Death Under the Deluge: A Spirit Road Mystery, #6

By C. M. Wendelboe

A corpse is found lashed to a submerged cabin under the Missouri River just south of a Sioux Indian reservation… A corpse tied there perhaps seventy years ago… A corpse shot and tied there just before the river was flooded over a resort island first discovered by the Lewis and Clark Expedition…

FBI Agent Manny Tanno is assigned to assist local law enforcement in the decades-old homicide. Suspects abound, including the owner of a trucking company and a long-dead Lakota Code Talker for the Army in World War Two.

And dangers abound as a deputy sheriff also investigating the case is murdered. Manny's life is threatened as he's repeatedly attacked, barely escaping death himself.

Will he survive to solve the cold case and the killing of the young deputy sheriff? Is there even a chance he can find the killer of the deputy? Or any chance the murderer of the floating man is still among the living? Manny must dodge bullets as he works to stay alive long enough to catch the killers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Encircle Publications
• Release date: Sep 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9781645994817

Book preview

Chapter 1

Mel Peel brought the binoculars down from his eyes and handed them to Deputy Sam Christian. I’m only a lonely diver hired by you guys now and again and who flunked anatomy class in school, but I suspect those five fingers are attached to a wrist down there somewhere.

Sam adjusted the focus as he glassed the middle of the river. He had flunked anatomy in school as well, but he knew enough to identify skeletal remains. In this case, a bony hand jutting out of the water, one finger pointing upwards as if invoking the god of the river himself. Or was it herself? He’d flunked local superstition class, too. Think that floater got snagged on something under water?

Be my guess, Mel said as he stretched the wet suit over his legs. Give me a hand.

Sam helped Mel into his wet suit, and he jumped up and down, seating it.

’Member that last fisherman that popped up down by the old bridge pylons last summer?

Sam ’membered. The victim had been in the water near a year, but his hand still didn’t look like that one. Kinda fleshed out I’d say.

Maybe this guy was just a bit tastier to the fish and snapping turtles than the other guy, Mel said. You sure you don’t want to go down there with me?

I can’t scuba dive.

I have a snorkel.

I’ll pass, Sam said. It’s going to be bad enough hauling him up out of the river as it is.

It is. Ready? Mel grabbed his tank and face mask and flippers and walked to the small boat that would take them to that area locals know as American Island. An island Louis and Clark first discovered. An island that hadn’t been seen for more than seventy years hidden under the waters of the Missouri River. An island that—even now—appeared to be giving up some secrets.

Chapter 2

I can’t believe you talked me into taking this beater, Willie With Horn said as he fidgeted in the seat, his long legs butting against the dash of the old ’55 sedan. We could have taken my truck instead of this… what the hell’d you call it again?

I call it a Mercury. They quit producing cars about the time you were in high school, Manny Tanno answered.

I can see why. We had a hell of a time getting another tire in Ft. Thompson. Now we’re stuck with a ‘may-pop’ on one wheel. He forced a laugh. "May-pop, hell. It’s a will-pop—it’s just a matter of time before it blows."

Can I help it if it came with fourteen-inch tires that are just a little hard to come by nowadays?

The least you could have had is a spare to put on before we left, Willie said. You’d think the FBI would pay more so you can afford something nice to drive. Don’t you just beat all.

Manny patted the metal dash. Now, how can it get nicer than this beauty?

When he thought about Willie’s argument, Manny could only conclude that he was right. When it came time for Manny and Willie to go on their road trip, Manny had suggested they take the old ’55 Montclair he’d picked up at the Kool Deadwood Nites car auction last year. "Our Nostalgia Vacation, Manny had said. He’d never thought about making sure it had a spare tire. But when he ran over that piece of angle iron entering Crow Creek Reservation and trashed the tire, he found out real quick that the ’55 had none. We were lucky that wrecker driver had a tire to fit."

That tire, Willie said, isn’t worth the ten bucks you shelled out for it. You saw where that dude got it from—he took it off a grain wagon crapped out beside his wrecking yard.

Can I help it if it’s hard to find fourteen-inch tires nowadays? The bottom line is we’re in business once again. You had a nice visit with your aunt in Ft. Thompson while I was getting the tire mounted and now we’re Mitchell-bound.

That’s if the tire holds.

Manny patted the cracked steering wheel. Colette will make it.

Colette?

Colette.

Where’d you come up with that name?

I had a dog named Colette when I was a younger, Manny answered.

"And what, this… thing looks like your dog?"

Manny laughed. Heavens no. Colette got waffled by a semi when she broke loose of her leash. No, this baby, he patted the dash again, "is exactly the shade of brown Colette was."

Can we at least stop in Woonsocket and see if we can find a tire for this heap that’s at least a decade newer and hasn’t been patched a dozen times?

We can, Manny said, but don’t call Colette a heap. He massaged the steering lovingly. She’s got feelings.

They walked out of the Archedome at the Prehistoric Indian Village on the banks of Lake Mitchell, drying their hands with their bandanas. They had stopped at the archaeological site where students from Augustana College and from Exeter, England excavated some seventy earthen lodges once inhabited by mound dwellers. The dig and the museum was Manny’s concession to Willie for visiting the Corn Palace. Now wasn’t that worth the stop? Willie asked.

Manny had to admit it was worth the slight detour to see where indigenous people had lived a thousand years ago. Where they had butchered and processed huge numbers of buffalo on a ridge overlooking a creek that was flooded in the late 1920s to form Lake Mitchell. People weren’t allowed to dig at the site unless they were students, but the public was allowed to clean and wash the artifacts in the laboratory. Willie had insisted they do just that, much of the dirt and mud finding its way on to Manny’s trousers and shirt. It was all right.

Willie stopped and looked down at Manny. "You know that was cool whether or not you’re trying to come to grips with your Lakota roots."

I am not coming to grips… Manny trailed off, knowing Willie was right once again. Since being reassigned to the Rapid City Field Office from his instructor slot at Quantico some years ago, Manny had been the de facto FBI agent assigned to Pine Ridge and Rosebud Reservations, Standing Rock and Cheyenne River Reservations as well, whether Manny wanted it or not. And since coming back to his home, visions popped into his consciousness now and again, ghosts of Manny’s roots nudging him toward acknowledgment of his Indian heritage.

Come on, Willie prodded, admit it was way cool.

Manny nodded. That Boehnen Museum did have a nice diorama and I’d never seen a whole buffalo skeleton actually put together and displayed like that.

They headed out of the parking lot and drove the few miles south. When they pulled onto Main Street in Mitchell, the small town seemed… happy, if a town could have emotions. But then, Manny reasoned, a town can have emotions if Colette the car could have feelings.

I’m still at a loss as to why you wanted to make this detour, Willie said, just to see the Corn Palace.

Manny parked at the curb across from the Corn Palace. He ground the gear shift into reverse and shut the old car off. Tell me, when was the last time you visited here?

Willie shrugged. Couple years ago when Doreen insisted we stop here on the way to that Vikings game in Minneapolis. Why?

Manny turned in the seat and looked out the window at the World’s Only Corn Palace. Because the last time I saw it was when Unc took me in 1971. Dragged me along ’cause he heard Andy Griffith and Jerry Van Dyke were to perform and he just loved watching Andy on that TV show.

At least you got some culture that year.

Manny chuckled. I never saw the show. That was during Corn Palace week, and they always have an awesome midway set up on Main Street. Unc let me beg out of going with him to the show if I promised to stay on the midway.

As I recall, Willie said while he extricated himself from the car, Mitchell always had the best carnival rides so you must have had a blast.

Manny closed the car door after he got out and batted dirt off his trousers. We didn’t have money to spend on carnival rides.

Then what did you do, stare at the kids who had lucky bucks to ride the Tilt-A-Whirl and the Ferris Wheel?

Unc gave me two dollars he’d been stashing away for our trip to spend how I wished, and I wasn’t about to spend it on a two-minute ride.

That would get you about four rides in 1971, I imagine, Willie said, looking up at the side of the Corn Palace.

I said, I never wasted the money on rides.

Then what did you do while your Uncle Marion was watching ol’ Andy?

I played the games.

Carnival games? Willie said. The kind that fleeces you out of your money and are next to impossible to win.

Unless you have the time to study them while you’re waiting for your uncle to leave the Corn Palace show. Manny looked down the street, with cars coming and going, recalling how the street had been blocked off for the midway that week. He could see in his mind’s eye the carnival rides and the kids screaming in delight. He could see the people playing various games of chance. He could see their disappointment when they lost. And they almost certainly lost every time.

Before I gave those vultures one dime as a kid, I sat back and watched the games. I saw how people were losing their money so easily. I saw the balloon pop was rigged with under-inflated balloons and dull darts, so I threw like I was aiming all the way home. I noticed the basketball toss had the baskets a little off like they were oval or something and picked the one basket that was most round and aimed for the rim. He snapped his fingers. And just like that, I had a lovable little teddy bear I could give to Emily.

Emily?

Manny nodded. She was my crush when I was in the fifth grade. But, Manny smiled wide, recalling the fleecing the carnival barker took at the time, "it was shooting the star on the paper with that BB gun that got me the real prize. A teddy bear near as big as me."

Didn’t know you were a shooter except for your yearly qual for the Bureau.

Back then I was. Had to be. Unc would send me out with my .22 and tell me to bag supper, so I had to learn how to shoot a rifle if I wanted to bring home a rabbit or squirrel. But that carnival game is more than just knocking the star out with some BBs. It was rigged all right, and it took me a while watching the shooters losing their shirts until I figured out how to win.

Willie guffawed. A ten-year-old beating that game? I don’t think so. As good a shot as I am, I’ve never shot the star out, much to Doreen’s chagrin.

Do this next time, my doubting friend—look at all the BB guns laid out on the counter and pick the one that has the least bend to the sights. The carnies purposely bend the front sights so they don’t shoot to point of aim. Then use one dime and pick out a spot on the star. Figure on losing that round as all you’re doing is finding out where that BB gun shoots to. Then use the same gun for the next round. And the next. Like I did.

For one thing, Willie said, it costs a buck for each play nowadays. And I’ve tried so many times to shoot the center of that star out—

"But have you concentrated on shooting around the star?"

How’s that?

Don’t shoot for the middle. Shoot the outside of the circle. Walk the BBs around now that you know where that particular gun shoots.

That’s how you beat it? That’s how you won the big prize to give Emily?

"That’s how I should have won the big prize. Each time I won, I traded my small teddy bear in for a larger one. But when it came to the carnie giving me the giant Panda, he refused. ‘You’re a ringer,’ he said. ‘Get the hell outta here, kid.’"

That’s a shame you never got the big one—

But I did.

How?

Unc, Manny answered. About the time the carnie was giving me the bum’s rush, Unc was walking the midway looking for me and he spotted me arguing with the guy. Manny laughed. It didn’t take long for Unc to… persuade the man to give me the panda, big as my Uncle Marion was.

You said he was a pretty big man… big as me, you said a time or two.

And he could be intimidating, Manny said. Were his eyes damp because of the corn chaff coming off the Corn Palace or because he thought once again of his Uncle Marion who had raised him after his folks died? Once Unc threatened to lean over and rip the guy’s nose ring off, he finally gave me the panda. I was so happy I didn’t even mind sitting in that big ol’ tent they had set up for their Bingo game. Unc would set there putting his kernels of corn on the Bingo card—

You mean he grabbed his dauber to mark the spots?

Manny shook his head. "Back then, people used kernels of corn to cover the numbers being called. Remember, this was during Corn Palace Week. I’m here to tell you it was a real donnybrook when someone nudged another player and the kernels spilled all over the ground. Anyways, that was the last time I was here."

Manny took off his Stetson and craned his neck up as he looked at the building across the street that took up much of one block. I recall those domes were wooden or something.

They were trashed and replaced with those metal ones a few years ago, Willie said. Doreen got the whole lowdown when we were here last time. The first Corn Palace was built in 1892 and they take all the corn down every year and replace it according to what the mural designers gave the workers. That’s why it looks kinda ratty now—they’re stripping murals and tacking corn back up.

Manny looked up at the enormous domes overlooking the street below and at the two murals that had already been put up that appeared to be a circus theme. As he stood in front of the grill across the side street across from a building, he marveled at this year’s theme being painted with just split corn cobs of various natural colors and of the native grasses tacked to the side of the murals. Just like he had marveled at it as a boy. Lordy, it must take a pile of corn to decorate a building that big?

Doreen read somewhere that a dozen different colors of corn are used and takes a month to strip and split the ears and nail them up for the murals, Willie said.

Manny felt lightheaded and he looked down at the ground. Oscar Howe… that name sticks in my mind for some reason.

He used to design the murals, Willie said. I remember him when I was a kid on Crow Creek before we moved to Pine Ridge. His paintings were displayed all over the rez.

Manny leaned against the fender of the car, his vision coming to him as if he were looking through a fishbowl and he pointed to a mural. Oscar Howe designed that one—

No, he hasn’t designed any since about the time you and your uncle were here. Dakota Wesleyan students create them now. Looks like they’re tacking up some scene, Willie said, of a guy hunting pheasants—

No… that one, Manny pointed. That one that shows an Indian squatting beside a flowing river—

I don’t know what you’re looking at, Willie said, but there’s no mural like that up there.

Manny felt his legs buckle and he put his head between his legs for a moment, his hands resting on shaky knees.

For just a moment.

When he looked back up at the side of the building, Oscar Howe’s mural was still there. Taunting him, when Manny heard the sound of water approaching. Louder than anything he’d ever heard. He clamped his hands over his ears and slumped to his knees, screams overriding the sounds of the deluge. Get… get out of there! he screamed. Run! and the last thing he saw was the mural undulating as if alive.

As if it were telling him something that he could not decipher.

Chapter 3

Willie’s massive arm encircled Manny’s waist, holding him up, ushering him through the crowd that had stopped and watched them like they were contestants in a three-legged race. The chime above the door of the Corner Stone Coffee House across the street dinged as they entered, and a girl half Willie’s age walked around the counter. He don’t look so hot, mister. Maybe you ought to take him to the ER.

He’ll be fine, Willie said, soon’s he gets some coffee in him. He just gets a little lightheaded now and again. Can you bring two cups of the strongest you got?

The girl rubbed her bare leg sticking through her fashionably-tattered jeans and nodded. Just make sure he don’t puke on the floor ’cause I’m the one who cleans it up.

Willie helped Manny to a corner booth away from others sitting and staring and eased him down.

Don’t take me to the ER—

I’m not, Willie answered. I suspect the doctor you need ain’t one you’ll find at any hospital.

Manny took deep, calming breaths while he rubbed his forehead. I suspect you’d be right.

Another vision?

Manny nodded. One of his unwelcomed visions had engulfed him just now, one of many visions he’d had ever since returning to work the reservations five years ago. And although visions were a private thing that he usually told only to brother Reuben, Willie was a Wicasa Wakan, a sacred man, in training and would keep Manny’s vision to himself. Oscar Howe.

What about him? Willie asked.

He designed that mural.

What mural?

That one showing… a lake. Maybe a river.

There is no mural like that up the side of the Corn Palace—

There was in 1952. I’m sure of it. The waitress set two cups on the table. Indian motif that year, the waitress said. I heard you guys talking.

No offense, Willie said, but you’re just a bit young to know that.

Mister, she said, when all you got to do all day at work is stare at that Corn Palace, you get to learn things about it. Call it me not going crazy looking at it every day.

Manny grabbed a napkin from the table dispenser and wiped sweat from his forehead. I told you I saw some guy. Maybe an Indian by a river up there.

The waitress turned and said over her shoulder, and Oscar Howe did design it. They have photos of past murals inside.

Willie sipped his coffee and stared out the window at the side of the Corn Palace. If they have murals of past years, maybe the one you saw in your vision will be up there on the wall.

Manny downed half his cup of coffee and slid out of the booth. Then let’s get across the street and look at them.

Sure you’re up to it?

Nobody else is gonna see what I just saw.

Manny stood on wobbly legs with Willie close beside him. They walked out of the coffee shop and stood on the sidewalk. Manny looked up at the murals, many picked over by the birds feeding on the corn, awaiting complete dismantling in preparation for this year’s theme to be depicted with various colors of corn. The world’s biggest bird feeder, the locals referred to it. It was right there, Manny said and pointed to the side of the Corn Palace.

I’m sure in your mind it was, Willie said.

There were two like… giant black-and-white barber poles on either side of the entrance to the building going all the way up. Smaller ones right over the marquis. They weren’t there when Unc brought me here as a kid.

And they’re not there now, Willie said and started across the street. Let’s see if we can find a 1952 mural.

Cars stopped to let them cross and they entered the building. Photos of murals past lined the walls, and they started walking the halls when a man