and courteous — and the marauding whites — crass, greedy, and stupid.
For a moment Jane got so caught up in the content of the reading that she almost forgot that her purpose here was not to have a literary or cultural experience, but to unmask a killer. HawkHunter's reading was, to Jane at least, only a reason for her to assemble the people needed for her plan. Still, she found herself wondering what effect this provocative material was having.
She knew the stone-faced Indian was a stereotype, but at that moment it was quite true of the people in this room. None of the tribe members whose faces she could see were overtly registering any emotion at all — no hint of a smile, no suggestion of a frown. The others, the genealogists and other resort guests, all looked slightly distressed. Their expressions ranged from sympathy to guilt to anger.
HawkHunter opened the book to another page and read a passage about himself as a child. A very different piece — at first. It was about the joy of being a boy who was part of the land, nature, and a nurturing extended family. It was a charming, romping, happy story, and then it veered off into an account of some drunken white cowboys wandering onto the tribal land and raping his young aunt. It ended with HawkHunter, as an eight-year-old boy, hiding behind a rock so that the elders wouldn't see him cry.
He finished reading, closed the book, and shut his eyes for a moment as if overcome by the emotion of the experience all over again. Then, as a fitful spatter of applause started and quickly grew, he opened his eyes, made a suggestion of a bow, and said, 'Are there questions now? Or anything in particular someone would like to discuss?'
Jane stood quickly. 'Mr. HawkHunter, I notice you're still missing your tooth. I found it in the snow. Would you like to have it to give to your dentist?'
There was a ruffle of sound. A little bit of amusement, some tutting disapproval.
'I appreciate that, but you're mistaken. My tooth was broken, but not lost. Other questions—?'
'No, I believe this is your tooth,' Jane said, holding up a tissue that was folded and taped.
Little Feather had risen, scowling, and come hastily down the side aisle. When she reached Jane, she snatched at the little package roughly and went back to the podium. HawkHunter was looking at Jane with contemptuous amusement. 'Well, ma'am, if you say so,' he said with a laugh. He pointed to someone in the audience who was holding her hand up to be called on.
Jane felt her face flush, but Shelley nudged her and she went on, overriding the woman who was attempting to ask about HawkHunter's research. 'Mr. HawkHunter, the odd thing about that tooth is that it doesn't belong to an Indian.'
He glanced at her with irritation. 'Certainly not this Indian,' he said. He turned to the other questioner. 'My research began with a childhood of stories, stories told by my grandmother and grandfather—'
'What were their names — your grandparents'?' Jane all but shouted.
'Look here, lady, I don't know what you're trying to do, but you're disrupting this meeting and I suggest you find someplace else to go.'
'How about the Sheepshead Bay court?' Jane asked. 'They have very interesting records, you know.'
At that, HawkHunter grabbed the podium with one hand as if to keep his balance. 'I don't know what—'
'I think you do,' Jane said. 'Let me tell you about one of those records.' She had the sheet of fax paper in her hand and ready. She held it up and said, 'This is a copy of the record of Johan Aulkunder changing his name to John HawkHunter on his eighteenth birthday. And this' — she flourished another sheet of paper—'is a picture of Johan Aulkunder in his high school yearbook. Even on a fax, it's apparent how much he resembles the picture of you on the back of your book. Of course, neither of those pictures resembles you today very much. You've had a lot of plastic surgery, haven't you, Mr. HawkHunter? But you couldn't change the shape of your teeth, or the characteristics of your skull. It's very easy to disprove American Indian heritage. And Doris Schmidtheiser knew that. She was very indiscreet, too, and mentioned to you that she'd found this record when she was rummaging around for evidence of Gregor Roman changing his name.'
HawkHunter's mouth was working, but words wouldn't come. He turned and looked at Little Feather. She ripped open the little tissue package and held up a small, hard item. 'This is just a rock!' she said, flinging it toward Jane. Her aim was bad. Frantic. The bit of gravel pinged off the wall.
The room was deathly still. HawkHunter groped to recover the situation. 'This is exactly the kind of libelous nonsense the whites have always used on Indians! The nitpicking pseudo-science that is meant to discredit. Next she'll be spouting nonsense about brain size—'
The dauntingly large man in the red plaid shirt in the front row had stood up and joined him at the podium. He took hold of HawkHunter's arm in a vise-like grip. 'I'd like to hear what more this lady has to say,' he said in a deep voice.
'What I'm saying is this: that man is no more a Native American than I am,' Jane replied. 'In fact, I've probably got a couple of generations on him as far as our tenure in America goes.'
There was a nasty undertone in the room. Whether it was directed at her or HawkHunter or both of them, Jane couldn't guess.
'Don't you see, Leon, what's she's trying to do?' HawkHunter said. 'Just what the whites have always done — tried to turn us against our own people. And once again it's working! You can't believe her! You're betraying your own people!'
'It's easy to prove,' Jane said. 'Will you agree to have a skull X-ray and your teeth examined?'
'No! He will not!' Little Feather shrilled. 'He doesn't have to prove a damned thing to you, you white bitch!'
This time the rumble of discontent had a clear target. Little Feather had made a big mistake.
'Maybe not, but he has to prove it to me,' the big man named Leon said. He still had a grip on HawkHunter's arm and was looking down at him.
'Excuse me, sir, but are you Leon Whitewing? The president of the tribal council?' Jane asked.
'I am.'
'Then it was you who signed the contract with HawkHunter on behalf of the tribe,' Jane said, brandishing a copy that Linda Moose foot had made for her.
'I did,' Leon Whitewing said.
'Would you give the gist of that contract?'
'I don't see why not. It's not a secret. We engaged HawkHunter to represent our interest in regard to the legal ownership of Flattop.'
'And what are you paying him for that?' Jane went on.
'Nothing,' Leon said. 'It's a pro bono situation.'
'Is it?' Jane asked.
Leon responded slowly, as if his mind were running about ten times as fast as his mouth. 'Well, officially he's to get ten percent of the profits from anything that's done with the land if he wins the suit. But since we'll just restore it to its cemetery status—'
He seemed startled as the tall woman in the second row whipped her head around to look at Jane. Jane nodded to her and the woman stood up.
'Mr. Whitewing, this is Susan Maxwell,' Jane said. 'You may have seen her around lately in a red ski outfit. She's with a firm of architectural engineers. Susan, would you tell Mr. Whitewing what you've been doing?'
Susan Maxwell glared for a long minute at HawkHunter, then said, 'Since it appears that I'm going to get stiffed for my fees in all likelihood, I might as well. John HawkHunter hired me to look over the summit of the hill you call Flattop Mountain and draw up preliminary plans for a casino complex to be built there.'
There wasn't a stony face in the room anymore. Everyone was either stunned or confused and frankly showed it.
Jane explained. 'Tribal lands — reservations — are federal lands. They aren't subject to state laws. It's possible that if HawkHunter had gotten that land depart of the tribal land — either through legal methods or by intimidation — a very large gambling operation could have gone up on the hill. A large and extremely profitable operation, of which he would have received a percentage for the rest of his life.'
Little Feather was edging toward the door. The sheriff shifted himself directly in front of the doorway and folded his arms. HawkHunter had been trying to gently extricate himself from Leon Whitewing's grasp, but now he gave a great lurch sideways. Leon didn't loosen his grip and jerked HawkHunter back like a rag doll.
'You've got a lot to explain to the tribe — white boy!' Leon said.
