CHAPTER THIRTEEN

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Lindsay could not help herself. She kept checking herself out in the small mirror she pulled from her purse. She had colored her hair in the past but never jet black. She had never liked the goth look she'd seen other girls wearing at school.  She had always gone for a wavy, curlier, look. The flat iron had softened her curls and made her hair poker straight. The new hairstyle, accompanied by Neha’s darker makeup job, did give her a pronounced Native American look.  She rather enjoyed it, actually.

“How is Ska doing?” Lindsay asked Ellie, before they left.

“She’s resting now,” Ellie said. “I called in a friend to stay with her. I’ll stay here until she gets here. Alonie is a private nurse who has assisted with helping meth users in the past.”

“Are you leaving?” Neha asked.

Ellie nodded, “I have patients to see today. I’ll check in from time to time and come back this evening. I gave Ska a little cocktail of bupropion and modafinil. I’m hoping it will allow her to sleep and relieve some of the cravings.”

“What do you mean, ‘hoping to?’” Lindsay asked.

“Meaning there is no FDA-approved medications for meth withdrawal,” Ellie said. “The medications I gave her have shown some effectiveness in helping addicts ween off meth cravings, but some of it is going to come down to toughing it out as the drugs naturally come out of her system.”

“Oh dear,” Lindsay said. “Does it hurt?”

“It will be uncomfortable, no doubt,” Ellie said. “All initial indications are that she was a regular user but did not use heavy doses.  That will help. If the bupropion doesn’t work when we get back, I’ll start her on paroxetine.  It’s stronger and might help.  Don’t worry, meth use is very common on the res. Alonie has helped me more than a few times with users. She is capable, and she will call me if there’s a problem.”

“Thank you for everything,” Lindsay said.

“It’s what I do, dear,” she responded.

Lindsay got into Neha’s truck, an ancient Chevy that looked only modestly better than the truck Rainhorse had stolen, but the engine fired right up.

“We have a forty-five-minute drive,” Neha said. “Why don’t you tell me more about your friend . . . Jackson.”

“He made me promise to keep my mouth shut,” Lindsay said.

Neha glared at Lindsay, “I’m entrusting my daughter’s life with a man I thought I knew. Last night I discovered he was an assassin. It was a little unsettling. I’d think you’d understand why I want to know more.”

“Ok, I’ll talk,” she said, “But only because I think you have the wrong idea.”

“Tell me about this kidnapping,” Neha asked.

“Well, to begin with, Jackson worked for a cold-blooded murderer, a real character named Barnabas Quince . . .”

“You’re not making me feel better,” Neha said.

“Jackson was a paid assassin, true,” Lindsay said, “But he only killed drug warlords, other murderers, pimps and sex-traders.”

“But he kidnapped you,” Neha noted.

“Yes, but only because they forced him to. He was told at first, they would not hurt me. They were going to exchange me for money,” Lindsay said. “He told me from the beginning that he hated kidnapping me. He protected me even from the onset. While they were holding me in a safe house, his pervert of a partner kept trying to put his hands on me.  Jackson never let it happen.”

“So, why’d he change his mind, I mean, about the kidnapping?” Neha asked.

“Because later he found out that Barnabas Quince intended to kill me all along. He only told Jackson otherwise to keep him cooperating. When he found out that I was to be killed, he refused to go through with it.”

“What did he do?”

“Jackson stood up to Barnabas even under the threat of death. He killed his partner, and then got me the hell out of there.”

“What’s all this about stealing cars and knocking over a pharmacy?”

“Oh, good point, I guess I left out some of the middle. I tend to do that,” Lindsay said. “Barnabas sent his goons out looking for us. They were right on our heels much of the time. We had to steal cars to throw them off our trail. Then, one of Barnabas’s men shot Jackson. We couldn’t go to a hospital, so we had to steal some antibiotics from a pharmacy. Near the end, when Barnabas caught up to us, Jackson put his own body in front of mine and took several bullets meant for me. That was just before my stepdad and the Brotherhood Protectors showed up and took me to safety. I thought Jackson was dead for the longest time, but I never gave up hope. He saved my life multiple times.”

“And that’s when Ellie found him and nursed him back to health?” Neha asked.

“That’s right,” Lindsay said, “but I didn’t know it at the time. Everyone thought he was dead.”

“But not you?”

“They never found his body, so I never gave up hope.”

“It sounds like you two really bonded,” Neha said.

“Oh, we did,” Lindsay agreed. “We talked a lot. I got to know him as a person. I fell in love with him, I won’t lie.”

Neha raised her eyebrows, “You . . . fell . . . in love?”

Lindsay’s face reddened, “It’s not what you think. I didn’t love him in a physical sense. He never was inappropriate with me—not once. He’s not that way. It was a love I can’t describe . . . somewhere between brother and father, only, in some ways, deeper. I have a connection with him I’ll never let go of—ever.”

Neha sighed, “It sounds like you trust him, too.”

She nodded, “With my life, with everything I have, including my heart.”  Tears began to form in her eyes.  “He gave up everything for me. If he had gone through with the kidnapping as planned, he could have made a fortune. He could be in Costa Rica at this very moment, living in a mansion, driving around in a Ferrari with beautiful women peeling his grapes and painting his toes. Instead, he gave up everything and is now being hunted by both Barnabas and the FBI. He knows no peace. He has to look over his shoulder every day. It was all a sacrifice he made for me. I can’t change that and I can’t forget it. All I can do is try to make his life better. I won’t stop until I do.”

Neha fell silent, deep in thought.

“I’m sorry if I changed your image of Rainy,” Lindsay said.

“Actually, it makes things very clear. Thank you for sharing all this. Your story makes him sound very much like the Rainhorse I knew and loved.”

“Do you still love him?” Lindsay asked.

“The answer to that question is a complex one—perhaps left for another time. I think we should spend some time telling you about Lona and her relationship with the twins and with some of her other friends,” Neha said. “It could come in handy if the twins start asking you questions. The fact that you are wearing Lona’s clothes will help. The twins have seen her wear that outfit several times.”

Neha spent the next twenty minutes telling Lindsay what she knew about Chapa and Chumani, including juicy tidbits of gossip and the fact that both of them drank beer and smoked cigarettes.

“It all sounds good,” Lindsay said. “I think I have everything I need to convince the twins that Lona trusted me enough to share secrets with me. What else do we need to do before we get there?”

Neha thought for a moment, “Change the settings on your phone to block your outgoing caller ID. If you are able to exchange numbers with Chapa and Chumani, you don’t want their display to read ‘Lindsay Vanderbilt’ if you call.”

“Good idea. I’ll do it now. How do you think Jackson is doing?” she asked, looking at her watch.

“He should be close to Plentywood by now,” Neha said. “Don’t worry. Rainy knows what he is doing.”

 

*****

 

Eighty miles away, Rainhorse pulled into the parking lot of the Plentywood Auto Body shop in the ancient pickup truck he’d stolen the day before. He Googled the shop and found out the business opened in 1971 under the sole proprietorship of one Mr. Lonnie Smith, now aged seventy-two.  He and his son, Lonnie Jr., continued to run the business.

The shop had four garage bays in an old white washed building that had seen better days, and those days dated back to when Nixon was president.  There were cars in each bay and more cars sat in the congested lot waiting their turn. Business was good, it appeared.  He pulled his hair back and twisted it up on top of his head, securing his raffia cowboy hat in place.  He had not worn the hat into the diner the day before, so hiding his hair under a cowboy hat would change his appearance to anyone who might have seen him.

Satisfied that no one would notice the prehistoric truck he arrived in, Rainhorse parked the vehicle, turned off the ignition and began walking around the side of the building toward the back. He tried to walk nonchalantly, but no sooner than he caught sight of Apollo’s double-wide trailer he heard the loud sound of a cocking shotgun—a guard!

“Who the hell are you?” the gun-toter asked. He was a skinny man in his early twenties, wearing a large Stetson hat, cowboy boots and an enormous belt buckle.

Rainhorse lifted his hands instinctively, “Whoa, easy partner,” he said. “I am not here to cause trouble. I am just looking for Lonnie.”

The man eyed him suspiciously, “Lonnie sent you back here?”

He continued to point the shot gun at Rainhorse’s face but moved in closer. Closer was good. Closer, Rainhorse thought . . . just a little bit more.

“Well, no,” he replied. “Actually, I called in a little while ago about having him do some repair work on my rear bumper. It is all rusted out.  He told me their appointments were filled, but to pull on around back and he would take a look.”

The cowboy took another step forward, “Lonnie ain’t never sent nobody back here before, not without tellin’ us,” he said.

Rainhorse smiled, “All you have to do is call him and he will . . .”

The big Cheyenne halted midsentence, and with the quickness of a mountain lion, grabbed the shotgun by the barrel and yanked it out of the cowboy’s hands.

“Holy shit!” he exclaimed. “How’d you do tha . . .”

Before the cowboy could finish his sentence Rainhorse used the butt of the shotgun and slammed it into the younger man’s face. He heard bone crunching and was sure he’d broken the cowboy’s nose. He fell to his knees. Rainhorse dropped the shotgun and pulled a knife. He circled around the back of the cowboy, grabbed the youngster by the hair and slipped the knife under his neck.

“Shhh,” Rainhorse admonished. “No noise, understand?”

The cowboy nodded, blood still gushing out of his nostrils. Rainhorse dragged the cowboy behind a tree by the hair. The tree provided good cover and had good visibility to the double-wide’s front door.

Rainhorse looked in all directions.  Satisfied no one saw or heard him, he turned back to the cowboy and spoke in a low voice, “Would you like to live through this day?” he asked.

The cowboy looked up at him, wide-eyed in fear, blood flowing freely from his nose. He nodded, yes.

“Good,” Rainhorse said. “Listen, I do not have time to screw around. I am going to give you one chance, and only one chance to tell me the truth. Before you speak, you should know that I was trained in the military to detect lies. If you lie to me, I will know it, and I will end our conversation rather abruptly and permanently. Understand?”

He nodded.

“Good,” Rainhorse continued. “Now tell me, is Tony Apollo inside?”

He nodded, yes.

“Is he alone?”

He shook his head, no.

“How many men are with him?”

“Four,” he said softly.

“Are they armed?”

He nodded.

“Automatic weapons?”

He shook his head, no, “Pistols and shotguns only.”

“Is he leaving anytime soon? Any appointments?”

He shook his head, no.

“Is Hank Rattling Thunder with him, now?”

No, again.

“Do you have a walkie-talkie—some way to communicate with them, inside?”

He nodded.

“Get it for me . . . slowly. Do not do anything stupid.”

The cowboy reached into his coat slowly and pulled a walkie-talkie from it.

“Ok, here is what we are going to do,” Rainhorse said. “What is your name?

“Dusty,” he said.

Rainhorse knew the name. Vern Gill had told him Dusty was a regular at the Blue Buffalo.

“Are you married, Dusty?  Got kids?”

He nodded, “Two.”

“Boy and girl?” Rainhorse asked.

“Two girls,” he said.

“Well, Dusty, this is your lucky day. I know it doesn’t seem like it, sitting there with a broken nose and all, but it really is. See, I need your help. And if you help me, I will let you live—this I promise.  You will be able to take your wife and girls on a long vacation after this. Sound good?”

He nodded, “What do I have to do?”

“All you have to do is use this little walkie-talkie to call inside and convince Apollo’s bodyguards that four FBI agents just pulled into the front parking lot,” Rainhorse said. “Can you do that for me, Dusty?”

“You’ll kill them,” he said. “I don’t want to be responsible for that.”

“I will kill them, regardless, Dusty. If you do not help me, I will just figure another way to do it but it will cause me inconvenience. I will not like that. If you help me I will let you live and your daughters get to grow up with a daddy. If you do not help me, I have to do it the hard way, and the hard way means you are dead, too. You can see the logic in my argument, can you not?”

He thought for a minute and nodded, “Why did you say my wife and kids could go on vacation with me?” he wondered.

“Because after you help me, your life will not be worth a plug nickel in this town,” Rainhorse said. “You are going to want to collect your wife and kids and get out as soon as possible. Now, enough talk. Make the call. I want to hear an Oscar-worthy performance. Do not disappoint me.”

Dusty nodded, pulling the walkie-talkie up to his mouth. Rainhorse pulled a silencer from his pocket and screwed it onto the barrel of his firearm.

“Angus! It’s Dusty,” the cowboy cried out. “Tell the boss that four FBI agents just pulled into the body shop. He needs to get out of there, now!”

Rainhorse jerked the walkie-talkie out of Dusty’s hand and turned it off, “Bravo he said. That was a great performance. Are you in community theater, by chance?”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

He pointed his gun at the man’s forehead. Dusty raised his arms in the air, waving his hands wildly, “Hey, you said you would let me live.”

“And I will,” Rainhorse replied, “but I never said you would not come away with a huge headache, though. You tell your wife, Merry Christmas from me.”

He hit Dusty on top of the head with a hammer blow, slamming the butt of the pistol onto the cowboy’s skull. Dusty slumped to the ground, unconscious.

Rainhorse spun around and took aim at the door of the mobile home. He waited: three seconds . . . four . . . five . . . The door burst open and three of the men came running out, holding their guns, pointing them in the direction of the body shop. Rainhorse thought about taking them down but waited until the fourth man and Apollo emerged.

Apollo came out with his fourth bodyguard, using the man as a human shield.

“Get the limo and back it up to me,” demanded Apollo, as he took his position in the center of the circle his men had formed.”

One of the men took off for the car—it was the first man out of the door. That’s the one Rainhorse shot first.

The second man out the of the door heard the muted pop of the silencer and pointed his gun in Rainhorse’s general direction. The big Cheyenne dropped him with a second shot.

The two remaining men began firing blindly in the general direction of Rainhorse’s gunfire, but the former Ranger had changed position. No bullet came close.

Rainhorse fired twice more. Two more men fell, leaving only Tony Apollo standing.

“Drop your gun and put your hands in the air, Apollo,” Rainhorse demanded, still hidden.

“Who’s there?” Apollo yelled. His face and wispy brown hair were covered in sweat. His tan suit was wrinkled and ill-fitting. Part of his brown shirt-tail was hanging out of his pants.

“Never mind who I am,” Rainhorse yelled, “just drop the gun, or are you not convinced I can hit what I aim at?”

“Screw you,” Apollo wailed. “I’m not afraid of you.”

Rainhorse squeezed off another shot. It nicked Apollo’s left earlobe.

Apollo grabbed his ear and howled in pain, “Son-of-a-bitch! Shit! You shot me in the ear, you bastard.”

“The next one goes in your knee cap,” he promised. “It will hurt much more.”

“I made a call,” Apollo barked. “Reinforcements are on their way. You’re a dead man walking.”

“I will give you three seconds to drop your weapon, or we will see who the dead man is,” Rainhorse replied. “One . . . two . . .”

“Ok, ok!” Apollo screamed, dropping the weapon and raising his hands.

“Stay right there,” Rainhorse said, walking toward Apollo. He instantly recognized the former Ranger approaching him.

“You!” he screamed. “I’m going to . . .”

Rainhorse slammed Apollo in the jaw with the elbow of his shooting hand. The force of the blow sent the warlord reeling backwards. He cried out in pain and fell squarely on his butt.

“Shut up!” Rainhorse demanded. “Stay down. Roll over on your stomach.”

Apollo grabbed his jaw where he’d been hit. Blood from his ear was trickling down his neck. His mouth gaped open and his eyes were as wide as saucers, “Kiss my ass. Do you have any idea who I am? I own this town!”

“If you don’t roll over on your stomach, you’ll be a dead owner,” Rainhorse replied. “Put your hands behind your back. Do it—now!”

Rainhorse cocked his weapon, loudly. Apollo gasped and rolled over on his stomach. Rainhorse pulled three cable fasteners from his pocket and used them to cinch Apollo’s hands behind his back. He tied one fastener on each wrist and used the third to cinch the wrist fasteners together. Apollo grimaced in pain at the force Rainhorse was using. 

Once Apollo’s hands were tethered, he fished his cell phone out of his coat. He opened the ‘call sent’ folder, looked at the call log, and chuckled.

“I knew you were lying,” the big Cheyenne said. “You didn’t have time to call anyone, but just in case someone heard us back here, you and I are going for a ride. With all those power tools going on in the body shop, I doubt anyone took notice of the gunfire . . . but, just in case. We will take your car, since it is here, and I like Lincolns.  Get up.”

“You’re going to regret this,” he said.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know,” Rainhorse mocked. “You are going to kill me . . . yada, yada. I have heard it all before—not impressed. Just shut up and get in the car.”

Rainhorse grabbed Apollo by the back of the collar and forced him to his feet and into the passenger seat of the 2002 Lincoln Continental. 

“There,” Rainhorse said. “All comfy?”

“Actually, sitting here in a car with my hands tied behind my back is really uncomfortable,” Apollo said.

“Oh, so it hurts?” Rainhorse asked.

“Yes,” came the reply.

“Well, since your level of comfort is not my primary concern, tough shit,” Rainhorse said, slamming the door and circling the car, sliding into the driver seat.

He started the car and pulled out onto the road.

“Where is Lona Littlebird?” he asked.

“Oh, so that’s what this is about?” Apollo said, sneering. “I should have realized. It’s always about a girl. At least you picked a hot one.”

Rainhorse took a left on a road leading out of Plentywood.

“Do not play games with me,” he said. “I am not in the mood. Tell me where she is.”

“Tell me who you are . . . Chief,” Apollo mocked.  “Who is this girl to you, anyway?”

“We will be out of town in less than two minutes,” Rainhorse said. “When I find someplace out of the way, I am going to park this car. If you do not tell me what I want to know, it is going to get really uncomfortable for you.”

“It’s not about the girl, is it?” Apollo jeered, ignoring the threats. “It’s the mother, isn’t it?  Neha, is it? You’re about her age. I’ve seen her. Yep, she’s a honey, too.  I’d like to tap into that myself. I just may do that, soon, too.”

Rainhorse gripped the steering wheel with his left hand and clenched his right hand to punch Apollo in the face. The Cheyenne’s large fist crushed one of his sinuses.

“Yeow!” Apollo yelped. “Dammit! Son-of-a-bitch! What is your fist made of—concrete? You’re gonna regret that.”

Rainhorse pulled the car over to the side of the road, sliding the transmission into park. He turned toward Apollo, “Say something else about Neha again, and we will see who regrets what.”

Apollo chuckled and spit blood onto the floorboard, “You crack me up, Indian man, whatever your name is. The things we do for love, huh?”

“Where is Lona? Have you hurt her?”

“Hurt her?” Apollo repeated incredulously. “Hell no. She is bringing me top dollar. With her looks, she’ll bring in more than most white girls. You’re too late.”

“Why is that?” Rainhorse demanded to know. “What have you done with . . .”

Before Rainhorse could finish his sentence, a Ford pickup slammed into the driver’s side door of the car, t-boning the Lincoln. Rainhorse bore the full brunt of the impact as the door caved in, slamming door frame metal against his head, left shoulder, arm and side.

The big Cheyenne grimaced in pain, struggling to maintain consciousness. He looked at Apollo, who was leering at him. “Thought you could outsmart me, didn’t you, asshole?  You checked my cell phone, but not the phones of my guys.”

Rainhorse blinked, feeling his consciousness begin to fade. Apollo laughed, “One of my bodyguards called in for backup, asshole. Where’s all that tough talk now?”

Rainhorse’s head was spinning. He glared at Apollo.

“Nothing to say, huh? I thought not. You’re screwed, big guy.”