standing a respectful distance away.
Her hands were stuffed in the pockets of her black linen slacks as she pivoted on one heel of a flat-soled shoe. “I’m sorry, but I think your food is getting cold.”
By the time we topped the hill overlooking Lame Deer, regular conversation had been restored.
“Oh Daddy, I can’t believe you did that.”
I gave Henry the eye, but he remained silent. “It wasn’t my choice.”
“A peyote ceremony?”
“Well…” I glanced past the Cheyenne Nation’s profile at the inordinate amount of unmarked and marked cars, along with a Mobile Task Force trailer emblazoned with the FBI’s insignia, that were crowded into the small Tribal Police parking lot.
Henry finally spoke. “Uh oh.”
We slowed at the stop sign, and the Bear and I looked at each other. Cady leaned up between us and glanced at the hubbub to our left, her natural Philadelphia lawyer tendencies getting the better of her. “What’s happened there?”
“I’m not sure.”
She looked at the Bear and then back to me. “Well, shouldn’t we find out?”
I took a deep breath and gestured for the Cheyenne Nation to advance forward. “Not my job.”
Henry didn’t move, and someone honked an air horn behind us.
Cady leaned her face close to mine and pointed toward the clock in the ornate, chrome-slicked dash-it was almost three. “You can be a cop for another eighteen minutes.”
“It’s okay.”
The horn behind us blasted again, and the Cheyenne Nation calmly slipped Lola into PARK, removed his lap belt, pulled the door handle, and stepped out.
I swiveled my head to get a look back, but Cady countered to block my view. “Henry and I can just go ahead over to Ashland and get you women into your motel room.” There were noises coming from behind the car, including the opening and slamming of a door and loud voices. I redirected my attention to Lena, who was now looking out the back window. “And get you settled in.”
Cady reached up and gripped my chin, redirecting my attention to her-a trick she’d adopted from her mother. “I’d rather you go over and get things settled than have you worry about this case, okay?”
There was suddenly no noise from the street. “I’m not going to worry about it.”
Her eyebrows rose to the point where I thought they were going to fall off the back of her head as the Bear reentered the Thunderbird, sat, and reattached his seat belt.
I looked at him. “Sorry about the trouble.”
He shrugged. “What trouble?” He gripped the wheel. “I am assuming we are making a stop at the jail to see what’s going on?”
I shot a look at my daughter, who ricocheted it to the Cheyenne Nation, who, in turn, whipped the wheel to the left and blew across the intersection onto the street beside the full lot. I caught a glimpse of a large man behind us holding his nose in an attempt to stop it from bleeding while leaning against the fender of his eighteen wheeler. No problem-right.
Henry pulled up behind the Task Force trailer and parked as we opened the doors, and I flipped the seat forward so that the Philadelphia contingency could join us in witnessing the spectacle.
Federal agents in flak jackets and full tactical gear were flying out of the adjoining buildings, jumping in the assorted cars, trucks, and SUVs, and making swift departures onto 212 and points beyond. Lolo Long and Cliff Cly were engaged in a heated conversation on the ramp of the Tribal Police Headquarters. Cady and Lena appeared to be enjoying the show. Henry and I looked at each other.
“Hopefully we’ll be right back.”
Cady waved and pointed at her wristwatch. “Fourteen minutes.”
I bumped the Bear’s shoulder. “Don’t beat anybody else up, okay?”
We advanced on the ramp as Agent Cly broke from Long and stepped toward us, stopping when he saw me, extending a hand in admonition. “Don’t even start.”
“Have we missed something?”
“Well, hell, yeah.” He looked over both our shoulders. “Nice car. Hey, is that your daughter?”
“Cliff, what’s going on?”
He looked exasperated. “Listen, I wanted to let your little friend back there handle her end of the log, but its lumberjack time and we’ve got fugitives, okay?”
“What are you talking about?”
“That moron, Clarence Last Bull, was dealing out of his house and had a wire on his phone.”
“What?”
“Yeah, I know; nobody knew, especially me. I mean, why would you check any of this with the fucking agent in charge, huh?” He pulled a pack of cigarettes from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and bit one between his teeth; I noticed that the stubble on his face was the exact length I’d seen days ago; he probably had an electric razor set to that length. “I swear to God my title should be Agent-Who-Doesn’t-Know-What-the-Fuck-Is-Going-On.” I could see Chief Long advancing as he lit the Marlboro and took a vicious inhale. “To make a long story short, we’ve got a tape on this asshole from an anonymous informant where Clarence is discussing with Artie Small Song how he wasn’t going to pay him the money he owed him for pushing his wife and kid off the cliff.”
“Oh, no.”
“Oh, yeah. A very heated conversation that ends with an inordinately pissed-off Artie Small Song promising to turn Clarence Last Bull into the Native American equivalent of Jimmy Dean Hickory Smoked Sausage.” He turned. “Did you know about this?!”
Chief Long had arrived. “No.” She looked doubtful. “No.”
Henry’s voice cut through the emotion. “Where is Clarence Last Bull?”
The agent in charge removed the cigarette from his mouth. “That’s a good question, and one we wish we had an answer to.” He turned to the young Cheyenne woman. “Chief Long?”
“His Jeep is gone, but somebody spotted it in Birney.” She added, before I could ask, “Red Birney.”
I blew out a breath. “Has anybody seen or heard of the whereabouts of Artie?”
The chief and the AIC answered in unison. “No.”
“What about the maroon truck?”
Lolo shook her head. “Up at KRZZ with the little nephew Nate.”
The agent shrugged. “Well, that means the last of the Mohicans is perhaps afoot and possibly easier to capture.”
The Cheyenne Nation pursed his lips. “Or not.”
Cly glanced at Henry, and you could see that even he couldn’t underestimate the Bear. “I gotta go, but you’re all welcome to join in the great manhunt of eastern Montana.”
I looked over my shoulder, where Cliff Cly’s eyes kept wandering. “No, we’ve got a wedding to plan.”
“Is that your wife, Sheriff?”
I sighed. “No, that is the mother of the groom and of my undersheriff, wife of the Chief of Detectives North, City of Philadelphia, and I’m sure that if you make a pass at her he will attempt to turn you into the FBI equivalent of Jimmy Dean Hickory Smoked Sausage.”
He spoke as he passed us, going toward a Crown Victoria with a driver in attendance behind the wheel. “Philly’s a tough town.” He waved at Lena and Cady, and they waved back. “Never know till you ask.”
I turned to look at Lolo Long, who was now conversing with someone by way of the radio attached to her collarbone. “You don’t look happy.”
She rogered the call and looked up at me. “Someone just punched a trucker out here on the highway.” She fished her keys from her pocket, aimed the remote at the black SUV, and the vehicle chirped and blinked its lights. “Besides, what have I got to be happy about?”
“The investigative part of the case is over. Now all you have to do is capture the suspects, one of whom is apparently on foot.” I glanced back at the women next to the vintage automobile, where Cady was pointing to her wrist. “Anyway, if I’m betting on who knows the territory best-my money’s on you, Chief.”
I started backing away with Henry following and she took a step after us. “So, that’s it?”
