CHAPTER SEVEN

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“Where were you?” Lindsay huffed. “Vern said you were going to be at the diner by four o’clock.”

“There were too many people at the diner,” he replied. “I drove away to come up with a better plan. The only reason you are not in their hands right now is that I decided to come back and follow Apollo when he left. If it weren’t for that . . .”

“Where are we going?” Lindsay asked when they got into Rainhorse’s rental car.

“Airport,” he replied.

“Thank god,” she said. “Where are we flying to?”

“Not we . . . you!” he said.

“Me? What about you?”

“I have a job to do here,” he said.

“What? Killing that man . . . Apollo?”

“Yes, and his scumbag friend, Hank Rattling Thunder. Between the two of them they are responsible for the drug and sex trade problems of this reservation.”

“I thought you were retired from being an assassin,” she said.

“I am not being paid,” he replied. “This is a . . . personal matter.  I am helping a friend.”

“Well, I’m not leaving here unless you’re with me,” she said, firmly. “I’ve spent two years tracking you down. I’m not about to . . .”

“Lindsay, you just shot and killed a man,” Rainhorse interrupted. “There are four dead bodies back there. That will not go unnoticed, even on the res. I have to get you out of here . . . now.  You have upset me.”

Lindsay looked at his straight-faced expression, “You don’t look angry.”

He turned his head toward her, “This is how I look when I’m pissed.”

Rainhorse’s cell rang. He looked at the display—it was Neha Littlebird. He answered. Her voice came through clearly over the car’s speaker system on Bluetooth.

“It’s Neha. Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

“I am fine,” he answered.

“I’ve been listening to the police scanner,” she said, breathlessly. “The shootings at the diner are all over it—four men dead. The police are on their way. Whoever called it in gave them your description, perfectly. They also gave the description of . . .  a young white girl and an older white man?  What’s going on?”

“Dammit,” Rainhorse exclaimed. “I was hoping we would have more time.”

“Who is the white girl?” Neha asked.

“I will explain later,” Rainhorse said. “What else are they saying on the scanner?”

“They know you are in a Silver Toyota but don’t know the license plate. Whoever saw you leaving the diner reported that you are heading north,” she replied. “They think you’re headed out of the reservation.  They’re blocking the road north leading out of the res.”

“Son-of-a-bitch,” Rainhorse spouted. He slammed on the brake and turned the wheel hard, causing the vehicle to whip around. He made a course correction and headed in the opposite direction, back toward the diner.

“I have to go, Neha,” he said. “They will be looking for this car. I need to ditch it. Afterwards, we are coming to your place.”

“Listen, once you pass the diner again, there is a dirt road about three hundred yards past mile marker thirty. Turn left. That will take you off the path but the police won’t be looking there. The path will hook you around back to the main road in about thirty miles. That should get you past any road blocks they may have set up.”

“Got it,” he said.

“Stay safe. Call me. I’m so worried.”

Rainhorse hung up.

“Who was that?” Lindsay asked.

“A topic for another time,” he replied.

“What are you doing, anyway? We can’t drive past the diner . . . can we?” Lindsay asked.

“Not in this car, no,” he said. “We passed a gas station a couple of minutes ago. It was closed but I saw an old truck parked there. If we can start it, we are going to steal it.”

Rainhorse pulled into the gas station, which was closed and dark. Dusk was just settling in.  He pulled the car behind the station, blocking its visibility from the main road. He parked it in a spot where he was certain it would not be seen.

Lindsay looked at the old rusted truck, “Damn, Jackson, I thought you had higher standards than this.”

“Beggars cannot be choosers. Besides, a nice car on the res will draw attention. Let’s go,” he said to Lindsay. He popped the trunk of the rental and retrieved a small bag. He also retrieved a coat hanger.

“You carry a coat hanger with you?” Lindsay asked.

“Your lesson for the day,” he replied. “Car theft 101—the coat hanger. Do not leave home without it.”

The truck he'd noticed was a 1980 C-10 Chevy pickup, bronze-colored with white accents. Rainhorse looked the vehicle over, wondering how long it had been since the truck had been started.

He slipped the coat hanger into the driver side door and unlocked the vehicle. He opened the door, slipped in and unlocked the passenger door so Lindsay could get in. He then stooped down, reaching under the dash for the ignition wiring. Lindsay slid into the passenger seat and opened the glove box. It was empty.

“Dammit,” Rainhorse called out. “These wires are old and brittle. I will be lucky to . . .”

Rainhorse was interrupted by police sirens—two of them. They passed the gas station. Red and blue lights illuminated the building and trees that surrounded them. If they had remained on the road, they would have run right into them.

Rainhorse paused to listen as the sirens faded then went back to his efforts to hot wire the truck.

Lindsay pulled down the sun visor on the passenger seat and keys fell from it onto her lap.  She held them up, “Car theft lesson 102,” she said, holding up the keys. “Always check the car for keys, first.”

He looked up, flashing Lindsay a stare of annoyance, then took the keys from her hand. He slid them into the ignition.

“This is the moment of truth,” he said. He drew a breath, depressed the clutch and turned the key. The engine turned but didn’t start. He looked at Lindsay. The momentary satisfaction she was enjoying was replaced by a feeling of impending doom.  He depressed the clutch again and this time also the gas pedal. The engine coughed loudly but again didn’t start.

“Jackson, what are we going to do?” Lindsay asked, now beginning to panic.

“Hang in there,” he replied, turning the ignition key again. The old truck’s engine grunted and clanked before finally starting. Rainhorse let out a huge sigh of relief. Lindsay placed her hand over her chest and exhaled.

“Just like old times, huh?” she said. “Ok, we have a truck. Now what?”

“You are going to get down onto the floor board, out of sight,” he said. He opened the bag he had taken from his rental car and pulled out the cowboy hat he wore into the Blue Buffalo.  He pulled his hair into a pony tail and twisted it up in top of his head, placing the hat over it.

“I am going to slowly drive by the diner. To the people who see us, I will be just another poor Indian on the res, heading home after a hard day’s work.”

“You don’t think they’ll stop us?” she asked.

“The tribal police are just arriving on the scene,” Rainhorse said. “Their first action will be to secure the diner and assess the situation.  That will take a while.”

“Do you think they’ll block the roads in the direction we’re heading?”

He shook his head, “Doubtful. They do not have the man power to block all roads. The crime was committed on reservation land. They will be desperate to keep us from leaving the res, which would trigger the involvement of the Sheridan County Sheriff’s Department. They think we are headed north, out of the res—we are headed south, into the heart of it.”

“Where are we going, by the way?” Lindsay asked.

“We are headed to Wolf Point,” he replied. “It is about an hour away, on the far southwest side of the res.”

“What’s in Wolf Point?”

“Neha.”

“The woman on the phone? Who is she?”

“A question for later,” Rainhorse said. “The diner is just up ahead.  I have no rear-view mirror in this vehicle. Check behind us.”

“Oh, shit!” Lindsay exclaimed, looking behind her.

“What?”

“There’s a vehicle behind us—red lights flashing!” she cried out.