all over the place, or dead. I used to have a brother. I don't know if he's still alive.”

“Vicky's been your friend.” She would be here in a heartbeat, Father John was thinking, if she knew about Dallas's death and Ruth's loneliness. “I can call her.”

She smiled. “I already called her. When Cutter didn't show up, I got worried and thought maybe she'd heard from him. She didn't know where Cutter is.”

“I don't like to leave you alone.”

“No, it's okay. You delivered your message. Maybe I'll call Bernie and tell her about Dallas. I mean, he's her cousin. Let her worry about it. I'm pretty sure Cutter will be here before long. When he says he's going to do something, he does it.”

Mingling with the soft swish of the wind outside was the sound
of tires beating the dry earth, an engine gunning and cutting back. Ruth went to the window and peeked around the edge of the curtain. “What are they doing here?” Her voice sounded muffled in the curtain. “I mention her name and poof, she arrives, like the witch she is.” She stepped back, seemed to consider something, then walked over to the door, flung it open, and moved backward into the room. Father John got to his feet behind her.

There was the sharp whack of a car door shutting, followed by the rhythmic tap of boots. Bernie came through the door first and right behind, hovering over her, was Big Man. Ruth hadn't moved, and Bernie lunged toward her, throwing her arms around her shoulders. “Oh, Ruth, you've heard. We came over soon's we got the news on the moccasin telegraph. Another cousin dead! And Robert not even in his grave yet, poor soul. We're so glad you're here, Father.” She glanced at Father John over Ruth's shoulder. “It would be terrible for Ruth to be alone after all she's been through.”

Ruth made an effort to extricate herself, but Bernie kept holding on. Finally Ruth jerked herself free. “Dallas is your cousin, not mine. Gonna be up to you to take care of burial. I got enough on my mind.” She set both hands on her hips and looked up at Big Man. “Didn't help me none that I had a real mess to clean up here. Don't know what I would've done without Cutter. He's been a true cousin to Robert and a real friend to me.”

“So we heard.” Big Man spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “You ask me, nobody would've bothered you if that husband of yours had thought about his cousins. They got a right to Butch Cassidy's loot, only Robert wouldn't share with anybody. You heard the rumor that he found the treasure and that's why he got killed? What I want to know is, what happened to the treasure?”

“There is no treasure!” Ruth was trembling, and Father John
placed a hand on her arm to steady her. “There was no Butch Cassidy map! Just an old map from an old trading post.” She lifted both hands to her face, sobbing quietly now. “Why won't people leave it alone? Why does everybody have to put in their two cents? The investigation is never going to be closed. I'm never going to get on with my life.”

“Ruth. Ruth.” Bernie waved her hands between her husband and Ruth, as if she might calm a storm blowing over a lake. “No reason for you to be upset. Sooner or later the fed's going to come to his senses and quit bothering people, and the whole matter will be closed. Right now people are on their way over here. I heard them making plans on the telegraph. Kitchen's going to be filled with casseroles and cakes before you know it. Only natural people are thinking about you first, with Robert hardly dead a week. You sit down and relax. Don't worry about a thing. I'm going to make coffee.” She was already halfway to the kitchen. “Looks like you were expecting company,” she called. “Nice table. Sure smells good in here.”

“See how they do?” Ruth wrenched herself sideways and flopped down onto a chair. “Take over, that's their way. Control everything. Drove them crazy that Robert had their grandfather's map. Well, Luther always told Robert that map was his. God, what does it matter? An old fake map. But it gave him a dream, and Robert was a dreamer. He liked going off into the mountains by himself and dreaming of finding treasure so we could get out of here. Start our new life in L.A.”

From outside came the sound of other vehicles crossing the yard, then a cacophony of engines shutting off. Big Man went over, opened the door, and waved. In a moment, people began filing in, nodding to Big Man, coming over to Ruth, and leaning down to
hug her. For a moment, Father John thought she might jump to her feet and flee out of the house, but she sat ramrod straight, one eye peeled on the door.

“Cutter will be here as soon as he hears.”

*   *   *

FATHER JOHN WORKED
his way through the crowd that was filling up the living room and out to the yard that had turned into a parking lot. Walking Bears, he thought, a scattered family, not very close, except in times of death. He made a U-turn around the cars and pickups and took the borrow ditch a little too fast, hitting his head on the roof. A little cloud of dust swirled in the headlights. He could feel the uneasiness taking hold. Cutter, the perfect cousin, the only Walking Bear Ruth trusted. Or was there something more? What else had come between Ruth and Cutter?

He turned onto Seventeen-Mile Road and drove east. The blue and white billboard with St. Francis Mission in large, black letters gleamed in the moonlight ahead, and he slowed for the turn into the cottonwood tunnel. The quiet of the mission closed around him, but questions kept pounding in his mind: Who was this man who called himself Cutter? Where had he come from and what did he want?

A PERFECT EVENING,
with the last daylight falling over the mountain, and a half-moon blooming in the faded sky. A gentle, quiet breeze brushed the ground and cooled what remained of the day's heat. The pine trees all around swayed and sighed. Vicky spread the blanket Cutter had brought, smoothing out the wrinkles, as if it were the cover on a bed, while Cutter built a fire. He was quick and adept in the way he mounded the wood chips he'd collected among the trees, rolled up sheets of a newspaper and stuffed them among the chips, then held a match to the paper. The little fire sputtered and licked at the chips, and Cutter laid logs on top, propping them at an angle so as not to cut off the oxygen.

Vicky moved the picnic basket onto the blanket and sat down. She pulled her knees to her chest and clasped her hands around her legs, watching Cutter. Every movement smooth and controlled, as if he had been building campfires all his life. He was an expert. An
expert at a lot of things, she was beginning to think. Today he'd accepted the offer of a job with Fowler Oil in Casper, but he would be working in the oil fields on the rez, supervising and managing. He had come home, and he planned to stay.

She had been winding up the day at the office. Annie and Roger had already left when the phone rang. Ruth, wondering where Cutter was. “I have no idea,” Vicky had told her. She had just hung up when there he was, standing in the doorway between her office and Annie's, the beveled-glass doors swung back. “Ruth's trying to reach you,” she had told him. Information he seemed to ignore as he strode into her office and plopped a small ice chest on her desk. “We're going on a picnic,” he announced.

No, Cutter. No. No. Too much to do this evening. An important custody hearing coming up. Absolutely not.

Cutter Walking Bear had waved away each objection. She had to eat, or had she given up eating? It was beautiful in the mountains. He would have her back by nine o'clock. Promise.

She had given in. A change of scenery, change of schedule sounded good. She had been working hard lately, worrying over Robert's death and the anonymous caller, worrying over Ruth, trying to pull together compelling arguments in favor of Luke Wolf's claim that he was not a neglectful parent. “I have to go home and change,” she had said.

Fine, and Cutter would come with her. She had put up one hand. “I'll meet you in the parking lot at my apartment in thirty minutes.”

He had been waiting, leaning against the front of a ratty old pickup the color of mustard. His pickup was in the shop, he'd explained, a small fender bender today. He had a loaner. “I'm not sure it can make it to the mountains,” he'd said. She had offered to
take her Ford. It hadn't surprised her when she saw that Cutter had already stashed the cooler, a brown grocery bag, and folded blankets in the back of the Ford. It was all part of Cutter, making the world turn in his direction.

Now he sat back on his heels and admired the fire he'd built. “We're going to appreciate the heat when the sun goes down,” he said. It was true, Vicky was thinking. The temperature could drop twenty degrees in what seemed like seconds after the sun disappeared behind the mountains.

“What will you have, my lady?” Cutter jumped to his feet, pulled the grocery bag over, and opened the ice chest. “Beer? I brought a bottle of chardonnay.” He was extracting little plastic glasses from the bag.

“Water? Soda?” She didn't drink alcohol. In the years with Ben Holden, he had drunk enough alcohol for both of them. He had drunk her lifetime share.

Cutter laughed. “Should have spotted you for a water-soda gal. So what is it? You buy into the old stereotype that Indians can't handle alcohol? Never been a problem for me.”

Vicky didn't reply. It was a problem for Luke trying to regain visitation rights with his son, a problem for clients charged with DUIs.

“Coke?” He popped the lid and handed her the can. “Hope you like fried chicken and french fries because they are on the menu tonight.” He pulled two white Styrofoam boxes from the brown bag and a wad of napkins. Everything arranged, tied down before he had appeared in her office and mentioned the picnic. Before she had agreed to come with him. Vicky felt an uncomfortable prickling sensation on her skin. Was she that transparent, that lonely?

The chicken and fries were still warm, spicy and tasty. The fire
crackled and spit, and Vicky scooted back a few inches. Cutter came with her, one knee leaning out, touching hers. “Heard any more from the anonymous caller?”

Vicky chewed a bite of chicken a moment. “What makes you ask?”

“The fed's questioning the cousins and anybody that knew Robert. I figure he's still investigating Robert's death because of the guy that called you.” She felt the pressure of Cutter's fingers wrapping around her wrist, holding her hand suspended over a piece of chicken. “Any idea of who made the call?”

“What difference does it make?”

Cutter took his hand away. “I understand client confidentiality. If he's a client, you can't talk about it. Thing is, people are on edge, wondering when some anonymous caller might accuse them of murder. Gianelli takes the whole thing seriously. Looks like the investigation will never be finished. It's not fair to Ruth or to any of the cousins. Long as the investigation goes on, the rumors go on. Everybody thinks Robert actually found a treasure, so now people want to know what happened to it. Whole thing has gotten out of hand. I thought . . .”

Cutter paused. He finished a beer, squashed the can, and threw it into the bag. Then he pulled another beer out of the ice chest.

“You thought what?”

“You could call your client off. He's a liar, trying to cause trouble. Some kind of sociopath angling for attention now that everybody's thinking about Robert and poor Ruth.”

Vicky took a long drink of Coke and another bite of chicken, aware of Cutter's eyes on her. The air was thick with anticipation. She tried to figure out what he wanted. The name of the caller? She didn't know who the caller was. Somehow even telling him that the caller was not a client seemed like a breach of confidentiality.

“Why would someone claim he saw Robert murdered if he hadn't?”

“Because he's crazy, Vicky. I'm trying to tell you he's crazy, and if you have anything to do with the guy, you should be careful. I'm worried about you.”

Vicky ate the last of the chicken that she wanted and closed the box. “Who else might have gone treasure hunting with Robert? If he took you along, he could have taken someone else. Maybe several people.”

“You're beginning to sound like Gianelli. I don't know the answer. I didn't know Robert all that well. Only reason I agreed to go along on those crazy hunts was to get to know him. Let me tell you, hiking around steep mountainsides, climbing over boulders was not my idea of fun.”

“Maybe he took other cousins. What about Dallas Spotted Deer or Bernie and her husband?”

“I doubt it. They wanted Robert's map, and there was no way he was going to let them get close to it.”

“Why you, Cutter? Why did Robert let you get close?”

“I have no idea.” He squashed the second beer can, took another out of the cooler, and popped the lid. Foam and beer sloshed onto the blanket. “Could be because he knew I didn't want anything. The whole idea of buried treasure was a crock, you ask me. I didn't care about any old map.” He put his head back and drained part of the can. “Old, rotten map and buried treasure that never existed! Robert was going nuts, you ask me.”

“What do you think happened?”

“What?”

“At the lake.”

Cutter leaned back on his elbows and stared up at the sky. A silver-gray now, stars everywhere, and the moon bright and low
hanging. The crickets had worked themselves up into full throttle, and the breeze made a hushed noise in the pines. The fire had died back to a warm glow. “He liked the lake. I picture him tromping along the shore, stooping down to splash some water in his face, trying to cool off. Lost his footing and fell in. There's a steep drop-off, and he must've fallen headfirst into the deep part. Upended him, the way I see it. He couldn't regain his balance and pull himself up and out of the water. Accident, only the fed refuses to believe it so long as that crazy caller keeps stirring things up.” He paused. “What did the caller say happened?”

Vicky shook her head. “You never give up, do you?” She was trying for a lighter tone that masked the uneasiness she felt. They were alone, she and Cutter, darkness falling over the mountains, the nearest campsites a mile away.

Cutter sat back up. “Why are we talking about a dead guy when we're alive and the night is ours and it's beautiful.” She could feel the warmth of his arm slipping around her shoulders, drawing her to him. “From now on, let's talk about us. You and me, Vicky. We're a great pair. It's like I came home to find you. And, well . . .” He hesitated before pushing on. “You've been here all this time waiting for me.”

“Oh, Cutter.” She tried to pull away, but he was holding her close. She could feel his heart beating beneath his plaid shirt, strong and steady. “We don't know anything about each other.” Her own voice sounded muffled against his shirt, and she managed to push herself back and face him. “We have to take things slowly.”

“I don't like slowly. I see what I want, I go for it.” He gave a little laugh. “It might take you a little longer, but you will come around, I promise you.”

Vicky started to her feet, and he pulled her back. He was on her
then, kissing her, pressing her against the hard ground. “Take a chance on us,” he whispered. “Be brave, Vicky. Be brave.”

She managed to scramble away and jump to her feet. She could feel her heart pounding against her ribs. What difference would it make if she and this handsome, take-charge man made love next to the campfire? Who would care? Except there was something about him—unknown and yet familiar, something reminiscent of Ben Holden, so handsome and always in control. “I'd like to leave now,” she said.

“We'll leave later. When I say so.” He reached up, grabbed her hand, and pulled her back onto the blanket. “You have to learn to trust me, Vicky.” His lips were warm and moist against her face and neck. “Trust me. I'm the best thing for you. We'll be good together.”

She tried to push away again, but his chest was hard and stationary. It was like pushing against a boulder. “What about Ruth?” The question surprised her, erupting out of nowhere, and yet, she realized it had been hovering at the edge of her mind.

Cutter drew back, taking a moment to marshal his response. “Ruth is my cousin's wife. She's family, and family means everything to us Raps. I'm not telling you anything you don't know. Why would you ask such a question?”

“She's in love with you.” Vicky knew with a dead certainty it was true, the shadowy truth that had been following her around since the day at Ruth's house when Ruth kept looking for Cutter, wondering when he would show up. An ugly suspicion, Vicky had told herself. What right did she have to be suspicious of a woman who had just learned that her husband was dead? She had tried to push it aside, and still it had followed her, nagged at her.
Pay attention. Pay attention.
Grandmother's voice in her head.
You can feel when something isn't right.

“Enough about Ruth.” Cutter was on her, pushing her hard into the ground. She tried pummeling his chest, but he swept her hands away and locked them down.

“No, Cutter!” She was yelling, but there was no one around. Crickets somewhere, maybe a squirrel scampering up a tree. She was alone with a man about to rape her.

“I said, no!” She kicked at the brown bag that tumbled back into the fire. Flames swooshed into the air and licked at the blanket. Then a loud crack as the flames ignited the alcohol Cutter had spilled.

“Damn it!” Cutter jumped up and started stomping the fire.

A half second was all it took. Vicky was on her feet, scooping up her bag as she ran. Down the path and through the trees, a shortcut to the road. Cutter behind her, yelling her name. “Come back. Come back.”

She was inside the Ford, the door locked, the keys in her hand. She jammed the key in the ignition and willed the engine to turn over. Cutter outside, banging his fists on her window. My God, he was going to break the window! She shifted into forward and threw her weight onto the gas pedal. The Ford jumped into life, up and over a clump of dirt and out onto the road. Cutter running alongside, shouting and banging, and then he was in the rearview mirror, hands thrown in the air, as if he could call the evil spirits down on her.