Jack Slade, page 8
Frank took another swallow of beer. “Well, that’s good news. I’d have had to object otherwise.”
“It’s no part of the plan to put your daughter in danger,” Slade added with a smile. He paused then commented, “Kate tells us you’re starting another complex next week.”
Frank’s tanned face split in a pleased grin. “Absolutely! I finally got the land I wanted from the family of the old Sioux who was killed by the wolf.” His smile dissolved into a frown, and he shook his head sadly. “I sure hated to get the property that way. But I can’t let the opportunity slip away because of sentiment.” His face brightened, and he gestured with his hand to include John. “We have the heavy equipment coming on Monday, and we’ll get started clearing and leveling of the land. It’ll eventually be a subdivision in the northwest sector of Crawford.”
Slade glanced at the Sioux and found him staring at him, his broad features impassive.
“Does that mean the subdivision will be butting up against Indian land?”
“Yeah,” he answered. “We’re going to construct lower income housing this time, hoping that more Native Americans will be able to afford them.”
“That’s right,” Frank added. “John’s been after me for a long time to develop some complexes that’ll be more affordable to the Native American population. I’ve finally gotten into a position where I can make that happen. And I’m glad to do it. I’d like to contribute to improving the relations between the whites and the Sioux. Things are a little tense right now.” He glanced piercingly at Slade. “For that very reason, you need to be careful when you prowl around the Native section tonight. You might turn up a lot more than you were counting on.”
Slade nodded. “Thanks for the warning.”
8
It was close to midnight when Slade stood on a street corner in the Native section and watched a candy wrapper float by on the night wind. That section of Crawford reeked of poverty and despair. He glanced around at the rundown stucco buildings lining the street, most of the walls covered with graffiti and, apparently, Sioux tribal symbols. The asphalt pavement was old and in need of repair, and trash littered the gutters. Saloons and liquor stores were everywhere, rubbing shoulders with small shops and businesses. Down a side street, deserted and quiet that time of night, but for a couple of scroungy dogs squabbling over a bone, he glimpsed wooden houses squatting in dilapidated squalor behind unkempt front yards.
No wonder there’s an undercurrent of tension in Crawford, he thought. These are the conditions that fuel unrest.
He stepped off the curb and started across the street toward the Black Cloud Bar situated on the opposite corner. He’d lost track of all the bars and saloons he had wandered through over the course of the evening. The Sioux he’d encountered viewed him askance, treating him, at best, as an interloper on their territory. At worse, as an enemy. Bartenders had been mostly tight lipped and uncommunicative, suggesting that he look elsewhere for answers.
Although he hadn’t been able to get any answers to his questions, he had picked up a definite feeling. It permeated the air. Was concentrated in the bars. Was revealed in a furtive glance, the flicker of an eye, the twitch of a mouth.
That feeling was fear.
Fear, like a great black serpent, gripped the Native section of Crawford in dark, sinister coils.
Slade got the impression that it was not only fear of the brutal killings that had rocked the city. Something else was going on. Something bigger. Something darker. What that something was, he had no idea. He was going on impressions, mostly picked up subconsciously, not only from what was said, but, many times, from what was not said.
With those thoughts rolling around in the dark recesses of his mind, he pushed through the glass door and entered the Black Cloud Bar.
The room was long and narrow, with a wooden floor, a bar on the right, tables and chairs down the middle, and booths against the left wall. Light bulbs attached to wagon wheels suspended on chains from the low ceiling provided illumination. Evidently, the no smoking in public places law didn’t apply to the Native quarter, because Slade had to wade through a heavy cloud of cigarette smoke as he crossed the floor and stepped into an empty space at the bar.
As he waited for the bartender, who was at the end of the bar, deep in conversation with a group of men, Slade glanced around the room. The place was packed with both men and women. As far as he could see, they were all Native American. Conversation didn’t actually stop when he came in, but it became subdued. Many glances, and quite a few scowls, were tossed his way. With no desire to add to the tension, he refrained from looking anyone directly in the eyes. The bartender finally noticed him, started down the bar, and Slade turned back around.
The man was full-blooded Sioux, with a stocky body and thick neck. Long, grey-streaked black hair poured over thick shoulders and down his back. A stained white apron girded his thick waist. He rested his palms on the bar and stared unsmilingly at Slade.
Slade glanced from the sturdy, tattoo-covered arms up into his black eyes.
There was no greeting. No question as to what he wanted. Only a cold, hard stare.
Slade cleared his throat. “Let me have a beer. Whatever you’ve got on tap.”
After a pause that seemed to last forever, the bartender turned and walked back down the bar to the spigots. He drew a beer with a perfect amount of head, then came back and placed the mug in front of Slade.
“That’s two bucks,” he stated in a deep, guttural voice.
Slade pulled out his roll, flipped through until he found a five-dollar bill, peeled it off and dropped it on the bar. The bartender took it, went to the cash register, rang it up, then brought the change back and put it down in front of Slade.
“Why don’t you drink up and get out. You ain’t welcome here.”
Slade took a swallow of beer and placed the mug on the bar. “I was hoping I could ask you a few questions.”
The man’s scowl deepened. “What about?”
“There’s been a number of killings here in Crawford—by a wolf or a pack of wolves. I was wondering if you might know anything about it, or could direct me to someone who does.”
The bartender’s whole demeanor changed. His head receded back on his heavy shoulders. His face became cautious. Dark shadows moved in his eyes.
“You a cop?”
“I work for a private security firm.”
“Listen, buddy, it ain’t safe to ask questions like that. You want to live to see tomorrow’s sunrise you need to drink up and get out.”
“Why is simply asking questions unsafe? And you suggesting that I leave indicates that you do know something.”
“I don’t know nothin’ about nothin’. And I ain’t required to answer no questions. You can do what you want, but that’s all I gotta say.”
He turned to leave, and Slade stopped him.
“Could I have another beer, please?”
Grunting angrily, the bartender grabbed Slade’s empty mug and stalked down the bar.
From the corners of his eyes, Slade watched an old man with grey hair walk down the crowded room toward him. He turned casually, rested his elbow on the bar so that his right hand dangled over the automatic on his belt, and waited. The old man stopped beside Slade at the same time the bartender put his second beer on the bar. Baggy brown trousers sheathed his bowed legs. A red, long-sleeved shirt covered his thin, stooped torso. Scuffed black street shoes encased his feet. He barely reached Slade’s shoulders, and his face was a mass of wrinkles. Still, there was character in his features and strength in the steady gaze of his black eyes.
He nodded to the bartender, and the man went away.
“I heard you asking questions,” he said in thin, but firm voice.
“You must have acute hearing if you heard me from where you were sitting.”
The old man’s thin lips stretched in a smile. “Bring your beer and come to my table. Maybe I can give you some answers.”
Every eye in the room watched him follow the old man to his table. Two other middle-aged men were sitting there, and they stared up coldly at Slade. The old man waved a withered hand.
“These are my friends.” He pointed to an empty chair. “Sit down.”
Slade sat and placed his beer on the table.
“I admit I wasn’t being completely truthful when I said that I overheard you,” said the old man by way of introduction. “Word spread through the section that a white man is wandering around asking questions. We recognized you as that man when you came in. It wasn’t difficult to guess what you were asking the bartender.”
Slade nodded. “Then you know the nature of what I’ve been asking. You indicated that you may have some answers.”
The old man paused while blunt fingers drummed on the wooden table. The two men stared at him, their faces impassive.
“First of all, you should understand that just asking these questions has put your life at risk.”
Slade took a swallow of beer then grunted. “If I had a dime for every time my life has been at risk, I’d be a rich man today. Let’s not worry about my life. I’ll take care of that angle. I’d appreciate it if you’d just tell me what you know.”
The old man glanced at the other two men, who stared back at him then nodded. “I see that you are a man of power.”
“I’ve known the same thing about you from the moment you approached me.”
“Then we meet as equals.”
“We do.”
“As a man of power, you already know that these killings are not the killings of a normal wolf.”
“Since we’re being frank, I also know that the killer of the first four men is not the killer of the last two. My sense is that the killer of the last two men wanted it to appear to be the same wolf killing again.”
The two men sat up straight in their chairs. The old man’s grey brows shot up.
Slade glared at the three of them. “Let’s stop playing games. You know something. I can feel it. You wouldn’t have brought me over here if you didn’t want me to know. Put it on the table.”
“You are aware of the tensions between the Sioux and the whites.”
“Yes.”
“What you may not know is that that tension isn’t just the normal tension that exists between us and the whites. The flames are being fanned deliberately, for a purpose.”
“And that purpose is?”
“The death of the whites in Crawford, and the takeover of the city by the Sioux.”
Slade barked out a derisive laugh. “You need to get real. Crawford has police. The state has a National Guard. Failing that, the President can send in troops. What you’re talking about hasn’t got the chance of a snowball in hell.”
The old man nodded. “What you say is true. That is why there are some of us who are opposed to the plan. Not only will the whites be slaughtered, but eventually our people also will be destroyed by the reaction from the government.”
“Then case closed. No one would be stupid enough to foment a rebellion that can only end one way.”
Lights gleamed in the old man’s eyes. “Unless that rebellion is fomented by a man of power.”
“Ah.”
“Yes. The man who did the last two killings is the same man who is inciting our people to rise against the whites and take back our land. They see him as some type of savior. He promises them that he can protect them. He points to the unrest that is tearing the country apart and the concessions the whites and the government are making to those who take what they want by force. He has convinced many of us that now is the time to rise and take back what has been stolen from us. He tells them that the government would be afraid of the public backlash if they came into Crawford with force to crush the rebellion.”
“There’s a certain twisted logic in all of that,” Slade conceded. “Just enough to convince people who are short on brains and long on hate.” Resting his elbows on the table, he fixed the old man with a penetrating glare. “So tell me, who is this man of power?”
He raised his hands in a shrug. “That, unfortunately, we don’t know. He works through agents. They circulate through the community, telling stories of his power. They convince the people that he is the wolf doing the killings, and that his power—for good or ill—covers the entire community.”
“Then why is he covering his tracks by making it look like all the killings are being perpetrated by the same wolf?”
“The white police must believe the killings are being done by a wolf. That distracts them from suspecting the killer is a man. But the Sioux must believe he is all powerful. Making the killings look like they have been done by the same wolf serves both purposes. You have been met by silence here in the community because the Sioux—even those not in favor of the rebellion—believe that to talk to an outsider, especially a white man, would bring about their immediate death.”
“Then why are you talking to me?”
The old man smiled, and it was like a wolf baring its fangs. “I, too, am a man of power. I know how to protect myself. Plus, me,” he gestured to the two men sitting at the table listening, “and my friends hope to prevent the rebellion, and the slaughter that will follow. We believe that it will damage the chances of the Sioux to ever get justice for what has been done to us.”
“That still doesn’t answer the question of why you’re talking to me.”
“Because you are a man of power. Because you are working on the case of the killings. And because I see in you a man with the courage, strength, and skill to fight and defeat this killer before he brings disaster down on all our heads.”
Hands stuffed in trousers pockets, his gaze focused on the ground as he mulled over what the old Sioux had told him, Slade walked through a vacant lot on his way back to the Jaguar he had parked on a side street. The moon sailed majestically through the western sector of a clear sky. Trudging through weeds reaching to his knees, he watched light shimmer over broken whiskey bottles, reflect off crushed beer cans, and cast dark shadows over old, stripped cars scattered around the lot, rusting into oblivion. Stepping over a pile of trash, fighting down a wave of disgust as he avoided a swarm of huge brown rats scattering in all directions, his peripheral vision picked up the metallic gleam of moonlight running along a rifle barrel.
Reacting from instinct, he was in the air, sailing toward an abandoned car, when the trash heap behind him exploded in a shower of food scraps, crumpled paper, and broken glass. The roar of gunfire rolled across the lot and echoed through the neighborhood. A second shot kicked up dirt close to his shoes as he scrambled on hands and knees toward the shelter of the abandoned auto. He buried his face in a pile of trash as the frame above him bucked and twisted, the scream of rending metal and shattered glass torturing his ears as a storm of hot lead tore through the car and ricocheted through the night like a swarm of angry hornets. Glaring around the bumper of the car, he saw five men striding across the lot, armed with rifles and handguns, firing as they came, muzzle flashes turning night into day.
To his horror, Slade found himself staring straight into the gaping jaws of a rattlesnake that had slithered out from under the car. Aroused by gunfire, it was reacting in blind panic. Seeing the pale oval of Slade’s face, it lashed out. Quick as it was, however, Slade was quicker. Also fueled by panic, his hand streaked out, caught it in mid-flight and gripped its squirming coils just beneath its dripping fangs. The gunmen were almost at the car. The thunder of gunfire was deafening. The rusted frame was so full of holes Slade feared it might collapse on him. In an act of desperation, he rolled onto his side, cocked his arm, then tossed the snake over the car and into the midst of the approaching gunmen.
He watched it strike the chest of the man in the middle. It reached up and bit him in the throat before it dropped to the ground and attacked the calf of a second man. Shouts of terror erupted as they jumped back to avoid the wriggling, lunging serpent.
That was all the edge Slade needed.
Remaining concealed in the grass, his automatic in his right fist, he squirmed forward, rested his hand on his left palm, and pulled the trigger. Distracted by the snake, the men were taken by surprise as Slade’s gun bucked and spit flame. A chest ripped apart in a grisly spray of blood and bone fragments. A skull exploded, splattering blood and brains over the two men on either side. Blinded and disgusted, they hesitated. A fatal mistake. Slade’s mouth warped in a cold grin as he pulled the trigger. One went down coughing and gagging with a shattered throat, spraying the weeds with a crimson wash. The other sank to his knees with a bullet in his guts. As his head slumped forward, Slade put a second slug in the top of his head.
Eyes rolling with terror, the fifth gunman glared at the mangled bodies sprawled in grotesque heaps in the blood-spattered grass. He screamed, spun around, and started running across the lot. Slade aimed carefully, his gun roared, and the bullet caught the man between the shoulder blades, lifted him off his feet and hurled him five feet through the air to land face down in the grass. His boots drummed the earth for a second, then he lay still.
The strident scream of sirens cut through the thunder of gunfire still echoing through the night. Shaking slightly from reaction, Slade rose to his feet, snapped out the spent clip, rammed in a fresh one, slid the gun back into its holster, then brushed himself off.
Two squad cars raced around the corner on two wheels and skidded to a screeching halt in the middle of the street. With the cessation of gunfire, residents were streaming from their homes around the neighborhood, and patrons emptied the bars up on the main street. As crowds gathered on the sidewalks on either side of the vacant lot, policemen jumped from their cars with their guns up and ready. Slade stood quietly with his hands in the air. He was relieved to see the tall, broad-shouldered form of Jeff Connolly step out of one of the cars and speak to the officers.
“Stand down, men. I know this man. Cordon off the perimeter, call the coroner, and start getting statements from any witnesses.”
