CHAPTER TWO

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(Bozeman, Montana)

The gun metal gray 2018 Lincoln Continental limousine pulled up to the Fleischer Building on East Olive Street, just a block or so away from the Emerson Center for Arts and Culture in downtown Bozeman. The limo stopped in front of the building. Two strongly-built thirty-something year-old men hopped out of the car. They were both wearing black suits with white shirts and black ties.

One of the men opened the rear passenger side door. A beautiful young woman emerged.  She was wearing tight jeans with rolled cuffs at the bottom. She also wore a peach colored billowy top, patterned in Native American symbols. She had a brown leather Coach purse draped over her left shoulder. The bag was a perfect match for her fashionable sandals.

The nails on both her toes and fingers were painted peach with white French tips. She wore only a hint of makeup on her cheeks as well as a light dusting of blue eye shadow. Her hair was a rich light brown, parted down the middle, straight to the shoulder with a slight wave continuing half way down her back.

The bodyguards escorted her into the building to the offices of William S. Kincaid, Private Investigator.  The two men startled the receptionist. Within seconds of announcing her, Kincaid bounded out of his office.

The PI was in his mid-forties with closely cropped gray hair, crowning heavily in the front. He paused momentarily when he saw the young woman stand. She was nothing less than stunning—a pure vision.  She looked as though she had just stepped off of the cover of a fashion magazine.

“Ms. Vanderbilt, it's a pleasure to see you again,” he said, extending his hand.

“My mother is Ms. Vanderbilt,” she replied. “Please just call me Lindsay.”

“Won't you come inside to my office, Lindsay?” Kincaid said.

“Thank you,” the young woman responded. She nodded to her guards.

“We'll be here if you need us,” one of them announced.

The only other time Lindsay had met Kincaid, it was with her mother and step-father, Sam Steele. They met in a nearby Starbucks nearly two years earlier, so this was the first time she'd actually seen his office. She imagined it would look old and unkempt, something out of a Mickey Spillane movie. It was anything but that. It was actually rather quite nice, she thought.

Her mother was still quite suspicious about Lindsay’s relationship with Rainhorse, and whether the Cheyenne assassin was even alive. She knew the man was responsible for saving Lindsay’s life, though, and also knew that when her daughter’s mind was made up, she would not stop until she was satisfied. In the end, she agreed to hire the best private investigator they could find to locate the former Ranger known as Rainhorse.

Kincaid offered her water or tea. She smiled and declined. He then grabbed a large manila file off the top file cabinet and took a seat behind the desk.

“Why the bodyguards?” he asked. “Are you expecting trouble?”

She shook her head, “You’ll have to excuse the men in black over there—my mom insists on protection. I was kidnapped two years ago. The man you were hired to find saved my life. The man who masterminded the kidnapping, Barnabas Quince, is still at large. My mom hired these men to protect me.”

Kincaid nodded, “I remember reading about all that. I just thought after two years . . .”

“You said you had news to share,” she interrupted.

“I think you’re going to be happy,” he said, opening the file.

“You found him?” Lindsay asked, her eyes lighting up.

He smiled, “I did.”

“So . . . he’s . . . alive?”

Kincaid nodded, “Very much so.”

“Oh . . . my . . . god!” she screamed in elation. “I knew it. I knew he was alive. Do you know where he is?”

“I know what town he is in, yes.  We have not pinpointed his exact location.”

Lindsay's face began to flush. She had waited a long time for this moment. She began taken deep breaths, hoping to avoid hyperventilation, “I need a minute,” she said. “Can I get some water now?”

“Of course,” Kincaid said, standing. “Take as long as you like.”

The whole event came back to her in a rush . . . everything. Two years earlier, when Lindsay was sixteen, she had been kidnapped by Rainhorse and another man, named Jingles. Rainhorse had been ordered to take part in the kidnapping by his boss, a crime warlord who had his fingers in all manner of illicit activities. From the beginning Lindsay could tell Rainhorse was uncomfortable with kidnapping her and he hated his partner. Jingles turned out to be a depraved pedophile. Rainhorse prevented her from being sexually assaulted by the disgusting pervert on multiple occasions. During the course of protecting her, she and Rainhorse began to form a relationship. From the beginning, she sensed the big Cheyenne would never hurt her, and she was right.

As the kidnapping began to turn sour, the mastermind of the operation decided that she must die after the money was collected. He told Rainhorse that he would be the one to kill her. The former Ranger refused to do so and, in the process, alienated his boss. After catching his partner trying to assault her yet again, Rainhorse killed the man, deciding then and there to turn against his boss and return her home safely. To assure her safety, he personally drove her cross-country to get her home, knowing the man who organized the kidnapping would follow and try to kill them both.

During the course of their journey from Chicago to Montana, she and the Cheyenne continued to develop a connection, a mutual affection that, to this day, she is unable to really describe.  It rapidly grew into a love that was not physical, but certainly emotional. It was an unconditional love and affection that was as strong as anything she’d ever felt. The feelings she had for Rainhorse would never fade from her heart—ever. She’d never felt anything like it, before or since.

While they were on their journey, they learned a lot about each other. They talked for hours on end. Rainhorse shared a story that touched her immeasurably. He had a daughter, ten years older than Lindsay. Her name was June Ann, but he had not seen her in many years and had no idea where she was. He told Lindsay that June Ann knew the things he had done and wanted nothing to do with him. He carried his daughter’s picture with him always—not a day went by that he didn’t think of her.

Tragedy occurred near the end of their journey, however. The people Rainhorse betrayed had found them, chasing them down with four trucks, each with two heavily-armed men. A high-speed car chase ensued and gun fire rained on them from all directions. Rainhorse fought valiantly, eliminating three of the vehicles and their occupants. The big Cheyenne managed to prevent Lindsay from being shot, but during the course of protecting her, he had been hit multiple times himself. His wounds were so serious, no one who saw him that day thought he could possibly survive.

The mastermind of the kidnapping plot was a former military commander turned rogue, a man named Barnabas Quince. Lindsay’s stepfather, Sam Steele, himself a former Ranger, and a group of men from the Brotherhood Protectors, had found them in time to save her, but it was too late for Rainhorse, or so she originally believed. Sam Steele had hurried her to safety as the Brotherhood Protectors chased away the remaining killers in the last vehicle. Lindsay was certain that Rainhorse had died. She had seen him absorb several bullets as he covered her body with his own. She saw him fall to the ground, weak and close to death, blood pooled all around him.  A few days later, however, the FBI called her into their offices, asking more questions. They informed her that Rainhorse’s body was never found.

Her mother told her that if he was alive, he would have contacted her by now, but Lindsay knew better. Rainhorse was convinced his presence was poison to those he loved. He told her he never sought out his daughter because he believed she was better off without him. Lindsay knew the same would be true of her. If he was alive, she knew Rainhorse would never contact her again. He believed she’d be better off without him as well. Nothing was more untrue, however.

Since then, she had made it her mission to find Rainhorse. Her mother was wealthy and Lindsay had gained access to a trust fund in her name when she turned eighteen. She and her mother hired William S. Kincaid to find Rainhorse at whatever expense was necessary. It had taken two years, but today had made the whole agonizing wait worthwhile.

She sipped her water and sat it on the desk, “Where is he?” she asked. “Where is Jackson?”

“His name is not Jackson,” Kincaid responded. “You know that, right?”

She nodded, “When I first met him, I didn’t know his name. I gave him a nickname . . . Jackson. For me, the name stuck. He’ll always be Jackson to me. Go on. Where is he?”

“He’s in a little town called Plentywood in Montana,” he replied.

“Plentyville? I’ve never heard of it.”

“It’s Plentywood,” Kincaid corrected. “I hadn’t heard of it either before yesterday. It’s a small town of less than two thousand people. It’s just a few miles from an Indian reservation—mostly Sioux Indians, but a smattering of other tribes as well.”

Wheels began to spin in Lindsay’s head. While they were on their road trip from Chicago to Montana, Rainhorse had told her that he knew a woman who could erase his past. Perhaps he ended up in Plentywood with a new identity.

“So, is he hiding out there?” she asked.

“Unknown,” Kincaid said. “In the information you originally gave me, you said he knew a woman who could establish a new identity for him. It’s possible he’s living on the reservation under an assumed name.”

“But he’s Cheyenne, not Sioux.”

“I said mostly Sioux.  There are others, primary Lakota and Dakota, but a Cheyenne would blend in as well.”

“Do you know what name he is using?” she asked.

He shook his head, “No.”

“Then how do you know he’s there? How did you find him?”

“Through patience and persistence,” Kincaid boasted. “When you and your mother first hired me, I gathered as much information as possible. One of the tidbits you told me was that Rainhorse had a burner phone in his possession the whole time you two were together, but kept it secret from you.”

“That’s right,” Lindsay affirmed.

“Well, at the end, once he’d been shot up, you told me he called 9-1-1 to bring in help because he thought he was going to die.”

“Yes,” she said.

“I used my contacts to get the burner cell number from the authorities based on the incoming 9-1-1 call,” Kincaid said. “I traced the number to the burner phone manufacturer. I’ve been keeping tabs on it. The phone had not been used since . . . until recently.”

“Really?” she asked.

Kincaid nodded, “A call was made from that very phone two days ago from Plentywood.”

“Who’d he call?”

“A woman named Neha Littlebird.  Do you know the name?”

“No, I don’t. Did you try calling the number to see if he’d answer?” Lindsay asked.

“No, of course not,” Kincaid replied. “A man like him buys a phone like that for anonymity. The first time that phone rings and he’s not expecting it, the phone is destroyed and the man is off and running. Calling the number would be the last thing you’d do.”

“Can you track the phone to an exact location?” she asked.

Kincaid shook his head, again, “Not a chance. When he needs to make a call, he turns on the phone, makes the call, keeps it brief and then turns the phone off and removes the battery.  We were lucky that we got a bead on his location.”

Lindsay looked confused, “But you can’t be sure it was him who made the call, really. That phone could have made its way into someone else’s hands.”

“It was him.”

“What makes you believe that?”

“Because when we got the hit on the location of the phone, I checked all the police reports in the area and I got another hit,” he said.

“What hit?”

“It turns out some local shit kicker in Plentywood filed a police report from a hospital emergency room. It seems he was in a bar and was assaulted by a man, who was, and I quote . . .”

He paused, picking up a sheet of paper. He read from it, “. . . an enormous Cheyenne Indian, about fifty years old, with a fist as big as the business end of a sledgehammer.”

Lindsay nodded, a small smile forming on her face, “That sounds like Jackson, all right. How would we go about finding him?”

“The town is small,” he said. “The Indian Reservation is a few miles away but the town of Plentywood itself is ninety percent white. It shouldn’t be too hard to find a six-foot-four, two-hundred and fifty-pound Cheyenne in that lily-white town. The cell signal came from a bar called The Blue Buffalo Tavern. If you want, I can contract our services to a PI up in that area and we can find him for you.”

“No,” Lindsay said.

“No?” Kincaid repeated in astonishment.

“That’s right,” she affirmed. “Not at this time.”

“You’re sure,” he asked. “If you don’t mind me saying so, it seems odd you’d wait all this time to verify he is alive and get a read on his location, and then not see it through.”

“I have my reasons,” she said.

“Shall we call your mother?” Kincaid asked.

“No, definitely not,” Lindsay insisted.

Kincaid looked confused, “I don’t understand. Technically, she is the one who hired me. You were not yet eighteen. Your mother is the one paying my bill.”

Lindsay opened her purse and pulled out a cashier’s check. She held it in her hand, “It’s been two years. My mother wanted to drop this investigation a year ago, but I talked her out of it. She quit asking me about it six months ago.  I’m eighteen—you’re working for me, now.”

“Still, Ms. Vanderbilt, your mother . . .”

“You’ve done good work, Mr. Kincaid,” she interrupted. “I’ve included a bonus for you. The bonus is not only for the good job you’ve done—it’s also for your silence. I’d like this to stay between . . . you . . . and I.”

“Technically Ms. Vanderbilt is my client,” Kincaid objected. “I can’t do that, I’m afraid.”

“Actually, I think you can,” Lindsay replied.

She handed Kincaid the check. He looked at it. His eyes widened and his mouth fell open before a huge smile formed on his face. Lindsay gave him a moment to allow the amount to settle in.

“Agreed?” Lindsay asked.

He nodded, still smiling.

“As you wish, Ms. Vanderbilt,” he said.