CHAPTER FOUR

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(Ft. Peck Reservation – Wednesday afternoon)

Rainhorse sighed and shook his head as he drove through the reservation. It had been many, many years since he’d been there. The res now looked like the land that time forgot: run down, dilapidated buildings; rusted, abandoned cars; vacant businesses—it was a sad sight indeed. At its best the Ft. Peck Indian Reservation was a depressing place, but this . . .

Rainhorse entered the truck stop diner about four o’clock, the same time he planned to be there the following day when he expected Tony Apollo and HRT to meet there. The diner looked as derelict as any building he had seen in years. It would never be allowed to stay open outside the reservation. If the county didn’t condemn the building the Health Department would shut them down for certain. Inside the reservation, however, few white man rules applied.

The outside of the building looked as though it hadn’t been painted since Sitting Bull roamed these very parts. On the inside, Rainhorse guessed that a third of the lights were burned out. The leather seats in the booths were faded, cracked and patched over with silver duct tape. The tables were badly worn, stained and chipped.

There were eight other patrons in the diner, two groups of two in booths, and four men sitting individually at the counter. It seemed as though the troubles of the reservation was reflected in the mood of the diner’s patrons and employees. No one was smiling, no one laughing. In fact, almost no one was even talking to each other. All faces he could see looked hopeless, dour, lifeless. Behind the counter was a window leading to the kitchen. He could see two Sioux short-order cooks moving around, heads down.

He scanned the room and chose the booth he believed Tony Apollo and HRT would want to sit at. The booth he chose faced perpendicular to the door so both men could easily see the entrance. It was also positioned adjacent to a hallway leading to a back exit, just in case one or both men didn’t care to meet someone who might come through the entrance.

The patron before him had left their newspaper folded on the table. He unfolded the Sheridan County Newspaper and read the headline, ‘Ft. Peck Farmer’s Market Expected to Draw Over One Thousand People.’

The big annual event was to be held this Saturday and Sunday in Wolf Point, the largest town on the reservation. He smiled at the idea the biggest news in town was an upcoming farmer’s market.

A young Sioux woman dressed in jeans and a blue t-shirt approached him with a menu. She could not have been more than twenty, Rainhorse thought, but her expression was crestfallen, her skin flaccid and pale. There were dark circles under her cold and lifeless-looking eyes. Her name badge read “Ska,” which Rainhorse knew to mean “bird.”

She handed Rainhorse a menu. He glanced at the selections as the young woman robotically poured a glass of water.

“What is good to eat, Ska?” he asked.

“Lasagna at Roma’s Italian in Plentywood,” she replied, without looking up.  The young woman’s arms were so thin they looked like little more than flesh stretched over bone. The skin on her lips looked dried and cracked. Dehydration, he wondered?

“No, I mean, what is good . . . here?” Rainhorse asked.

“Nothing,” Ska replied.

“Nothing?” Rainhorse repeated. “You work here but can recommend nothing at all?”

“I can recommend plenty of items,” she replied, “But none of them are good.”

“I take it you are considered a model employee,” Rainhorse jibed.

She shrugged, making eye contact with him for the first time, “I could lie to you, if you want.”

“Humor me. If you simply had to pick something . . .”

“Well . . . the chicken fried steak probably won’t make you vomit.”

“Mmm-mmm, such a ringing endorsement. You have sold me. I will have chicken fried steak,” he said. “Do you have coffee?”

“Yeah, but it’s probably four or five hours old,” Ska warned.

“That is pretty much how I always drink it.”

She nodded, never making eye contact, “It’s your funeral.  Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Rainhorse noted the injection tracks on the young woman’s arms, inside the bend of her elbow. The young Sioux made no attempt to hide her needle marks.  They were undoubtedly unremarkable on the res.

He spent several minutes looking about the diner. It was problematic for a kill and a kidnapping. For a split second, he thought about waiting for a different opportunity, perhaps in Plentywood, but dismissed it.  He needed to do this on reservation land, where the local tribal police would be the ones called in to investigate.  If he kidnapped Apollo in Plentywood, the Sheridan County Sheriff would get the call. Here on the res, the Tribal Police wanted as little interference from white authorities as possible.

Hank Rattling Thunder was of no use to him. He would be eliminated immediately.

He had already done his research. The Fort Peck Tribal Police were severely undermanned and overwhelmed with murders, drug problems, prostitution and domestic violence, not to mention a backlog of murder investigations and untold missing persons reports. It would still be unlikely they would call in for help from the outside. The Tribal Police was very territorial and hated interference from the white man’s world. However, even if they did call in for help, the Sheridan County Sheriff’s Department had their own problems. They served nearly seventeen hundred square miles with less than twenty deputies. The killing of a scumbag like Hank Rattling Thunder would not draw too much attention. When the Sheriff’s Department got wind of Apollo’s kidnapping they might seek to get involved, or call in the FBI, but there would be a jurisdictional squabble that would delay things. With any luck, he’d be long gone before that was argument was resolved.

If the number of patrons were typical for the time of day, he didn’t want to risk shooting Hank Rattling Thunder at point-blank range and then abducting Apollo from inside the restaurant. There would be too many witnesses.

Both men would however, leave together, in all likelihood. His best bet, he decided, would be to wait for them to leave, knock Apollo out cold and kill Rattling Thunder at short-range. He would certainly risk being seen by a witness or two, but far fewer than if he did it inside the diner. He would use a silencer on his pistol to minimize attention from the inside. He also guessed that everyone in the diner probably knew who Tony Apollo and Hank Rattling Thunder were. He doubted whether it would break anyone’s heart to see them in distress. Members of the tribe had an inherent distrust for the police, even the tribal police. It was quite possible that any witness to the killings would develop a sudden case of amnesia when questioned.

The young Sioux waitress brought Rainhorse his chicken fried steak. The smell was atrocious.  He took one small bite and shoved the plate aside.  Ska was wrong, he decided. If he had eaten this, it probably would make him vomit. He sipped the coffee, which was not nearly as bad as he thought it would be.

As he sipped, he pulled two pictures from his wallet. The first picture was of his daughter, June Ann, taken some twelve years earlier when she was only sixteen. He often stared at her picture in the evenings, wondering what she was doing. Was she married? What was her husband like? Did she have children—his grandchildren?

All were questions he doubted he’d ever find the answer to. The second picture was one he printed off the Stanford University website. A picture of a stunningly beautiful girl . . . now woman, he imagined, a woman of about eighteen.

Not a day went by that he didn’t think of Lindsay Vanderbilt. He had only spent a short while with her but developed tremendous affection for the teenager. Her absence created a void in his heart that would never be filled by anyone else. He never had the opportunity to love and care for his own daughter, but the short time he took care of Lindsay and protected her—it gave him purpose. Those few days provided him with memories to last a lifetime. Her charm, her wit, her smile, her impetuous nature, her vulnerability . . . her silly laugh, even her foul mouth.  They were all remembrances he cherished. He relived them every day. They kept him moving forward.

He desperately wanted to see her . . . or even call her, but he would never allow it to happen. She was now well guarded by professional bodyguards, and even if she wasn’t, he knew Barnabas Quince was still at large—still looking for him. Barnabas would be watching Lindsay closely, looking for signs that he’d try to make contact.

No, he thought. Lindsay was better off without him. He would not be able to live with himself if he ever drew her into harm’s way.

Rainhorse had nearly died in the final shootout that inevitably led to Lindsay’s rescue. He’d been shot multiple times and was badly bleeding. He turned to one of the few people in life he knew he could trust, Ellie Limberhand.

He had called her during the course of his journey with Lindsay, which he suspected might end badly for him. He had given Ellie his route. Once he knew Lindsay was safe, he called her. She was only minutes away.

She found him nearly dead. She whisked him away before the police and FBI arrived.  She had provided medical attention, the kind of attention that is not in a hospital—no insurance claim filed.

It was touch and go for a long time, but he finally recovered, thanks to Ellie.

He and Ellie laid low for a long time.  His wounds healed. As far as Quince and the FBI were concerned, Rainhorse had simply vanished into thin air. He was content to leave it that way, that is, until he got the call from Neha Littlebird.  Her only daughter, Lona, had been kidnapped by Apollo and Rattling Thunder.

Neha was terrified and beside herself with worry. Rainhorse reacted immediately.

And now he was here. Soon, Apollo and Rattling Thunder would pay.