Killing Raven (A Wind River Reservation Myste) Read online

  “Mr. Lexson and Mr. Barrenger are waiting for you.” The secretary gestured with her chin toward the wooden doors on the right, her eyes lingering on Adam.

  Vicky followed Adam into the private office, feeling like a tumbleweed blown farther and farther away from anything familiar. Beyond the overstuffed chairs on the far side of the office, the side tables with more sculptures, and the mahogany desk with nothing on top except an expensive-looking leather blotter, two men stood in front of a panel of windows that probably gave Stan Lexson a view of the casino floor.

  It was Lexson coming toward them now, she guessed, a man who looked to be in his forties, about five feet ten, slender, and muscular, like a runner. Despite the way he was dressed—khakis, blue dress shirt opened at the collar, and tasseled loafers—he had the focused, intense look of the bankers she’d worked with on Seventeenth Street in Denver, men accustomed to blue suits, white shirts, and spacious offices in downtown buildings. He had sandy-colored hair, brushed back from his forehead, and light eyes that were boring into her, as if he were sizing up an attorney he might want to hire to handle a major case.

  “So you’re the Arapaho lawyer Adam’s been telling me about.” The man held out a manicured hand.

  “Vicky, meet Stan Lexson,” Adam said.

  Vicky moved forward and shook the man’s hand. Beneath the softness of his palm, she could sense strength and determination.

  “Call me Stan.” He had an open, friendly smile, and she found herself smiling back. “Welcome to Great Plains Casino. I like to get to know the people who work for me. Know who they are. What’s important to them. We’re a close family here.”

  He motioned toward the man in the beige shirt and pressed blue jeans still stationed at the windows, half-turned toward the room, eyes on the casino below. “Meet Neil Barrenger, head of casino operations.”

  “Howdy.” The man glanced away from the windows. He was probably in his thirties with narrow, slightly stooped shoulders, short-cropped hair going gray and wire-rimmed glasses that gave him the look of someone who spent most days in front of computers.

  “A lot of tourists think they’re going to get rich down there,” Lexson said, motioning them to the window. Vicky followed the man’s gaze. Beyond the rows of slot machines was an expanse of felt-covered tables, dealers on one side, players on the other.

  “We give them a good chance to win,” Lexson said. “Our slots pay ninety-six cents on the dollar. You know anything about the gaming business . . .” he hurried on, not waiting for an answer, “the payoff’s excellent. Most casinos take a bigger percentage. We want to keep people happy, so they’ll come back. You tried your luck, Vicky?”

  “I’m not much of a gambler,” Vicky said. She’d driven to the casino soon after it had opened, dropped a few dollars in the slots, and left with less cash than she’d arrived with, plus a feeling of disquiet, as if something had been thrown out of sync. She’d felt the rush every time she’d pushed HIT: This was her lucky hit, this time all the diamonds would line up. It was like alcohol, she’d realized, seductive and warm, a rush of well-being that camouflaged the pain. It could change you, the rush, turn you into someone else.

  “We have a rule against employees playing,” Lexson said, a new seriousness in his voice. “Technically, you’ll be on a retainer, but we have to observe the rules.” He nodded at Adam. “You can explain, counselor.”

  “We have to comply with the pact the tribe made with the state and the Indian Gaming Regulatory Act.” Adam gave her a wide grin. “You’ll be all too familiar with that in a few days.”

  “Here they come again.” Barrenger moved closer to the window, and Lexson followed.

  Vicky looked down on the floor. The demonstrators from out front were marching through the rows of slot machines, jabbing signs into the air. Gambling = Satan. Up and down, up and down. Players swung around on the stools and stared a moment before turning back to the slots. It was like watching a silent movie, Vicky thought. Lights flashing, heads pivoting, mouths opening and shutting.

  “We have to get them off the floor,” Lexson said.

  Barrenger did a half turn and strode across the office. The door clicked shut into the quiet. Adam moved closer to Lexson, who was still looking down on the floor.

  “Monroe’s people,” Adam said.

  “See that the district attorney files charges. Trespassing, disorderly, whatever.”

  “Misdemeanors. Within tribal jurisdiction.” Adam held his ground a moment, then walked over to the desk and lifted the phone. “Get the police to the casino,” he said into the receiver.

  Below, a phalanx of gray-uniformed guards had appeared and surrounded the demonstrators, pushing them into a small circle, which they moved toward the side.

  “Where are they taking them?” Vicky asked, watching the circle disappear through a door.

  “We have a nice lounge.” Lexson let his gaze rest on her a moment. “Maybe we’ll give them cookies and coffee and make them comfortable until the police get here.”

  Vicky waited a couple of beats, then said, “There’s something I have to know before I agree to work here. Is Matt Kingdom on the casino’s payroll?”

  “What are you talking about?” Adam hurried over from the desk.

  Lexson laughed. “You were right, Adam. She’s tough. A straight-talker, gets right to the point. I like that. Why don’t you tell her?”

  “Don’t know what you’ve heard,” Adam began, “but Kingdom works for the Arapaho Business Council. They hired him; they pay him. Anything else, as you know, would be a conflict of interest.”

  Vicky pushed on. “What about Kingdom’s son? I understand he has a supervisor’s job here. How many other employees are connected to Kingdom?”

  “Connected?” Lexson jammed his hands in the pockets of his khakis. “You’re connected to the tribe. Connected to Adam here. You ask me, everybody on the rez is connected to everybody else. As it happened, Kingdom’s son was the best-qualified applicant.”

  Lexson kept his gaze on her a moment, then turned to Adam. “You see why I wanted an Arapaho attorney on board? What you’ll find out, Vicky”—turning back to her—“and what you can tell your tribe, is that we’re operating a successful casino, despite what Captain Jack Monroe would like people to believe.”

  Lexson had wanted her here? Vicky glanced at the Lakota attorney beside her, but his face was unreadable, except, she thought, for the almost imperceptible look of discomfort behind his dark eyes.

  “Trouble is,” Lexson went on, “some Arapahos think the casino belongs to them. We had a lady come into the restaurant last week, order a big meal, and refuse to pay the bill. Who ever heard of paying in your own restaurant? she said. We have people coming in demanding jobs as dealers. Never dealt a card in their lives. You know how many players come to a new Indian casino hoping to find dealers who don’t know an ace from a spade and can’t add up to twenty-one? You know how long it would take for such players to wipe out the house? That’s why we have to hire the best people, and I don’t care who they’re connected to. At the end of the day, all that matters is the house profit. If we don’t make a profit, neither does the tribe.”

  Lexson stepped back to the window and tapped his knuckles on the glass pane. “See the blackjack area? We hired an Arapaho as the pit boss. Dennis Light Stone.”

  Light Stone. Vicky turned the name over in her mind, trying to place the family. “He’s not from the reservation,” she said.

  “From Oklahoma,” Lexson said. “Spent six years dealing blackjack in Colorado, and he knows the ins and outs of the game. We want somebody experienced overseeing the other dealers. We want the best, Vicky.”

  “NEXT STOP, HUMAN resources on the third floor,” Adam said. They were walking down the corridor toward the elevator. “After you sign the necessary forms, I’ll hand over some contracts for your approval. What d’ya think?” They stopped in front of the closed bronze doors and Adam pushed the up button.

  �
�You’re overwhelmed with work,” Vicky said, “what with having to deal with Captain Monroe’s demonstrators, and you needed help with the contracts.”

  “Look, Vicky.” Adam reached out and took her hand. “I admit that Stan decided it would be a good idea to have an Arapaho on the legal team. It would reassure everybody. I’m the one who recommended . . .”

  She cut in. “The only Arapaho attorney around.”

  “We could have found several in Oklahoma. I wanted to work with you.”

  Vicky looked straight ahead at the elevator doors. She could see the faint reflections in the bronze: the tall, dark-haired man, the tense, dark-haired woman beside him. “Why didn’t you tell me the whole story?”

  “Because I knew you wouldn’t take the job if you thought you were some kind of token.”

  “Is that what it is?” How ironic, she was thinking. Will Standing Bear expected her to protect the tribal interests at the casino, while Stan Lexson expected her to assure the tribe that all was well. She felt as if they would pull her apart—her own people, the casino.

  “Trust me, Vicky,” Adam said. “I need your help.” He hesitated. “And maybe you can use the work.”

  The elevator bell pinged, and they stepped through the sliding doors. Vicky felt the tug of gravity as they moved upward, and then they were crossing another corridor to a door with a dark wood plaque at the side that said Annette Addley, Director, Human Resources. Adam reached past her and opened the door. It was a moment before she summoned the courage to step into the office.

  THE NOONDAY HEAT rolled through the parking lot in invisible waves by the time Vicky finished filling out the forms the secretary in human resources had pushed toward her. Maybe Adam was right, she thought, passing the parked vehicles that radiated more heat. She could use the retainer fee, that was a fact, and Will Standing Bear and the other elders would be reassured knowing she was working for the casino. A win-win situation. In her bag was a diskette that held several contracts Adam wanted her to review. He’d showed her to a vacant office next to his and said she could take it over, even redecorate if she wanted, but in the end, she’d explained she preferred working in her own office.

  She was several cars away when she spotted four men around the Cherokee. Two sitting on the hood, two leaning against the side, arms folded over their chests, egg-size lumps in their jaws. One thrust his head forward and spit out a wad of phlegm.

  Vicky stopped and glanced about. Rows and rows of vehicles shimmering in the sun, and no one around. She made herself take in a long breath and continue walking, her gaze on the two men who were now coming toward her, sauntering past the sedan. They were Arapahos with shoulder-length hair slicked back behind their ears, slender builds, and thin, earnest faces. They looked about twenty and were dressed in camouflage clothing. Now the men seated on the hood jumped down. One of them stepped in front of her. The tattoo of a large, black bird wiggled along his ropy biceps.

  “Don’t mind if we have a little talk, do you?” Tattoo-man said. “You lawyers like to talk, right?”

  “What do you want?” Vicky gripped her black bag, getting ready to swing it if she had to.

  “You gonna work for the casino?”

  “Who sent you here? Monroe?” She shot another glance around the lot. Surely there were security cameras on the lot. Where were the guards? There was no one else in sight. Then she remembered the guards surrounding the demonstrators in the casino and ushering them through the side door. The guards were occupied.

  “The Captain’s the only guy around here gives a shit about the people. Them bastards there . . .” he tossed his head toward the casino, and a piece of hair fell across his forehead. He let it stay. “All they care about is lining their own pockets. Don’t care if people’s lives get ruined by gambling.”

  “It’s nothing but Satan’s work, Tommy,” said one of the others.

  “Captain Jack’s been telling people the truth.” Another joined in. “Don’t go to the casino. Don’t work in that filthy place. And what do the bastards do? Call the police on the Captain’s rangers. Took away three troops yesterday and got some of our people shut up in the casino now. Probably gonna arrest ’em for trespassing or some other shit, like we don’t got a right to go in the casino and tell people the truth.”

  “Don’t matter.” The man with the tattoo, the man called Tommy, leaned toward her. “Captain Jack’ll get ’em out of that stinking jail in no time.”

  “What do you want from me?” Vicky asked.

  “What you do for Kingdom to get a job?”

  “What?”

  “Don’t act all innocent like it’s some big secret. It ain’t secret no more. The Captain’s got it figured out. You want a big-paying job at the casino, you go see Kingdom, the all-mighty chairman.”

  “That’s a serious allegation. What proof do you have?”

  “Proof? Look around the casino, woman. How many Arapahos got good jobs—I ain’t talking about sweeping floors. How you think they got them good jobs? ’Cause they’re good-looking, like you?” He was in her face now. She could smell the stale tobacco on the man’s breath, the musty odor of perspiration. She made herself hold her place. She would not show fear. She would not bear her throat to a raven like a doomed wild animal.

  “Use your head, woman. Either you’re on the side of the people, or you’re on the side of the bastards that’re ripping us off. If I was you, I wouldn’t be taking no job at the casino.”

  The man held her gaze a moment, then all four started to move past. Tattoo-man stayed close, not taking his eyes away. And then he swerved into her. She felt the thrust of his elbow into her ribs, felt herself falling sideways. She reached for the hood of the sedan to steady herself, then forced herself to walk on toward the Cherokee. Gripping the door handle to stop from shaking, she looked back at the four men moving through the lot side by side—swaggering—throwing their shoulders around.

  “Where can I find Monroe?” she called.

  Tattoo-man turned around. She could see the trace of laughter in his expression. “You can’t,” he called back. “Captain Jack wants to see people, he finds them.”

  7

  “BATTER UP!” FATHER John juggled the ball and waited until Eddie Antelope had raised the bat and adjusted his stance.

  “Keep your eye on the ball. Front shoulder in. Stay back. Come through too soon, and you’ll be too far in front of the ball.”

  Eddie wiggled his thin, ten-year-old shoulders, shifted his weight, and locked his eyes above his left shoulder in the direction of the pitcher’s mound. Father John pulled back and let go of a slider that ran away from the outside edge of the plate. The loud whack sounded like a gunshot, as Eddie attacked and drove a hard liner in the hole between first and second.

  “Good job!” Father John lifted his glove in salute. “Next up. Let’s keep moving.”

  “John!”

  His assistant, Father George Reinhold, was hurrying down the third-base line, urgency carved in the forward thrust of his broad shoulders.

  “Hold on.” Father John motioned toward the kid picking up the bat. Then he walked over to the other priest.

  “Somebody waiting to see you.” Father George shrugged. “Wouldn’t give her name. Insisted she has to talk to Father O’Malley.”

  “We’re about done here.” Father John threw a glance toward the kids. Willie Crumble was already dancing into his stance at the plate, hands running up and down the bat. Next Saturday, the Eagles were scheduled to play the Riverton Rams, the toughest team in the league, and they’d been working on making consistent contact. A couple of kids still had another turn at bat.

  “I’ll be over in a few minutes,” he said. “Talk to her until I get there, okay?” He started back to the mound.

  “She’s in some kind of trouble.” The other priest caught up and marched beside him with the persistency and determination of his German ancestors. “It’s an emergency, she says, and she had to see you now.”

 
; Father John stopped and turned to his assistant. The man was his age, forty-eight, but carried some extra pounds that made him look ten years older. Blotches of sunburn rose on his fleshy face. He was squinting so hard in the sun that his eyes looked like dark slits, and beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead along the edge of his sandy-colored hair.

  “Take over here, okay?” Father John pushed the glove and ball into the other priest’s hands and headed into the outfield.

  “Hey, what do I know about baseball?”

  “Just throw the ball,” Father John called over his shoulder.

  HE WALKED DOWN the side of the redbrick residence, then crossed Circle Drive and cut through the field of wind-blown wild grasses in the center of the mission. The buildings huddled among the cottonwoods around the drive, like visitors from the nineteenth century who have stayed on and on. Next to the residence was the two-story gray stone schoolhouse that now housed the Arapaho Museum. Directly across was the white church decorated in the blue, red, and yellow geometric designs of the Arapahos, the steeple lifting through the trees into the blue sky. On the other side of the driveway that ran alongside the church stood the yellow stucco administration building, two stories high with a vaulted, peaked roof and double rows of oblong windows. Behind the administration building, partially visible from the drive, was Eagle Hall, the squat, gray-shingled meeting house and classroom building, and beyond the hall, the two-room guest house.

  The noise of a chain saw cut through the sound of the wind in the trees. Leonard Bizzel, who had been the caretaker and all-around handyman when Father John had first come to the mission eight years ago, was standing over some fallen branches in front of the church. A few feet away, Walks-On stretched on his side in the shade. The roar of the saw stopped. The Indian looked up and threw Father John a nod, then went back to sawing one of the branches. Father John veered past the blue truck parked in front of the administration building and took the front steps two at a time.