The Devil's Tooth

By Craig Conrad

Paul Rice gets a frantic call about his friend Little Bull from the Lakota’s girlfriend, Mary Walking Bear, informing Paul that the Minnesota police are after Little Bull for killing the governor over a planned Indian casino. Paul drops everything and heads for Minnesota, taking Taylor Rawls with him, assuming that Little Bull will be in need of a good attorney. Once the court fight starts and Paul starts digging into things, he finds that some people in the justice system don’t like Indians, and he learns about the Lakota legend of the Devil’s Tooth and the power of the Indian shaman, all of which send a new light as to who killed the governor and why.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9781664141070

Craig Conrad

Author resides in Milwaukee. Wisconsin, has been hooked on mysteries and supernatural thrillers since reading his first H.P. Lovecraft novel. He has written twenty novels, fourteen of them are Paul Rice novels, his reluctant paranormal investigator, with cameo appearances in two others that feature two of his war buddies along with two Dutch Verlander stories, and a collection of short stories.

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The Devil’s Tooth

Craig Conrad

Copyright © 2020 by Craig Conrad.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 11/12/2020

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Contents

The Summer Camp of the Lakota Sioux

MINNESOTA AND WISCONSIN: Sometime in the 1980s

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EPILOGUE

To RG

If I were an Indian, I often think I would greatly prefer to cast my lot among those of my people (who) adhered to the free open plains, rather than submit to the confined limits of a reservation, there to be the recipient of the blessed benefits of civilization, with its vices thrown in without stint or reserve.

—George Armstrong Custer (1874)

But if the vision was true and mighty, as I know, it is true and mighty yet, for such things are of the spirit, and it is in the darkness of their eyes that men get lost.

—Black Elk, Oglala Sioux,

survivor of Wounded Knee

THE SUMMER CAMP OF

THE LAKOTA SIOUX

Rosebud Creek Montana Territory

June 1876

Early that month, the month which the Lakota called Moon of the Blooming Turnip and which the white man called June, Loud Thunder—a shaman—and his band of Lakota Sioux camped on Rosebud Creek to hold their annual Sun Dance, the Wiwanyang wacipi, the central and most important part of their religion. Virgins selected the sacred tree and the elders carried it to the dance circle. Loud Thunder danced and gouged sixty flesh cuts or more to his arms and chest, offering his flesh as a sacrifice to Wakan Tanka, the Great Spirit. He danced for twenty-three hours without rest or food with blood streaming from his chest and arms until he collapsed and fell to the ground unconscious and into a trance and started to have a vision. One Bull and White Bull, Sitting Bull’s nephews, carefully picked him up without disrupting his vision and his entrance into the Other World. They placed him inside a special tepee made pure by sage spread over the ground and a small fire burning sweet grass. They left him there until he was ready to come back from his journey.

Loud Thunder needed a vision to see a clear road ahead for his people and not a fearful one. He had seen two roads—one with darkness and one with fire burning all around it—both with much hardship. He needed to know which path to lead them on. Neither path looked clear or inviting. The treaty with the Wasichus was broken. The white man was invading his land, seeking mazaska zi, the yellow metal that made them crazy. The Iron Road was cutting deep into their scared country, bringing ever more Wasichus with them that killed the buffalo or frightened them away. The Wasichus had forgotten the treaty, forgotten their words of promise when they had touched the pen. The Lakota had not forgotten.

Loud Thunder needed to enter the Other World, the real world, the one that gave life to the one we see. The world behind this one where all there is, is nothing but spirit and everything is made of spirit; everything we see here is nothing but a shadow of the other. He felt himself floating over the land and saw only a wispy fog drifting over a river that looked much like the Greasy Grass. After a short time, the fog parted slightly and he saw the Wasichus’ Blue-Coat Soldiers falling upside down with their horses from Father Sky to Mother Earth into what looked like a large Lakota camp.

The fog returned and covered everything over again, and he saw the Kingbird appear. The Kingbird was a spiritual messenger and usually came to him in his waking-dreams. The Kingbird spoke and said, Someone has come to see you. Then a booming voice spoke to him, What have you seen?

Loud Thunder wondered who had spoken. The Kingbird was gone and he saw only a dog looking hard at him from across the tepee. He wondered why a sunka was speaking to him in his vision. He expected to see Tatanka come directly to him, or an owl, and speak to him of the coming trouble, but not a dog; unless it was a Cheyenne spirit of the Dog Soldier Society, the ones called Hotamitanio, those that could transform themselves into a dog and back again, and that was odd too. He was an Oglala Lakota and not a Cheyenne, and although the Lakota and Cheyenne were friends and allies and were with his people in camp, it was strange that a Dog Soldier should appear to him.

He looked at the animal more closely. It was very big with a dark muzzle and grayish white fur, not quite all white. It was a wolf not a dog, and it was the biggest wolf he had ever seen. But then he had not seen many, for wolves were as difficult to see as Walks-Like-a-Man, the large, hairy beast that haunted the forests of Minnesota and Dakota.

The wolf said again, What have you seen in your vision?

"I have seen the mila hanske, the Long Knives falling upside down into our camp like grasshoppers. The Long Knives had no ears. Sitting Bull has seen this also, the day before this day, as I have seen it."

The wolf nodded. "They have no ears because they cannot hear the warnings of our people to turn back and go away. They will not listen. They have found the yellow metal that they worship in the Black Hills and will keep coming and kill to have it. Several Long Knives will ride into the camp that you will soon make along the Phezila Wakpa, the Greasy Grass River—to them the Little Bighorn—, the camp that you will share with your brothers, the Cheyenne and the Arapaho. A great fight will start. The Wasichus are coming to kill all of you. Pahuska, Long Hair, is coming—the one called Custer—so is Three-Star Crook, who is already on his way to Rosebud Creek. You must fight Three-Star first. He comes to the Rosebud with Walking Blue-Coat Soldiers and wagon guns. Then Long Hair will come to attack your camp on the Greasy Grass. You will have a great victory, but do not mutilate their dead. It will be much harder for you later if you do. This victory will bring bad times. There will be many hungry winters, but it will be worse for your people if you do not do as I say. Your nation on Mother Earth shall have great troubles. It will be a hard journey and your people will walk in difficulties on the White Man’s Road."

Loud Thunder heeded the strong words. They were words that would remember themselves. He looked at the wolf and could see a power in it, like a light throughout its body shining through its fur.

The wolf spoke again and said, I will lead the Long Knives right to you. First, I will bring Three-Star to the Rosebud and then Long Hair to the Greasy Grass. Your warriors must ride to the Rosebud to stop Crook and ride back for Pahuska. Long Hair will come to you eight suns later. Do as I have said and you will stop them, and I will stop the Fire Horse and its Iron Road from coming any farther into your land.

"You will stop maza chaku? Loud Thunder asked him. How will you do this?"

It will not be easy, the wolf said, but didn’t explain. There are ways.

I have heard the Old Ones speak of a Wolf Clan. Is that what you are?

It looked like the wolf smiled at him when it spoke. "Be ready. We will always come in time of trouble. You have but to summon us in prayer using the Devil’s Tooth, if you must. Remember what I have told you. Hetchetus aloh."

Loud Thunder nodded. Yes, it is finished.

The wolf looked at him for a long moment and then ran out of the tepee and off beyond the camp, disappearing into the ground fog that was gathering with what looked like the coming of night.

Loud Thunder watched the wolf vanish and started to come out of his dream. Although his vision foretold of a great victory over the Wasichus, he knew it would not be a total victory, one that would drive the White Eyes away forever from his beloved, Paba Sapa, the Black Hills. It would be a dark victory; one that would not set his people free and would cause them hardship. The wolf had told him that as well. This made his heart feel heavy and sad and brought tears to his eyes.

MINNESOTA AND

WISCONSIN

Sometime in the 1980s

1

When Janek Wallendowski, whose first name meant God’s gracious gift, was in high school, he was voted, on his senior year, by all his classmates, as the kid with the dumbest name and the biggest brown nose in the school. It was much the same in college. He was never much of a student, but he did manage to struggle it out and get a law degree, which he thought he would need if he could get a start in his chosen field of work.

Over the years, now age forty-five, he decided to put his brownnose talent to use at a young age and suck up to the right people, and what better place to do that than in the political arena. It served him well. He had always put his personal welfare above the good of everyone else, so putting it ahead of the nation wasn’t difficult. It was something he learned from observing the life and times of LBJ, and the rich ruling class of American politics. That made him a fairly wealthy man with a rich future to become even wealthier. He was now one of the favorites of the Carpp Brothers and other members of the very wealthy Republican donor class, and only second in favoritism to the nation’s present Republican Speaker of the House and keeper of the Republican flame, Blake Baines, whom the Republican establishment was grooming to be the next president of the United States. Baines was even more of a brownnoser than Wallen.

Changing his name to Jack Wallen was his first step before going into politics. He was embarrassed by his Polish heritage and didn’t think the name would have served him well if he wanted to run for public office, especially because of the never-ending Polish jokes going around at the time. He liked the God’s gracious gift meaning of his Christian name Janek, which he thought suited him well in his dealings with the female gender to which he thought, and to which his ego always confirmed, that he was irresistible, but his first name and surname just had to go.

He started out small, running for aldermen positions and winning, and then worked himself up to county executive and from there to the governor of Minnesota, an office he still held going into his second term. Although a recall election gave him a slight scare at the end of his first term, he was able to beat it with the help of some influential friends with money and some outside Republican voters coming up from Wisconsin and Illinois who claimed to be residents of the state; proof of voter residency being only six months, and also getting the voting power of the dead, which never should be overlooked.

Jack Wallen ran the state ship much like his party wanted him to: defending its traditional values, free-market capitalism, low taxes for the rich, trying to do away with FDR’s New Deal and Great Society programs like Medicare, Medicaid, and Social Security. He did what he could in the state similar to what Blake Baines, who was in love with Ayn Rand and Milton Friedman’s doctrines of free-market fundamentalism, was trying to do on the national level, much like what Margret Thatcher’s conservative government did with it in Great Britton during the ’70s.

Wallen knew, as most politicians knew, that voters were usually dumb and lazy, and they voted that way. He privately referred to the voting public as dumb sonsofbitches; something else he picked up from those people that knew LBJ well. If you kept people’s taxes low and offered them little handouts here and there so they had something to show for it on their plates, and gave them the illusion that they were well-off, they didn’t much care what you did or who you did it to as long as you weren’t doing it to them. As long as the system was fair to them, they didn’t care if it was fair to anyone else. They readily and easily accepted rumors and lies over facts and proved without a doubt what the Nazis had proven time after time in Germany—that if you repeat a lie often enough, people will believe it. And they did. Wallen lied about the other party and especially targeted liberals and progressives, who he claimed wanted to give the store away to hordes of lazy, undeserving people who always wanted something for nothing and didn’t want to work for it.

That was a little hard to do when there were few jobs to be had, which Erin Collins had just pointed out to him. Erin was a tall and very attractive blonde with long, gorgeous hair and great cheekbones, who ran an editorial column for the New York Times and was a sometime reporter for CNN. He had been talked into doing an interview with her about his meteoric rise in the Republican Party and possibly its number 1 choice to represent the party in the next presidential election. Privately, he didn’t think he had a chance for the nomination as long as Blake Baines was considered the number 1 son of the party, but he kept that bit to himself and didn’t see any harm in giving an interview. CNN might help him. It couldn’t hurt. All they did was repeat the same news throughout the whole day with different reporters and lots of commercial breaks. Almost as many commercial breaks as there was news. Besides, the interview was already about half over. The only trouble he was having was concentrating on the questions asked by Erin Collins. She was a distraction. He had no trouble focusing on her attractive sexuality, which caused him to throw her a mental fuck about every five minutes. Today she was wearing a beige suit-skirt with a white blouse and sexy high-heeled matching pumps. You had to love the Lord for making women that looked like that.

What was the question again? Wallen said, feeling the start of an erection blossom and push against the fabric of his pants. They were in one of the rooms of the Governor’s Mansion, sitting in chairs about six feet apart and were alone in the room except for the camera technicians from CNN.

I asked you how these people that you claim want something for nothing are supposed to work when there are very few jobs to be had, Collins said. Voters without jobs not only have a problem here in the state, but all across America. Manufacturing jobs have closed down steadily and were shipped out of the country, completely fracturing working-class communities. These people were trying to build good lives for themselves and their kids. Now all that has gone away to Mexico or Cambodia or China.

The only way we can create more jobs is to give incentives to people that own companies.

"You mean lower taxes for the rich—the trickledown method. She made a sour face. That doesn’t work, Governor. People have been doing that since dirt was old, especially by your party. Back then it was called the Feudal System. Now your party has dressed it up some and given it a new name. It’s still the same old rotten system in a new wineskin, and most importantly, it just doesn’t work."

She had a large notepad in her lap covering her legs exposed by her short beige skirt, but Wallen could still see her legs, which were crossed and were very nice and long. They would be great wrapped around him.

That’s the only thing that will get new money invested into creating jobs, Wallen said, getting back to the question. Besides, people are poor because they make poor life-choices.

That might be true for a few, but there are too many for that to hold up. Face it, Governor, the ‘trickledown method’ that your party likes so much is a failure. The death rate among whites in factory towns, age forty-five to fifty-four, is climbing up to twenty-two percent, not to mention what it is among the minorities, or the homeless. There are nearly half a million deaths in this group alone. There’s nothing left for them except drugs and alcohol, which breed violence and suicide.

I can’t speak for what is happening on the national scene, Wallen said, but my programs here in the state have been working.

Collins tried to keep a straight face. She reminded herself to be fair and neutral even though she didn’t like the man or his politics. What she wanted to do was pin him down with questions so that people could see him for what he was.

Really? she said. Your programs have been accused of doing more harm than good. Those problems I’ve just mentioned aren’t strictly national. They’re prevalent here in this state too.

Only by the Democrats.

True, but others outside of politics have accused you and your policies of damaging the environment, upsetting the structure of the state’s public schools, taking needed funds away from the University of Minnesota, not to mention the damage done to women’s health and to workers’ rights, and even to voting rights, setting up strict rules to make it hard for the underprivileged, who usually vote Democratic, to vote.

Erin, other states have more or less done the same thing and set up new voting rules as well.

Yes, states with Republican governors.

Our state Supreme Court has upheld everything that we’ve proposed, he said defensively.

Yes, but people know that the Supreme Court is loaded with conservative Republican judges that vote not according to law, but vote along party lines, just like our state and national houses of government do. People are fed up about it. Do you care to make a comment about that?

Wallen didn’t like where the direction of her questions was going, but he held his anger.

If that is true as you claim, he said, why do the people keep voting us in office?

She smiled a little smile. I’m just bringing up what has been said, Governor Wallen, but personally, I don’t know why voters vote politicians in office that hurt the public good and the good of the country when it’s obvious that their only agenda is to better themselves. She paused. What would you say to the claim that people enter politics solely to become a millionaire?

Yes, there are some politicians like that, he said. He would never admit to being one of them.

Collins pushed ahead. And what about the good of Native Americans, this latest issue with the Sioux? The Sioux want to build a casino at an old abandoned greyhound race track that would benefit all of them, creating jobs and revenue for the state, and you’re talking about vetoing the idea. Why?

Only because they want to use outside money from Florida, from the Seminoles. The state wouldn’t benefit from it, and most of the proceeds would be going out of the state to Florida.

It’s my understanding that John Little Bull, speaking for the Sioux, wants to use Florida money only until their claim is settled in court for the theft of the Black Hills by our government.

I’m not aware of any such settlement in the works, Wallen said. John Little Bull doesn’t know what he’s talking about. And even if there is one, those claims take years to settle.

Collins nodded thinking to herself, I bet. This guy has an answer for everything. The thought of him or Baines ever becoming president was a very scary one—much like inviting the Antichrist into your home. But he’s on his way to the top, and nothing can stop him—or so he thought—unless it was a bullet. She wondered if he considered that, American politics being what they have been in the past includes assassination. And the man has lots of enemies.

The interview lasted a few more minutes, and then Wallen left the room. Erin Collins and her crew started to pack up to leave.

You were giving him a hard-on, Jake Grimes, her cameraman said in a low voice. Some of Wallen’s staff had entered the room, staying with them until they left. No doubt afraid they would steal something. His pants were bulging out big time.

I know, Collins said, keeping her voice just as low. It was gross. I kept my eyes on his face.

The guy didn’t even try to cover it up, Grimes said.

He wanted me to know. He probably thought I’d think it was flattering. But he’s the type that doesn’t try to cover up anything. He thinks he’s untouchable. He’s lots like LBJ that way, a crude and vulgar pig. If I remember correctly from other interviews, LBJ is his idol.

Wallen’s nothing but a skirt chaser and a corrupt politician, like his idol, Grimes said while rolling up some cables. Lots of that stuff about LBJ that was hushed up before is coming out to the public now. John Little Bull nailed it when he called him ‘a slimy piece of shit that someone should flush down the toilet.’

Collins gathered up all her paperwork. Now there’s a man I would like to interview, Collins said. But as far as John Little Bull’s remark, you could really say that about Wallen’s idol too.

Yeah, Wallen is a man on the rise, Grimes said, if someone doesn’t rain on his parade and kill him first.

In the Minnesota wetlands well north of St. Paul, where Aga, John Little Bull’s friend, lived, he sat cross-legged in his lodge and thought about John Little Bull. He had talked to him a week ago and knew he was very upset about Governor Wallen saying he wasn’t in favor of the Lakota casino and was going to veto it. John wanted to stop him, but he didn’t know how. They prayed to the spirits together, hoping they would help.

Since that day, Aga had been seeing signs every day. Little signs at first, a newt coming up out of the water to look at him, a small sparrow landing on his shoulder; then bigger signs—the white heart he saw just outside his lodge, pausing until the heart knew he saw him, then running off; then the Osprey fishing close by where it had never fished before; then more sinister signs—the crow at night and the owl in the daytime. Not good. There was going to be death.

Today, Aga saw nothing, but he felt the earth shake and then stop. Then shake and stop again. That happened once more, a total of three times. He got up from the ground where he had been sitting cross-legged in front of a small wood fire, pushed the flap of his tepee open, and stepped outside. The sky was clear and the sun was shining. He looked around the lay of the land and saw nothing of consequence; at first, everything looked the same, normal; no messengers from the Other Side. Then in the distance, about fifty feet away, he saw three buffalo where none should have been—two were standing and the third was just rising up to stand. It looked like it came right out of the ground. All three turned to stare at him for several minutes. Then they turned away and were no longer there. They just disappeared.

Minutes after the buffaloes vanished, it became deathly still. There was not the smallest sound. Nothing moved, especially the air. Then the wind started to pick up, quickly becoming strong and gusty, howling with a voice of its own, bending some of the young trees almost in half in its passage. The sun left the sky and the sky turned gray and then black as night, even blocking out the stars. Thunder rumbled, but Aga saw no lightning, nor did it rain.

He stood there listening to the Thunder gods, trying to understanding what was happening, what they were trying to tell him, feeling the wind move around him and through his hair and through his clothing.

Something was going to happen.

Something was coming.

Or something had already arrived.

He felt that it would not be entirely good.

Hours later in a hotel room about 100 hundred miles northeast of St. Paul, Wallen waited for Laura Marcus to arrive. He relaxed and made himself a drink from the minibar and thought about the interview. He didn’t think it was too bad. People will see it for what it is. See Collins for what she is—nothing but a bleeding heart Liberal reporter who tried to make him look bad in front of the camera. If you discount her good looks, she was nothing but another bitch. Still, he wouldn’t mind banging her until her eyes crossed.

He pushed thoughts of her away. He shouldn’t be thinking of a dumb reporter when soon he would be deep into Laura Marcus, if she ever got here. She was late as usual. He opened the terrace doors and stepped out into the fresh air. The sky was turning purple and soft with the coming of night.

All the rooms of the hotel had a small terrace that you could step out on, with a waist-high, filigreed wrought-iron railing around it. The terrace gave you a spectacular view of the now lighted city of Plymouth from seventeen stories up, if you didn’t count the eyesore construction going on along the expressway that had portable lights blazing for the workers. The weather was a little cool, but still pleasant for a year soon going into winter. The sky was getting darker with stars and a moon in full view.

He took in a deep breath and savored it. Then, for some reason, he felt a sudden chill deep in his bones that had nothing to do with the weather. Then everything around him suddenly became as still as death, even the outside noise, even the traffic noise was gone. It was as if he was in a tabloid that had suddenly become frozen in time. Then the stillness was broken by a sound, a slight sound, but it was in the room behind him. He turned and faced the room.

He had switched the room lights on earlier. Now they were going out one by one, as if someone was moving from one lamp to the next to turn them off, but there was no one there that he could see. He was alone and the room was now completely dark. Wallen didn’t know what to make of it, other than the fact that whatever was happening was making him very uneasy. He started to sweat a cold sweat that beaded his forehead and ran down his chest under his clothes. He heard another sound and almost smiled, thinking it was Laura Marcus at the door, but it wasn’t, or was it? Could she have gotten in the room already and was playing one of her silly little games she liked to play on him that she thought was amusing?

He called her name. Laura. Laura, is that you?

There was no answer.

The sound he had heard earlier became recognizable—someone in the room was breathing.

He tried again. Laura? Laura, say something. If this is one of your little games, it’s not funny. You know I don’t like it when you do this sort of thing.

Still no answer.

Only the breathing.

When his eyes adjusted to the dark room and the slight glow of moonlight coming in from the terrace, he was able to make out a form in the room near one of the lamp tables.

It startled him.

His throat suddenly felt dry, but he managed to get the words out.

What the hell? Wallen said. How the devil did you get in here?

2

It was the middle of October, cold and wet in Milwaukee with an autumn rain and a forty-degree temperature that felt more like a day in December. Paul Rice walked from his around-the-block parking lot to the building that housed his office, taking the elevator up to his floor and into the outer office domain of his secretary and girl Friday, Natalee Cruz. She looked up from her desk and gave him a surprised look that turned into disappointment. What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be home taking a break from all this.

Nice to see you too, Paul said with a tight-lipped smile. So much for being missed.

I saw you two nights ago, and you’re supposed to be home between cases, remember?

I have been. I’ve been home for two weeks.

Take two more. There’s nothing new going on here—nothing important that needs your immediate attention. Nothing that can’t wait, anyway.

Paul unbuttoned his raincoat and stepped over to the Mr. Coffee coffee maker and poured himself a cup. He tossed her a look. You don’t mind if I have a coffee while I’m here and reacquaint myself with my office, do you? Maybe it missed me.

I miss you being here too, you know. She held out her coffee cup. Please.

He filled it.

Thank you, Natalee said taking a sip. No, I don’t mind, not if you go back home where you belong and promised to stay, right after you drink it.

He took a sip of his coffee and looked at her. I will do as I promised.

"I see you brought the rain with you. What did your friend, Chief Thayer, call you? Shalako, wasn’t it?"

"Yes, it’s a Zuni Indian word for the bringer of the rain. It’s one of Thayer’s little jokes. He reads lots of Louis L’Amour westerns."

He stepped over to his office door and opened it.

Paul, she said, watching him, giving him one of her patented long looks as he turned to face her, is it so bad being home, away from the office?

No, it’s not. You know better than that. It’s just that I feel I should be doing something, so I had an urge to come in for an hour and see your lovely face and share a cup of coffee with you.

She smiled liking his response, but said, Saved by a good answer.

Paul shook his head. God, you gals would all make good wardens. He closed his office door and knew she had probably stuck out her tongue at him. He hung up his raincoat on the wooden coat-tree and sat down behind his desk with his coffee and looked around the room. It was as he had last left it. If the place missed him, it didn’t say. He had nearly finished his coffee when Natalee burst in.

There’s a girl on the phone, she said excitedly, who needs to talk to you. She said John is in trouble.

Little Bull?

Yes, line 1, she said, watching him and sitting down on the edge of one of the client chairs facing his desk.

He picked up his phone and punched in line 1 and put the call on speakerphone. Yes, this is Paul Rice.

It was a woman’s voice that answered him. My name is Mary Walking Bear. I am a friend of John’s. He gave me your name and number and told me to call you if things turned bad. Things are very bad.

What kind of trouble is he in?

Have you been watching the news the last couple of days coming out of Minnesota?

Paul thought for a moment. You mean about the governor?

Yes, the police think John had something to do with it. He and the governor always had lots of bad words to say to each other. The police say John threatened him.

Where is John now? Did the cops arrest him?

No, they didn’t and I don’t know where he is, she said. He told me you were the only man he could trust, and that you would know where to find him. He doesn’t trust the police and ran away.

When was the last time you saw him?

Two days ago, right after it happened.

Where are you now? How can I find you?

I came to Meriden to look for him at his home and job, but he is not here. Presently, I am at the Pine Tree Motel.

I know the place, and I know Meriden. Are you calling from your room at the motel?

Yes.

Give me the room and phone number.

She did. Paul repeated it as Natalee got up and wrote it down for him on a desk scratchpad.

Okay, Paul said. I will try to fly into the small airport at Coldwater. Can you drive?

Yes, I can drive, but I don’t have a car.

Okay, there’s an Avis in Meriden. I’ll try to rent a four-wheel drive from them. I’ll make arrangements for you so you can pick it up and meet us at the airport. I’ll call you when leaving for Coldwater.

Us? Oh, you mean you’re flying in on a private plane and bringing someone with you.

Yes, I’m going to try to, and it sounds like Little Bull needs a lawyer. I’ll bring one along that he knows.

They both hung up and Paul’s eyes went over to Natalee.

I know, call Avis and get the governor on the line, Natalee said. I expect you’ll want to use her jet, and call Taylor?

Yes, Taylor. I hope she’s not busy.

Where do you want to stay, the Northern Hotel again?

Yes, see if you can get us a room, and one for Mary Walking Bear. It’s better if we’re all together.

Natalee nodded and left the room and got Taylor Rawls on the phone for him first. She was at her office.

Hi, Paul said. Are you busy?

Never for you.

Do you have any free time, I hope, or are you all tied up?

Nothing that I can’t put on the backburner, she said. Why, what’s up?

I need you to take a trip with me. Little Bull’s in trouble and will probably need a lawyer."

What kind of trouble?

I’m not sure, but I think it has something to do with the recent demise of the Minnesota governor. The police think he’s involved.

Oh god, she said. The governor fell from a hotel balcony, didn’t he?

Yeah, seventeen stories up. At least that’s what was on the news.

Okay, where are we going and when are we leaving?

As soon as we can, so go home and pack a bag. I’m going to try to get Claire’s plane so we can fly up to Coldwater. If not, we’ll have to drive. I’ll pick you up.

Her voice rose slightly. Our governor’s plane? Nothing like having friends in high places. Where the heck is Coldwater?

It’s far upstate, not far from the Wisconsin–Minnesota border, but they have a small airport there and Meriden, where we’re actually going, doesn’t.

As soon as he hung up, Natalee had Governor Claire Thayer-Prescott on another line.

From the anxiety in Natalee’s voice, Claire said, I take it that you’re not calling me just to say hi.

I wish I was, Paul said and went on to explain about John Little Bull.

My god, I know John and so does Merredith. He wouldn’t do anything like that. I take it that you need my plane.

I do, if you don’t mind.

I never mind. I’ve told you that. I’ll have them fly it down to Timmerman Field. Give me a couple of hours.

You’re a lifesaver, Paul said.

I’ll put it on your tab, your, you-owe-me-big-time tab. She paused. I know it isn’t nice to speak ill of the dead, but Governor Wallen was a nasty bastard. He did absolutely nothing for the people in that state. I can’t understand why he ever got voted into office. He screwed lots of people over royally. I should think that the state would be throwing a celebration party now that he’s gone.

"Politics seems to be full of nasty bastards these days, especially in Washington. Congress and the Supreme Court should be flushed out with Drano, or something stronger."

Tell me about it. Wallen was bad enough, but he has an evil twin.

Who, our idiot ex-governor, Carter?

No, but you’re close, Claire said. I was thinking of our own Wisconsin member— I’m ashamed to say—of the US House of Representatives, Blake Baines, who is now I’m also ashamed to say, the House Speaker. What Baines was trying to do nationwide, Wallen was emulating statewide.

What? Make more poor people so the rich get richer? Paul said.

You got it. He released a plan recently that would take Americans back to the harsh days before there were any programs to help people that need it—like the sick, the elderly, and the unemployed. He wants to undo everything FDR did for the people.

Sounds like a true Republican. If they want to get rid of people that don’t measure up to the monetary standards of their party so bad, why don’t they just build gas chambers like the Nazis did?

Odd that you should say that, but others have come to the same conclusion. Huey Long predicted that fascism would come to America in the name of anti-fascism. Jim Garrison said the same thing—that we were slowly evolving into a proto-fascist state since 1945.

I know, Paul said. Big Money tried an unsuccessful fascist coup against FDR in 1934 because they said he was a traitor to his class. His programs were doing too much to help the common folk and raising taxes for the rich to pay for it. Big Money didn’t like that. They still don’t. Looks like Baines is trying it again.

Sadly, it seems to be still happening. And truthfully, I wouldn’t put that past Baines. He’s a real son of a bitch. His party is grooming him for the White House. If he ever gets in, watch out.

Just what we need, another idiot in the White House. Paul paused, thinking. Do you have any idea what Wallen was up to in his state? Why would Little Bull get tangled up with him?

Not really, Claire said, but I have a friend that might know, Erin Collins. You should talk to her. She’s in St. Paul now doing some work. I think she was going to interview Wallen. Erin’s a reporter and she knows all about Wallen and Baines and what’s going on in Minnesota and Washington and elsewhere. I like her, she’s a friend. I know you don’t like reporters, but I know her and she’s lots like Shela Kane, and I know you like Shela. You’ll like Erin too. She’s attractive, articulate, and very smart. You two should hit it off. Erin can be hard at times when she’s after the truth, but so can you.

Not many reporters like that are around anymore. That’s a dying breed. Now most of the media and some reporters work hand in glove with government agencies and report their lies instead of revealing the truth to the American public.

Erin’s not like that. If you like, I’ll call her and arrange a meeting for you two. Then you can call her and set it up. I know the hotel where she’s staying. I talked to her the other day, but you’d better make it soon. I don’t know how long she plans to be in Minnesota. What do you say?

Call her, Paul said.

3

Taylor was ready and waiting, dressed in black slacks, white blouse, and a black jacket when Paul picked her up at her house, which she preferred to keep and where she preferred to stay, and loaded her luggage into his Buick.

Four bags? Paul said, dressed just as casual in jacket and jeans.

Well, I don’t know how long we’ll be up there, Taylor said, and I’ll need court-clothes, if it comes to that. Don’t tell me you only took along one suitcase?

No, two.

They both got in the car and Paul started up and pulled away.

So where is this place again? Taylor said.

"It’s in Minnesota just across the Wisconsin–Minnesota border—several hours by car,