“Sometimes.”
“Tell her what it’s like to cell with a bull dyke up at the women’s pen.”
Darrel McComb had never belonged to a church, but he did believe in spiritual entities. In his mind there was a Valhalla where slain heroes lived in a giant meadhouse and feasted on roasted boar and watched over the few who fought to protect the many. One of those slain heroes was Rocky Harrigan, Darrel’s mentor in a half-dozen clandestine operations, killed when his cargo plane crashed into a mountain during an airdrop to anti-Russian forces in Afghanistan.
Rocky’s handsome face grinned at Darrel from a framed photograph on top of Darrel’s dresser, Rocky wearing shades, a fatigue cap, and a skinned-up leather jacket, his arm cocked on the open
window of an old DC-6.
Why’d Rocky have to go and get himself killed? Darrel thought. And for what? Dropping ordnance and C-rats to Muslim fanatics who one day would fly planes into the Twin Towers and the Pentagon. What a travesty. Who wrote the damn history books, anyway? Names like Rocky’s never got in there. Instead, the whole nation lionized fraternity pissants who had never heard a shot fired in anger in their lives.
Darrel couldn’t shake the funk and depression that had plagued him ever since he had beaten the Indian with the blackjack. His career and his life were unraveling. His rage against Johnny American Horse was just the symptom, not the cause. But what was the cause?
He didn’t know.
He’d always been straight up as a cop, true to his own ethos, but now he’d lied and filed a fraudulent report to cover up the fact he was a voyeur, after being caught in the act by Wyatt Dixon, who at some point would undoubtedly try to blackmail him. All because he literally ached with desire whenever he set eyes on Amber Finley.
He went out on the balcony of the apartment where he lived above the Clark Fork River. Three stories below were sharp rocks and a slope that dropped precipitously into the water. All he needed to do was step on a chair, fit one foot on the handrail, and launch himself into space. For just a moment he saw his body being lifted off the rocks onto a gurney by firemen and paramedics, all of them solemn-faced at the passing of one of their own.
Who was he kidding? He didn’t have two friends in the whole town, nor did he want any, at least not here, in Ho Chi Minh City West.
Don’t get mad, get even, he thought.
Why not start with this Greta Lundstrum broad? Who did she think she was, dimeing him with the sheriff, accusing him of bird-dogging her at Romulus Finley’s house, bringing down a shitload of departmental grief on his head? He pictured her in his mind’s eye again. He was sure he’d seen her before. But where?
Good God, he thought. It was on a surveillance two years ago. He and another plainclothes had followed Wyatt Dixon to a motel in Alberton, down the Clark Fork, and when Dixon had tapped on a door, a thick-bodied woman had let him in the room. An hour later, Dixon had driven away. Darrel had run the woman’s car tag but had decided she was simply a casual girlfriend of Dixon’s and of no consequence in the investigation of white supremacists in western Montana.
What an irony, Darrel thought. A connection between Dixon and the Lundstrum woman had suddenly validated his lie and justified his own presence at the Finley house. He looked at the framed photograph of his dead friend on the dresser and felt that somehow Rocky was watching over him, maybe even winking his eye and lifting a tankard of mead from Valhalla in salute.
At the department Monday morning Darrel opened a fresh legal pad, wrote the date and time at the top of the page, then clicked Greta Lundstrum’s name into the departmental computer and hit the search key.
What he saw on the screen made him tap the heel of his hand against his forehead. The burgled agricultural research lab down in the Bitterroots had used an alarm system operated by Blue Mountain Security, owned by one Greta Lundstrum.
It was too much for coincidence, Darrel thought. The B amp;E report from Ravalli County had been put on his desk because of a possible tie-in between ecoterrorists, Indians, and Darrel’s arrest of Johnny American Horse. Now Lundstrum’s name had surfaced in the same investigation. He called Blue Mountain Security and asked to speak to her.
“This is she. Who’s calling, please?” the voice on the other end of the line said.
“Detective Darrel McComb, with the Missoula County Sheriff’s Department. I’d appreciate your coming into the office for an interview,” he replied.
“You would appreciate what?”
“We’ve been investigating a group of Native American environmental activists for some time.” He positioned the B amp;E report by the phone so he could see it more clearly. “We think they may be involved with the burglary of the Global Research facility. Your company handles security for them, doesn’t it?”
“McComb? You’re the detective who followed me to Senator Finley’s house?”
“That’s incorrect, ma’am. My concern there was about an ex-convict by the name of Wyatt Dixon, who was watching the Finleys’ home. I believe you have a past relationship with Dixon, don’t you?”
He could almost hear her heart beating through the phone receiver. “Ma’am?” he said.
Then she surprised him. “Unfortunately, I did know him. About two years back. A brief and mistaken relationship, if you get my meaning. Now, what the hell is this about?” she said.
“I’d rather talk to you in person. I’ll drive down there,” he replied.
“Suit yourself,” she said, and hung up.
Now, there’s a woman who wrote her own rule book, he thought. The kind, as Rocky used to say, who would read your mind, slap your face, then ask you to stay over for breakfast.
It took him only a half hour to drive to her security service. In the background the Bitterroot Mountains rose high into the heavens, the dark green of the timber marbled with new snow. He liked being down in the valley, away from university and liberal influences, among people who were of a mind similar to his own. It was going to be a fine day in all respects, he told himself.
Greta Lundstrum came out of her cubicle as soon as she saw him through the glass partition, her wide-set eyes fixed on his. “So what do you need from me, Detective?” she asked.
The boldness of her stare was at first disconcerting. Long ago, in his dealings as a police officer, Darrel had concluded that aggressive female business executives fell into one category only: their authority and their successful imposition of it were entirely dependent upon their ability to destroy any male challenge to it.
“The people who broke into Global Research called in the password after they cut the telephone line,” he said. “Do you-”
“I’ve pulled the files on all our ex-employees,” she interrupted. “Two of them are people I fired for coming to work with alcohol on their breath. One of them is an Indian. He still lives in Missoula. The other man moved out of state.”
“The password didn’t necessarily have to come from an ex-employee,” Darrel said.
“If you mean one of our current employees might have given it out, yes, that could have happened. But it didn’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because they’ve been with me for years and they have no motivation for betraying me or the client. Come into my office and sit down,” she said.
His eyes slipped down her back, her hips, and rump as he followed her into her cubicle. “You know a woman named Temple Holland?” she said. She sat forward in her swivel chair, her elbows on the desk, her back stiff.
“She’s a P.I., the wife of a local attorney,” Darrel replied.
“Why did you tell her you were following me?”
“I didn’t.”
“Then why did she tell me that?”
“My guess is, she and her husband want to cause trouble. He’s the lawyer for an Indian named Johnny American Horse,” Darrel said. He looked at the hardness in her green eyes and the set in her jaw. He decided to test her affinities. “I arrested American Horse for attempted assault on a law officer. During that arrest I hit him several times with a blackjack. Mr. and Mrs. Holland aren’t fans of mine.”
Her expression showed no reaction. “You think this man American Horse is involved with the break-in?” she asked.
