Killing Raven (A Wind River Reservation Myste) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  KILLING RAVEN

  “Of all the writers of Native-American mysteries compared to Tony Hillerman, Coel is the one who most deserves the accolade.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Readers will be swept up quickly in this novel’s rapid stride, its back story, and the tensions evident between Holden and O’Malley.”

  —January Magazine

  THE SHADOW DANCER

  Winner of the Colorado Book Award for Best Mystery Novel

  “Coel not only presents a vivid and authentic picture of the Native American, past and present, but also captures the rugged and majestic atmosphere of Wyoming. . . . The poignant ending will catch even the most astute mystery aficionado by surprise.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  THE THUNDER KEEPER

  “Coel has obvious respect for the land and people who populate it. . . . She creates dense and compelling characters in complex stories to entertain her loyal fans.”

  —The Denver Post

  “Coel gets the atmosphere just right. She is on original and interesting ground.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  THE SPIRIT WOMAN

  “Intriguing Arapaho and Shoshone history and realistic treatment of contemporary Native American issues make this cozy a winner.”

  —Library Journal

  “A well-drawn tale. Margaret Coel changes the direction of the series so that there is an added freshness that doesn’t lose the essence of the Wind River mysteries.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  THE LOST BIRD

  “A truly touching story . . . the whole book is infused with the spirit of Arapaho community.”

  —Sarah Smith, author of Knowledge of Water

  “Among the best mysteries of the year. . . . Coel is clearly at the top of her game.”

  —Booklist (starred review)

  “Engrossing . . . Coel manages to have enjoyable characters and a super mystery—not an easy task.”

  —Literary Times

  THE STORY TELLER

  “Vivid western landscapes, intriguing history, compelling characters, and quick, tight writing that is a joy to read. . . . Holden is a unique mix of the modern and the traditional. One of the best of the year.”

  —Booklist (starred review)

  “All the strengths of this fine series are present here: Coel’s knowledge of and respect for western history, a solid mystery with a credible premise in Indian lore and the struggles of Holden and O’Malley with their powerful, but so far unconsummated, attraction to each other.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  THE DREAM STALKER

  “Seamless storytelling by someone who’s obviously been there.”

  —J.A. Jance

  “Critics who have called Coel a ‘female Hillerman’ are right on the mark.”

  —Daily Camera (Boulder, CO)

  “Murder, romance, a nuclear storage facility and Indian lore blend appealingly in this third mystery. . . . Another coup for Coel.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  THE GHOST WALKER

  “Margaret Coel guides us mystery lovers on another of her gripping tours of evil among the Wind River Arapahos.”

  —Tony Hillerman

  “Coel is a vivid voice for the West, its struggles to retain its past and at the same time enjoy the fruits of the future.”

  —The Dallas Morning News

  “A corking good read. . . . Excellent. . . . An outstanding entry in a superior series.”

  —Booklist (starred review)

  “A tautly written, compelling mystery, grounded in and sympathetic to the Arapaho culture.”

  —Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel

  THE EAGLE CATCHER

  “Margaret Coel’s account of dastardly deeds among the Arapahos on the Wind River Reservation shouldn’t be missed by anyone interested in either new trends in mystery writing or contemporary American Indian culture. She’s a master at both.”

  —Tony Hillerman

  “An uncanny sense of dialogue . . . Coel merges her grasp of history with the mystery genre. The result is so successful, you wonder what took her so long.”

  —The Denver Post

  “Insightful commentary about Arapaho culture, well-drawn characters and a lively pace.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  Berkley Prime Crime Mysteries by Margaret Coel

  THE EAGLE CATCHER

  THE GHOST WALKER

  THE DREAM STALKER

  THE STORY TELLER

  THE LOST BIRD

  THE SPIRIT WOMAN

  THE THUNDER KEEPER

  THE SHADOW DANCER

  KILLING RAVEN

  WIFE OF MOON

  EYE OF THE WOLF

  THE DROWNING MAN

  THE GIRL WITH BRAIDED HAIR

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc. 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  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 actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  KILLING RAVEN

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / August 2004

  Copyright © 2003 by Margaret Coel.

  All rights reserved.

>   No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-14352-0

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  MY SINCERE THANKS to those who graciously took time from their busy schedules to answer my many questions and extend their friendship. My life is enriched by having crossed your paths.

  In Wyoming: Edward R. McAuslan, Fremont County Coroner; Todd Dawson, special agent, FBI; Paul A. Swenson, special agent, FBI; Mark O. Harris, senator, Wyoming legislature; Virginia Sutter, member of the Arapaho tribe; Rose Stanbury, owner, Books & Briar bookstore, Riverton.

  In Colorado: Dr. John Tracy, professor emeritus, University of Colorado; Dr. Peter Steinhauer, Vietnam veteran; Carl Schneider, baseball fan.

  In Washington, D.C., John Dix, baseball aficionado.

  In Arizona, Mary E. Cook, human resources consultant.

  And a special thanks to my friends Karen Gilleland and Beverly Carrigan; my daughter, Kristin Henderson; and my husband, George, for seeing me through the many rough drafts.

  To William Patrick Harrison “Liam”

  KILLING RAVEN

  Raven: Large, corvine bird having lustrous black plumage and a loud, harsh call.

  To Raven: To seek plunder or prey, to eat or feed quickly, to seize as spoil, to devour voraciously.

  —UNABRIDGED RANDOM HOUSE DICTIONARY OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE

  The raven is a bird of many legends that extend back into time. Always it has been believed to be a bird that feasts on the bodies of the dead and one that hunts with wolves and shares the kill.

  The raven is circling above me, circling above me,

  The raven having come for me, having come for me.

  —ARAPAHO SONG

  1

  THE STARS WERE bouncing across the windshield. Streaks of light that zigzagged through the blackness and plummeted downward before shooting up and out of sight. That was how it seemed, but Lela knew she was the one bouncing in the pickup. Her forehead hit the windshield, her right arm crashed against the door handle. A flash of pain, like a burning coal, gripped her elbow. Someone was screaming—God, she couldn’t stop screaming, and her own voice sounded thin and frantic above the pounding beat of Korn and the rushing wind through the opened windows.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Lela saw the dark pickup pull alongside them as Tommy stomped on the gas pedal. They roared ahead in a blur of chrome and flickering lights.

  “Tommy, look out!” A utility pole rose like a granite tower into the headlights. Lela threw out both hands to brace herself against the dashboard. Tommy was pulling on the steering wheel, throwing his whole body toward the door. They swerved around the pole, which knocked and scraped down Lela’s side. There was the screeching sound of metal ripped from metal.

  And then they were alone, bouncing through the sagebrush and across the iron-hard ruts, headlights flashing over the empty beer cans and whiskey bottles and the rusted-out parts of old trucks scattered around the bluff. Going slower now, Tommy thumping both fists against the wheel and yelling out his window, roaring to the stars. “We did it! We beat the sonsabitches!”

  Lela felt her heart jumping in rhythm with “Clown.” She was still holding on to the dashboard, trying to get her breath. The air lodged in her lungs like a cork, the inside of her mouth felt as dry and rough as an old boot. She shifted around until she could see the headlights of the other pickup blinking over the bluff in the distance. Headed toward the river where the party was, and the whiskey and the weed.

  She exhaled a long breath, letting out all the air that had been inside her. She felt giddy with relief. She wanted to scream out the window: I’m alive, I’m still alive. She leaned back, letting her eyes take in the man beside her. Sweat glistened on the black tattoo of a raven that seemed to fly over his biceps as he turned the steering wheel. Lines of sweat ran like silver through his black hair, which was smoothed back like a cap over his head and tied into a ponytail. She could sense his excitement, like a fever coming over him. It matched her own. He’d want sex now. That was why he was driving across the bluff, away from the others, to the spot where he’d taken her the first time. She ran her tongue over her lips—cracked and dry and wordless—and laid her head against the backrest. She stared into the night and at the lights glowing among the cottonwoods along the river below.

  Tommy leaned toward her and swept one hand under the driver’s seat. He lifted a flat, brown bottle, and, balancing it between his thighs, twisted off the top. The smell of whiskey floated toward her, and Lela felt her heart lurch as Tommy took a long drink. The light from the dashboard danced in the brown liquid.

  “Lost the mirror,” he said, swiping the back of one hand over his mouth. Then he tipped his head back and let the liquid pour into his throat like a fountain before he guided the pickup into the two-track that pitched downward off the bluff and into the grove of cottonwoods. The party was a half mile away, lights flickering like fireflies in the darkness.

  “Hot shit.” He guided the pickup through the trees, the tires scrunching the underbrush. “It’s worth it. Gotta teach those bastards who’s boss around here.”

  Looking straight ahead, Tommy pointed the pickup toward the open area in the cottonwood grove—a campsite close to the river. The headlights streamed over the dirt and clumps of grass, the circle of rocks and charred logs where someone had once built a fire. They lurched to a stop, and Tommy turned off the engine. The stereo went quiet, leaving only the sound of the wind whistling through the trees and the faint echo of the music in the distance. The yellow glow from the headlights hung in the air a moment, before dissolving into the darkness.

  “What’s that?”

  “What?” Tommy handed her the bottle, and she took a drink, wincing at the fire that shot down her throat and into her chest. He had looped an arm around her shoulder and was pulling her so tight that the rough edges of his army camouflage shirt, where he’d cut out the sleeves, scratched against her neck. He smelled of perspiration and whiskey and tobacco all at once in some kind of stew that made her feel slightly sick.

  “Over there,” she managed, her own voice coming back at her like an echo. She pointed into the darkness toward the campsite where, before the headlights had died, she’d glimpsed something small and unusual in the dirt. Something out of place, left behind and forgotten. Something different. Not one of the crushed beer cans or broken bottles that were strewn around the fire pit.

  Lela shrugged herself free of Tommy’s arm and leaned forward, squinting through the windshield. The object was hard to make out now, a shadow swallowed by other shadows. It could be a small animal, she thought, a puppy or a kitten. Maybe it was dead, but it might be hurt. Maybe a fox had gotten it. There were fox by the river, and coyote.

  “Turn the headlights back on, okay?” she said.

  “Jesus, Lela.”

  She felt Tommy’s fingers dig into her shoulder and pull her back. “Forget it. Ain’t nothing out there I want. You know what I want.” His hand worked its way up under the back of her T-shirt and around, then gripped her breast, squeezing hard.

  “Stop it, Tommy,” she screamed, twisting herself free and grabbing for the door handle. She pushed the door open and plunged out into the hot darkness, which was tinged with moist, dead-fish smells from the river. Just as she started around the
pickup, the headlights flashed on. She stopped. Now she could see the object a few feet away, except it wasn’t any kind of animal.

  It was a hand—fleshy palm, curled fingers—rising out of the ground, clawing at the dirt.

  Her legs felt weak beneath her, as if they’d dissolved into liquid and could no longer support her. She stumbled back a couple steps, both hands pressed over her mouth to hold in the scream erupting in her throat, her gaze frozen on the hand. She tried to turn away, but it was as if the hand itself had fastened onto her and wouldn’t let go.

  The loud thwack of the pickup door was like a slap in the face, bringing her out of some nightmare. Tommy emerged from the shadows beside her. A wave of gratitude swept over her as his arm went around her shoulders. She felt him pulling her backward.

  “Come on, Lela,” he said, swinging her around, pushing her toward the pickup. “This ain’t your business. You ain’t seen nothing.”