really low, under radar, maybe a hundred feet off the water. He was pretty sure we were going to throw him out, so sure that he decided to take things into his own hands. He must have tried to hurl himself out of that helicopter half a dozen times. On the sixth attempt, he kicked me in the chin. So, I just folded my arms and figured the next time he goes for the door, this fella better learn how to fly.”
I opened my eyes and looked up at him. “And?”
He continued looking out the window. “He did not.”
“What?”
“Fly.”
I thought about it. “Is that story supposed to make me feel better?”
I looked up at the back of Omar’s head. He wasn’t happy about the current situation either. We were just cresting the meadows at the head of the valley, and the treetops swayed as the big rotors batted them away. I looked past the trees to the sky and made a few more calculations on the weather. I picked up the headset from the console beside me, held one of the cups to my ear, and adjusted the microphone. “Omar?”
He turned a little in his seat, and I could see him speaking. “Yes?”
“I figure about two hours before it hits?”
He studied the horizon ahead. “Maybe three, you never know.”
“Let’s make it two; I want to know.”
He nodded his head, and my stomach did a half gainer with a full twist. I thought about all the light aircraft crashes I had investigated in my tenure as sheriff; it seemed like there was one every couple of years. Good pilots, good aircraft, but the mountain weather was always unpredictable. Between the thermals, downdrafts, and quirky winds, I wasn’t sure how anybody kept the things aloft except with a liberal application of positive thought. “Doesn’t this stuff bother you? Just a little bit?”
He looked at me, slightly swaying back and forth with the movements of the helicopter. “No, it does not.” He watched me for a while longer.
“What does bother you?”
“You, thinking I might be capable of murder.”
I looked at him, with the shotgun’s barrel between my eyes, and tried to figure if this was really something he wanted to talk about or if it was just another distraction. In the end, I decided that it didn’t matter. “You are capable of doing it.”
He nodded. “Physically, technically, I suppose so.” He leaned forward a little. “But do you think I would?”
“Do you think you’d be here if I did?”
He considered this. “There is the old saying ‘Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.’ ”
“You think you’re an enemy?”
“I am trying to find out if you think I am.” He leaned back in the cream-colored leather and looked up at the monitors on the ceiling. “Sourdough Creek.”
We were more than halfway there. “Try to look at it from my point of view.”
He closed his eyes. Henry could surrender himself to a hypothetical, even if it included making himself the suspect in an ongoing murder investigation. He never worked on a single level. “MMO?”
“Motive.”
“One through three?”
We had played this game numerous times, but never with Henry as the perpetrator. “One?”
He was talking fast with his eyes still closed. “It cannot be conclusively shown that I have ever met Cody Pritchard or Jacob Esper or had reason to have feelings of ill will toward either of them.”
Impossible. “Two.”
“Not only have I met Cody Pritchard and Jacob Esper, but there are hard feelings between us since they took my niece into a basement and raped her repeatedly with their tiny, little, circumcised dicks, with bottles, and with baseball bats.”
A chill was starting at the base of my spine. “Three.”
“I was seen stalking through the courthouse after the trial with a Sharps. 45–70 under my arm and muttering something about Cody Pritchard and Jacob Esper canceling their subscriptions to Indian Country Today.” He opened his eyes. “I give motive a two.”
“Two and a half.”
He genuinely looked hurt. “Why?”
“Al Monroe’s description of the perp, large with long, darkish hair.”
He sighed and pulled the Weatherby back against his chest and folded his arms around it. “All right, two and a half, but I’m not going to be as easy on the next two.”
“Means?”
He thought. “One: I have been stricken by a strange, tropical disease, which has paralyzed both of my trigger fingers.”
“Uh, huh. Two.”
“Both of these boys have been killed by a caliber of weapon of which I am in possession.”
“Three.”
“Ballistics matches this weapon with the slugs that killed both of these boys.” He shrugged and looked out the window. “Two.”
“Means, two.” I studied the lines on his face, and it seemed as if some of the joy had receded from the game. “Opportunity?”
“One: I was in Vatican City with the pope at the time.”
“Two.”
“I was seen in the area of both murders, but no one can place me at the scene of either.”
“Three.”
“I am found standing over both bodies with aforementioned. 45–70 in my hands as both Cody and Jacob respectively gasp out their dying breaths.” He looked back at me. “Opportunity knocks twice?”
I shook my head. “One and a half. You had the argument with Cody at the bar, not too distant from the Hudson Bridge, but nobody saw you on the mountain.”
“Al Monroe’s description?”
“Not a positive identification; anyway, we already used it on motive.”
“What about the feathers?”
“Circumstantial; fake feathers indicate a fake Indian to me.”
He smiled. “I was late running yesterday.” I stared at him for a moment. “No sense playing the game if you can’t play it honestly. A two.”
We sat there looking at each other. The theory was that three out of nine meant you should be looking for another suspect, and nine out of nine meant you started having the suspect’s mail forwarded to Rawlins. Prosecutors usually liked higher than a six before going to trial, so Henry’s six barely let him off the hook. “Looks like you’re innocent, of the murders at least.” I paused. “Honestly, who do you think is doing it?”
“Honestly?” He sniffed and dropped his chin on his chest. “I think it is somebody we do not know. I think it is somebody we have not thought of.”
“A sleeper?”
“Yes. Somebody that is doing this for very strong reasons, something we do not yet understand.”
I nodded. “Do you know Jim Keller very well?”
He looked up, very slowly. “No.”
“Which of the four boys do you consider the most innocent, and whose life’s been messed up by this the most for the least cause?”
“Bryan.” His eyes stayed steady. “The clever thing gets in the way in your line of work, does it not?”
“Sometimes.”
“Is Jim Keller a shooter?”
“He’s supposedly in Nebraska hunting with some friends.”
I watched him turn the wheels. “Would you run off and leave your son here with all these things going on?”
