In the Moon of Red Ponies bbh-4 Page 22

  He rolled a fish-and-game magazine into a telescopic tube and stared through it at Mount Sentinel. “You gonna be my official lawyer?”

  “I’ll think about it. Why’d you call me yesterday?” I asked.

  “Except for running a little weed and boosting a few cars when I was a kid, I was never a criminal in the reg’lar sense. But I done enough time in enough joints to know everything that goes on in a criminal mind. You and me been going at all this stuff all wrong, Brother Holland.”

  “How’s that?”

  “From my reconnoitering efforts and hands-on intelligence gathering, I’ve figured out Greta Lundstrum probably has done got a whole shithouse of grief dropped on her by parties known or unknown. She was running the security system for that research lab that got busted into, and the guy who owns it, this fellow Karsten Mabus, wants his goods back. So it was her brought all these magpies into Missoula and got Lester Antelope killed and a shank stuck in my leg. Being that I stuck something in Miss Greta on a couple of occasions, my injury probably give her a special pleasure.”

  “For a guy with no badge, you’re not half bad, Wyatt,” I said.

  “You ain’t hearing me, counselor. Them people want their goods. They tortured Antelope but didn’t get what they wanted. They’re gonna come after you next, ’cause they think you’re hooked up with the Indians. When that don’t work, they’re gonna have to decide if they’re gonna keep using American Horse’s wife as bait or go after her personally.”

  “Amber as bait?”

  “Why you think they ain’t grabbed holt of her already? They’re using her to get to American Horse. My bet is them government motherfuckers got their hand in this somewhere, too.”

  “The Feds don’t work that way.”

  He laughed and studied the mountain through his rolled magazine.

  That afternoon, Darrel McComb came into my office, twirling a porkpie hat impatiently on his finger. “You think Dixon is a hero?” he said.

  “He saved my wife’s life.”

  “Maybe he was behind her accident, too.”

  I waited for him to go on, but he didn’t. I set down the pen I was writing with. “I don’t have anything else to do. I’ll bite,” I said.

  “Our mechanic says somebody punched a hole in your brake line.”

  “You’re sure. It wasn’t hit by a rock or-”

  “It was a clean cut, about a quarter way through the line. The mechanic says maybe it was done with wire cutters or tin snips.”

  My mouth felt dry, my stomach sick. “It wasn’t Dixon,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  I could feel anger rising in me at his deliberate obtuseness, his 1950s crew cut, his small, downturned mouth, his jockstrap aggressiveness. “The man can’t swim, but he dove in the river and almost got himself killed. On another subject, what’s the nature of your relationship with Greta Lundstrum, anyway?” I said.

  “My relationship?”

  “You two seem to be an item. Bad timing, if you ask me. You know, conflict of interest, sleeping with the enemy, that sort of thing?”

  “You want to repeat that more slowly?”

  “I think she hired the guys who attacked Dixon. I think you know it, too.”

  “You’re out of line.”

  “The same people who killed Lester Antelope probably sabotaged my truck. But for some reason you’ve got a perpetual hard-on about Dixon. Maybe you ought to get your priorities straight.”

  “I heard you accidentally shot and killed your partner down on the border. That’s too bad. I guess carrying something like that around could make anybody a full-time asshole,” he said.

  It had been pointless and self-defeating to take my anger out on Darrel McComb. I’d come to appreciate the fact that he was a better cop than he was given credit for, and in all probability he would eventually home in on the people who had murdered Lester Antelope. But in the meantime I had no idea how or when the brake-fluid line on my truck had been cut, and I had no investigative authority to depend on except McComb. That evening, I examined the floor of the garage where my truck had been parked. There was a single drip line across the cement where Temple had backed onto the driveway, which indicated that the damage to the truck had been done inside the garage, perhaps during the day, while we were at work.

  The intruder had no way of knowing who would drive the truck later or the kind of accident, if any, the perforated brake line would cause. It was meant, in almost arbitrary fashion, as either a warning or a mortal distraction, whichever came first. The intent was obviously to change our behavior.

  I believed the network of assassins or mercenaries responsible for Seth Masterson’s and Lester Antelope’s deaths were becoming better at what they did. They wouldn’t repeat their mistakes or misjudge their adversaries as they had Johnny, Wyatt Dixon, and even Lester Antelope, who had put up a ferocious fight before he died. I believed they would soon abduct another victim, take that person to a remote location, allow him or her to consider the possibility that not all of us are descended from the same tree, and this time extract the information they needed.

  My guess was their interrogations were not aimed at pliant subjects. They would choose someone whose principles were such that the subject’s surrendering of them under ordeal would leave no doubt as to their validity. The images that swam before my eyes were like those in crude medieval drawings depicting the fate of those who suffered at the king’s pleasure. In terms of evil, I had come to think of Wyatt Dixon as an amateur.

  That evening I drove west on Highway 12, along Lolo Creek, through mountains and patches of meadowland that were a dark green from evening shade and the wheel lines spraying creekwater above the alfalfa. It was the same route Meriwether Lewis, William Rogers Clark, and the young Indian woman Sacagawea had taken to Oregon, and Lolo Peak was still blue and massive and snowcapped against the sky, just as it was two centuries ago when a million-acre fire could burn and extinguish itself without one human being ever witnessing the event.

  But the fires on the far side of Lolo Pass were eating huge tracts of forest now and incinerating homesteads, and I could see their glow beyond the mountains as I turned off the highway into a manicured ranch set back in domed-shaped hills that reminded me of women’s breasts. The railed fences were painted white, as were the horse barns, which looked more like Kentucky breeding stables than structures on a working Montana ranch. But the main house was even more incongruent with its surroundings than the displaced barns and hot-walker rings. The house was not simply large; its size was far greater than any individual or group of individuals could possibly make use of in a lifetime.

  It was built of cedar and river stone, with cathedral ceilings, the windows orange in the sunset, as though the season were fall rather than summer, the galleries strung with baskets of chrysanthemums rather than petunias. But the alpine design was out of kilter. Shaved and lacquered ponderosa had been used as columns on the front porch, in imitation of Jefferson’s architectural experiments, so that the entrance looked like the gaping mouth of a man with wood teeth.

  There were other aspects of Karsten Mabus’s home that were even more unusual. A sweathouse constructed of dark stone, dripping with moisture, stood not far from a swimming pool shaped with undulating curves that were obviously meant to suggest the outline of a woman. Bronze dolphins mounted on stanchions ringed the pool, along with palm, bottlebrush, and banana trees that grew in redwood tubs. The pool was sky-blue, coated with steam, and at the far end a white-jacketed waiter with oiled black hair stood behind an array of liquor bottles and colored drink glasses clinking with light.

  As I got out of my car a young woman, absolutely naked, walked out of the steamhouse, her skin threaded with sweat, and dove into the pool. Then two others emerged from the steamhouse, also naked, pushing back the hair on their heads, and dove into the pool, too. The three of them swam in tandem to the far end, taking long strokes, breathing effortlessly to one side like professional swimmers, the wat
er sliding across their tanned buttocks. They paused under the diving platform, grasping the tile trough, while the waiter stooped down and placed three frothy pink drinks before them. They did not speak to one another or to the waiter, as though each of them was involved in a solipsistic activity that had no connection to anyone else.

  If Karsten Mabus employed security personnel on the grounds, neither their dress nor their functions showed it. Gardeners and ranch hands came and went; a carpenter hammered nails on a roof; a maid carried jars of sun tea from a picnic table into the kitchen. I had no appointment, nor had I called before coming to his house. But he met me at the door as though I were not only expected but welcome.

  “You’re taking me up on my offer?” he said.

  “To sell ranch properties? No, sir.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Come in, come in.” He closed the door behind me, his hand on my arm. “You’ve given me an excuse to get rid of my current guest.”

  Inside the huge living room, under a vaulted ceiling, sat a gelatinous pile of a man in a white suit. His head was large and bald, marked with soft blue depressions, like those in a premature baby. His lips were the color of old liver, his skin so pale he looked as though the blood had been drained from his veins. I could hear his lungs wheezing under the massive weight on his chest. “I’ll be with you in just a minute, Emile,” Mabus said to him.

  Mabus picked up a whiskey and soda from a table and walked me into a mahogany-paneled hallway that led deep into the house’s interior. “I’ll give you the whole tour in a minute. Let me get rid of this fellow first. In the meantime, entertain yourself with anything you want back here,” he said.

  “I need to talk to you now, Mr. Mabus.”

  “You will, you will. Did you see those three lovelies splashing about in the pool? Like to meet one of them?” he said.

  He held his eyes on mine, suppressing a grin, then suddenly broke into a laugh. He smacked me on the arm. “I had you going, didn’t I? Those are Emile’s unholy trinity. Their collective IQ is less than their thong size, that is, when they wear one. If you think they’re an embarrassment in the pool, how would you like to have them walking around in your house? At a formal dinner with the Vice President of the United States,” he said.

  He laughed so hard he had to hold on to my shoulder.

  Then he was gone, back with his guest, standing over him, the two of them chatting in front of the dead fireplace, sharing drinks from a decanter of whiskey, the mountainous world outside little more than a backdrop for their conversation.

  The labyrinthine interior of the house seemed to dwarf its own contents, which included a bowling alley, a handball court, a playroom for children (the walls garish with cartoon art), a swimming pool divided by a volleyball net, an exercise room, and a library tiered to the ceiling with shelves of leather-bound, gold-embossed books and classics that had been purchased in sets.

  But I couldn’t find a bathroom. A side door in the library gave onto a darkened bedroom, one that upon first glance appeared windowless. I used the half bath inside it, washed my hands, and came back out, not looking in a deliberate way at the decor in a room whose privacy I was violating. But this room was different from the others, its sybaritic ambiance unmistakable.

  The walls were covered with red and black velvet stamped with silver designs of nymphs, mermaids, satyrs, and, on the ceiling, a depiction of Leda being raped by the Swan. The water bed and the pillows on it were sheathed in black satin. In the center of one wall was an abbreviated red velvet curtain that seemed to have no purpose. I parted the curtain slightly and looked through a fixed glass window onto a recessed boxing ring and a cockfighting pit.

  When I returned to the living room, Karsten Mabus was saying good-bye to his guest at the door. The gelatinous man who seemed to have no blood under his skin looked at the light in the sky the way ordinary people look for impending rain, then put on a straw hat and shook hands before walking toward the pool to gather his companions. I would have sworn Mabus and his friend were speaking in a Middle Eastern language, but perhaps it was my imagination.

  “Let me get you a drink, Mr. Holland,” he said.

  “No, thanks. I’ll make this quick. Someone has created some serious problems for my family. My son received a scholarship which he sorely needed, only to discover he wasn’t eligible. Then I got stung on a bail deal for two hundred thousand dollars. Yesterday the brake-fluid line on my truck was cut and my wife almost died in the Blackfoot River.”

  “I’m sorry to hear all this. Sit down.”

  “I’ll stand, thanks. My purpose is to tell you neither my wife, my son, nor I have anything you want or need. We don’t know the whereabouts of the files stolen from Global Research or even who stole them. We are of no value to you or people who might work for you.”

  He listened respectfully, nodding, taking a sip from his whiskey and soda before setting it down. He held his eyes on me, then began. “The research facility I own here is involved with genetically enhanced food production. Nothing else, sir. Our goal is to end starvation in the Third World. But for some reason probably known only to God, a bunch of fanatics have targeted my company as the source of all evil in the world. I don’t begrudge them their point of view, but I’d at least like to have a dialogue with them before they decide to burglarize my businesses and characterize me as the Antichrist.”

  “Leave us alone, Mr. Mabus.”

  He sat down on a couch even though I was still standing, his eyes searching the air as though he could not find the proper words to express his frustration.

  “Long ago I stopped trying to sort out all the ethical complications that accompany the operation of a national or global enterprise,” he said. “Today, my standard is simple: I protect myself from my enemies and try to do the greatest good for the greatest number of people possible and make an acceptable profit at the same time. Occasionally, that means doing business with people like Emile Asahari. You know who he is, don’t you?”

  “No,” I replied.

  “The third biggest independent arms dealer in the world. He provided over two million Chinese-manufactured AK-47 rifles to rival factions all over the Mideast. On one occasion, when he thought a particular regional war wasn’t being prosecuted vigorously enough, he paid a bounty for human ears. His business boomed. Sixty Minutes did a special on him.”

  “Not interested.”

  “You should be. Emile gets along very well with a lot of people in our government.”

  “I had my say, Mr. Mabus.”

  “You went in the little bedroom off the library, didn’t you? Don’t bother explaining. You went in there to use the bathroom. Your hands are still a little wet.” He jabbed his finger at me, his face breaking into a grin. “Got you again, didn’t I?”

  “You sure did.”

  He got up from the couch. “That bedroom looks like it was transported from a Marseilles whorehouse.” He started laughing. “But the house came like that. It was built for a notorious Hollywood sex freak who blew out his doors with speed he cooked down from diet pills. Come on, lighten up. The guy screwed every starlet in the business, then canceled his own ticket because his stomach was so big he couldn’t see his schlong.” He laughed until he had to wipe his eyes. “Anyway, that bedroom is scheduled to be remodeled next week. In the meantime, don’t leave here thinking you’ve just visited a theme park for sex addicts. I’m a decent guy. In fact, you may be looking at the next governor of Montana.”

  When I left, he was laughing so hard he could barely catch his breath. As I drove back toward the highway in the fading light, the wheel lines blowing haloes of water spray above Karsten Mabus’s pastures, I had to conclude that he was perhaps the most engaging man I had ever met. I also believed absolutely nothing he had told me.

  That night, while we slept, someone cinched a vinyl garbage bag over the head of my buckskin gelding and let him run himself to death in the darkness.

  Chapter 17

  I reported the Gel
ding’s death to Darrel McComb in the morning. He looked wired, distracted, his hands too busy on top of his desk. “You don’t have any idea who did it? An angry client, maybe some guy you defended on a traffic ticket who ended up in Deer Lodge?” he said.

  “You think this is funny?”

  “I’m on the desk, if you haven’t noticed. I can’t do anything for you.”

  “You’re a good cop, Darrel. You’re the one guy in here who can help me.”

  He twisted a pencil between his fingers. Two wire baskets filled with traffic reports and time sheets rested on his desk. He wore a starched white collar that was biting into his neck. He pulled at his collar and glanced through the opening in his cubicle. “Romulus Finley wanted me to get rid of Johnny American Horse for him. I thought it was because he wanted Johnny out of Amber’s life. Now I’m not so sure.”

  “Get rid of him?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Go back over that. You’re not sure about what?”

  “I thought Finley was bent out of joint because his daughter was the regular hump for an Indian. But I think the real deal is the break-in at Global Research. I got played on that, too.”

  “By whom?”

  “My own Johnson. I’m going to lock it in a vault.”

  “Greta Lundstrum played you?”

  “No, guys like me get to sleep with Sharon Stone. You really blow my head, Holland.”

  I went down to the Federal Building on East Broadway and tried to talk to either an FBI or an ATF agent and got nowhere. But I wasn’t surprised. All the personnel there knew I had been Johnny American Horse’s attorney, and right now, in their mind, he was not only the man who had killed Seth Masterson, he was taking on the supernatural properties of a mythological hero at their expense.

  There were many stories about Johnny’s elusiveness. He was seen everywhere and nowhere. Some speculated he had died from a fall or hypothermia high up in the Missions or from drowning in the Tongue River Reservoir. A trucker said an Indian fitting Johnny’s description had hitched a ride with him over Lookout Pass into the old mining-and-brothel town of Wallace, Idaho, then hooked up with a gang of bikers on their way to Sturgis, South Dakota-in the opposite direction. A rancher who raised buffalo as commercial beef by West Yellowstone, hundreds of miles away, claimed he’d seen wolves tearing apart a cow in his pasture. When he drove his truck at them in the darkness, blowing his horn, a man in a loincloth, his body streaked with blood, had separated himself from the wolf pack and raced into the woods, a torn haunch over his shoulder.