Ice and Stone

Monday, January 7

10:00 a.m.

Allie Foxx had told me that the local tribal police had looked into the killings, but there was no copy of their report in the file the Sisters had provided. To my surprise, they had no office on the reservation. In Aspendale, however, I found that they had a small storefront in the middle of a side street. I introduced myself as Sharon McNear to its only occupant, a pleasant, stocky, middle-aged man named Herman Baldwing.

Baldwing looked like a cop, which he said he indeed had been for twenty years in Denver. “I was born on the rez here, but left to join the army when I was eighteen, then moved to Denver after my tour ended. But the city grew in ways I didn’t like, so I ended up back here. It’s a nice place — mostly.”

I was interested in the “mostly.”

Baldwing interrupted himself. “Where are my manners, as my ma used to ask? Please, sit down.” He motioned at one of the chairs in front of his desk.

I sat.

“So you’re interested in our dead girls?”

“Right. I came up here to write a travelogue, but I can’t represent the area as a tourist destination until I have an idea of how the investigation is going.”

He fiddled with a letter opener on his blotter. “The investigation is going exactly nowhere.”

“Why?”

“Because the murders didn’t happen on tribal land. We started to look into them and were told to butt out.”

“By whom?”

“The county sheriff, Noah Arneson. He also told the FBI to butt out, and they did. Not their jurisdiction; nobody — that they know of — had crossed state lines.”

“What about state authorities?”

“They respectfully declined. Their jurisdiction is over the highways. Neither girl was found by a highway. All we know is that we’ve lost two women in the prime years of their lives, and the authorities are stalling on finding out why.”

“Is it possible to get a look at your files?”

He spread his big arms wide. “I might allow it, if I still had them. But I don’t. They were confiscated.”

“By whom?”

“The sheriff, who else?”

“How can he do that?”

“The problem here, as I’ve said, is with overlapping jurisdictions. Sheriff Arneson can do anything he wants within the county. We can do anything we want on the reservation. But there have been crimes that have been perpetrated by white men against Native women on the reservation, and when the men left the tribal lands they were immune from prosecution.”

“That’s unbelievable!”

He nodded. “And archaic, but until the lawmakers wake up and do something about it, our hands are tied.”

“These lawmakers—”

“Are politicians. They don’t want to offend their base. Look at how long it took to nominate a Black man for the state supreme court.”

He was right about the whole scenario, but it made my blood boil. I controlled my anger and said, “If I have any other questions, may I call on you again?”

“Definitely. And good luck to you.”

10:35 a.m.

After I left Baldwing’s office, I debated going to the county seat to interview Sheriff Arneson and find out if he was as much of a horse’s ass as Baldwing and Henry Howling Wolf had indicated, but I decided against it. From all indications he was aggressive and unpleasantly territorial. Given my present agitated state, a confrontation might result. And if my loosely constructed cover story didn’t convince him, he’d probably make my life hell or sabotage my investigation in any way he could.

There was one man I could trust to give me facts about the county, so on the way into town I called Hal Bascomb, Hy’s old friend who ran the airstrip. We hadn’t had a chance to talk much when I flew in on Saturday, and now seemed like a good time if he was available.

It was another cold, mostly clear day — good flying weather if there was no snow in the forecast — and Hal was at the airstrip. He said he’d be glad to come get me and that we could talk there. “The only traffic I’ve got is a student wobbling around, trying to figure out how to steer the trainer,” he said.

“Are you sure it’s safe to leave him?”

“Sure. If he steers into the ditch, he can learn how to pull it out.”

10:55 a.m.

Hal picked me up in front of the Good Price Store, swung a U-turn, and headed back up the highway.

“Your student still wobbling?” I asked.

“Oh yeah. He shouldn’t be wasting his money on lessons, ’cause he’ll never make it as a pilot. Tries to steer with the yoke like you do a car, thinks the rudders are for braking. I tried to discourage him, but he’s determined — and I need cash customers.”

We arrived at the airstrip on the bluff above Aspendale, and soon we were seated inside the largest of the three Quonset huts in big old chairs by the wood stove. Hal provided coffee, looked out the door at the wobbler, and shook his head. He said, “So you want the dope on our little piece of heaven. Or hell, as the case may be.”

“From a reliable source like you.”

“Where should I start?”

“Anyplace.”

“Okay. I’m not from here, you know. Grew up in Oklahoma. Took up crop dusting there. Avoided a couple of wars, and then your hubby and I engaged in some... let’s call them shenanigans... in Southeast Asia. After that I’d had enough of taking risks, so I looked around for someplace ‘peaceful,’ found out this strip was for sale, and here I am.”

“You stressed the word ‘peaceful.’”

“Yes, I did.”

The UNICOM crackled and Hal spoke into it. “Okay, tie her down.” He lowered the volume and said, “The Wobbler, asking permission to proceed to the tie-downs. Do you see any traffic out there? Does he need permission?”

I smiled, shook my head.

“Anyway,” he went on, “we were talking about peaceful. Not. This is cowboy country. Bar-brawl country. I don’t know how many times I’ve had to persuade drunks from taking off in their — or other people’s — planes.”

“How’d you persuade them?”

He grinned. “I used to be a golfer, and I still have a set of clubs.”

“The sheriff ever interfere with what goes on up here?”

“Arneson? Hell no. He knows about my golf clubs and stays away.”

“So what about other airstrips in the area?”

“Lots of them, but most are private — on ranches or big estates. The Harcourt place — or SupremeCourt, as they call it — is one example. Paved runway, lights, self-service fuel.”

“Who are the Harcourts?”

“Rich ranchers, run cattle on a few thousand acres. I don’t know them personally; they keep to themselves.”

“How many of them are there?”

“Three. The father, Ben Harcourt — known in these parts as the Old Man — is a widower; his wife died years ago. The sons, Paul and Kurt, are in their thirties or forties.”

The “Old Man” must be the one Gene and Vic worked for.

“Do you know anything about their employees? Particularly a pair of men named Gene and Vic?”

He paused. “I’m not personally acquainted with either of them, but I know thugs when I see some.”

“What do they do at the ranch?”

“Beats me. Mainly when I see them, it’s in town.”

“They ever show up here?”

“Nope. Like I said, that bunch keeps to themselves, and that includes the employees. Sorry I can’t tell you more. When I said I came up here for peace and quiet, I meant it.”

Hal and I had another cup of coffee and did some catching up on his, Hy’s, and my varied activities. He’d turned into a glider enthusiast and offered to take me up. I said maybe, but meant no. I don’t mind the capricious winds that buffet airplanes, but I don’t trust updrafts and downdrafts when I don’t have an engine to rely on.

12:28 p.m.

Back in Aspendale, I walked along the main street, looking for someone else to talk with. There was a lumberyard, a fairly large one, at the eastern edge of town, and near the front gate, two men were lifting sheets of plywood onto a flatbed truck. I wandered down there, stopped close by to watch them.

It didn’t take long for both men to notice me. The closest looked longest, but I couldn’t tell if he was staring at my face or the pendant around my neck.

I said, “When you’re done there, maybe one of you could help me.”

The one who’d stared at me paused in his loading. “Help you how?” According to a logo on the shirt he wore, he was an employee of the lumberyard. He was the younger of the two, with a tanned face marred by a jagged scar above his right eyebrow and thick black hair down to his shoulders. The other, perhaps in his late forties, was bald, with a fringe of red hair, a flushed face, and an enormous belly.

“I’m interested in what grades of lumber you carry, and what has to be special-ordered.”

“Sure. This won’t take long.”

When he finished and came out to talk, he gave me the usual male once-over and seemed to like what he saw. “So, what are you thinking of doing with this lumber?” he asked.

“I’ve been toying with having a cabin built in the area.”

“Oh, where?”

“I haven’t gotten that far yet. I’m a travel writer, doing a piece on the county, and the idea of a getaway cabin has always interested me. I’m at a motel right now, and it isn’t too great.”

“Which one?”

“The E-Z Rest.”

He made a face. “A dump.”

“It is, but for now it’s all right.”

“Where is it you want to get away from?”

“The Bay Area.”

“Well, I don’t blame you. As for lumber, we carry the standard varieties — pine, oak, redwood. You want anything exotic like mahogany, we can order it.”

I laughed, returning his appreciative look with one of my own. “I don’t think mahogany would fit in with a rustic cabin motif — or my budget.”

“You have an architect?”

“What I’m thinking of doesn’t require an architect.”

“You’ll need a real estate agent, though. I can recommend—”

“Maybe on my next trip here. Right now I’ve got to familiarize myself with the area and write my article.”

“I gotcha.”

To prolong the conversation, I said, “I was also wondering about snow tires for my car. There’s already been some snow, and I wonder what kind you’d recommend I buy?”

“That would depend on what kind of car you have, how far you want to drive, and other factors.”

“I see. I don’t have it here with me, but I’ll have a Jeep pretty soon.”

“A good vehicle for these parts.” His gaze lowered. “That’s a nice pendant you’re wearing.”

“Thanks, Mr.—”

“Blue. Jake Blue.” One of the hunters who had found the bodies. “And your name is?”

“Sharon McNear.”

“Well, Sharon, how about I buy you a beer at the Brews? Say about four?”

“At the... Oh, the bar over there.” I motioned toward the nearby building.

“Yeah. A good way to wind down the day.”

“That sounds fine.”

As I walked away, I wondered about Jake Blue’s reaction to the pendant. Had he recognized it? Known who the owner was? Or that Henry Howling Wolf had made it? Was his interest in me only the reaction of a man to a new woman in town, or something else? Well, one way or another, I’d find out this afternoon.

2:21 p.m.

After a late lunch I made a few purchases in the hardware store that would make me feel more secure in the shack: a sturdy length of chain, two new padlocks, a heavy-duty hasp, and the tools to install them. The man who rang me up was as uncommunicative as the one in the food store. I assumed it was because they didn’t care for Native women.

4:01 p.m.

Billiards ’n Brews, aka the Brews, was housed in a long corrugated iron building that might once have been a warehouse. Inside it was dimly lit and hollowly echoed the sounds of two men playing dice at the bar. Two pool tables sat unused. Booths lined the side walls, and in one of them Jake Blue sat, a pitcher of beer and two glasses in front of him.

“You’re a minute late,” he said, smiling. “I hate to be separated from my first beer of the day that long.”

“Pour! Drink!” I smiled back and sat down across from him.

We drank. His eyes left mine; this time I knew he was looking at the pendant. Abruptly he said, “I have to ask you about that pendant you’re wearing.”

“Yes?”

“Where’d you get it? It doesn’t look new.”

“Found it.”

“Oh? Where?”

“On one of my walks in the woods.”

“My sister, Josie, had one like it. It’s pretty rare.”

“Henry Howling Wolf told me he only made three, one for a woman who died. Would that be your sister?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry, Jake.”

“So am I.” His voice was bitter. “Josie loved her pendant, hardly ever took it off. It was buried with her. Who did this one belong to?”

“I don’t know.” I didn’t add that it probably belonged to Henry’s girlfriend, Sally Bee.

Jake took another swallow of beer. “So what did you do after you left the lumberyard?” he asked.

“Wandered.”

“Now that would be the life — wandering.”

“I don’t have anything better to do. I’m just waiting... well, maybe for an insight.”

“Huh?”

“Into which way my article’s going to go. I was told something today that makes me wonder if I’ve come to the wrong place.”

“Oh? What?”

“About Native women being killed around here.”

“Yeah. That.” He expelled his breath harshly, took a long drink of beer.

“The person who told me didn’t offer any details. Would you mind telling me about it?”

“I guess not, if you want me to. So happens I found them.”

“Oh no!”

“Yeah. The way it went, my buddy Bart Upstream and I were out hunting. Pheasant season. There’s an old monastery that’s a good place for birds. So we were moving along, real quiet like, and I practically stumbled over Sam Runs Close on the ground with a bullet hole in her forehead.”

“Runs Close? Who was she?”

“Good kid. Kind of strident when she got her back up about Indigenous women’s rights, but her heart was in the right place.” He finished his beer, poured more into his glass. “Then Bart yells, and there’s Dierdra Two Shoes, dead too.”

“Must’ve been awful for you.”

“Christ, yes, but seeing Dierdra was worse on Bart. They’d been involved pretty heavy a couple of years ago. Of course, that was over quick enough when she started going out on him.”

“Going out? With whom?”

“Don’t know. All of a sudden, little Dierdra wasn’t available any more. Who told you about the murders, anyway?”

“Somebody in one of the stores. A tourist, I think, who was kind of freaked out by it.”

“Well, it’s damn freaky, all right.”

“Do you have any idea who committed the murders? Or why?”

“It’s got to be somebody who hates Natives, hates women. Maybe...” Jake paused, anger coloring his face. “Maybe one of the Harcourts.”

“Who’re they?”

“Big cattle ranchers, own a forty-five-thousand-acre spread out past the buttes.”

I made an effort to underplay my interest. “I’ve noticed there are a lot of ranches in the area.”

“Not so many as there used to be.”

“How come?”

“Ben Harcourt has been buying out the others. It’s like he wants to own all the grazing land.”

“He’s not somebody new in the area, is he?”

“Nope. One of the old-timers.”

“An old man?”

He laughed without humor. “Ben’s not that old — he’s probably no more than sixty. But everybody calls him the Old Man.”

“What’s he like?”

“Autocratic. Acts like he’s trying to establish a dynasty. You’d think he’d have more sense, given the quality of his sons. Well, Kurt’s not so bad, but I don’t think his interests are in cattle. He’s got an education from some eastern college, used to teach at USC. Chemistry, or something like that.”

“Why’d he come back here?”

Jake rubbed his fingers together. “Money, baby. Daddy called, and Kurt said, ‘Yessir.’ Now, his brother Paul is a piece of work. Or maybe I shouldn’t link the word ‘work’ to him. Lazy son of a bitch, hangs out all day at the Back Woods Casino. Most nights, the whole damn family’s there.”

“I gather you don’t like them.”

“Not one bit. Assholes, all three of them.”

“What about the guys who work for them — Gene and Vic? I ran into them at the Good Price Store and they offered to buy me a beer.”

“Gene Byram and Vic Long. Yeah, the same applies. You should stay away from them. They’re bad news.”

“I’ll keep a wide berth. Is the Back Woods a Native casino?”

“No. It’s an illegal operation, owned by some of the powerful white interests around here. Probably that’s why they hang there; they hate Natives. According to the Old Man, our people are the worst thing that ever happened to America.”

“He doesn’t have too much of a grasp of history, does he?”

“Nope.”

“Where is this casino?”

“You planning on going there?”

“Maybe. I’d like to get a look at the Harcourts.”

“Why?”

“Well, they’re prominent citizens in the area. I might want to mention them in my article.”

“The Harcourts are against any sort of publicity. Besides, you’d stand out at the casino.”

“Why?”

“You’re Native, aren’t you?”

“Yes — Shoshone. But I was raised by a white family, who claimed I was a ‘throwback’ to a Native ancestor. I only found out about my roots in my thirties.”

“That must’ve been a shock.”

“It was, but after I’d tracked down my birth parents, I suspected I’d known all along that something wasn’t right. And now I have two families and love them both.”

“Well, Natives aren’t welcome there, women or men.” He studied my face. “Of course, if you were raised white, you’ve got the right mannerisms. They’ll put up with Natives if they clean up nice.”

“I clean up nice, when I want to.”

“Maybe you’ll get by, then. The casino isn’t all that fancy.”

“Do you go there?”

“Hell, no. I avoid the place like the plague.” He took a fresh napkin from the holder and drew me a map through the surrounding forest. “It’s about a fifteen- or twenty-minute walk. You need me for anything, I’ll be right here, probably in this same booth. In fact, why don’t you meet me at around eleven, let me know what you found out.”

“Okay. See you then.”

8:21 p.m.

I selected a pair of black jeans and a red silk blouse from the limited wardrobe I’d brought along and coiled my hair into a knot on top of my head. I put on my own parka, which was in far better shape than the Sisters’, a wool cap, and gloves. Before leaving the shack, I placed the plastic packet containing my identification and .38 in an inside pocket.

Following the directions I’d gotten from Jake Blue, I set out through the forest, my flashlight showing the way. The night was bitter cold, and there were patches of ice that I was extra careful to avoid. I hoped it wouldn’t snow again before I got back.

I wasn’t planning to gamble at the casino. Fortunately, gambling is one of the vices left out of my makeup. But I would attempt to connect with the Harcourt family if they were there.

The casino was housed in a big geodesic dome with several smaller ones attached. I’d seen its garish flashing lights reflected on the trees from at least half a mile away. Music filled the surrounding forest — a monotonous rock beat. Cars and trucks were parked helter-skelter in the dirt lot, and a few people huddled together outside, smoking or indulging in whatever was their pleasure.

There was a doorman at the entrance to the big dome who looked at me skeptically but made no attempt to stop me from entering. Inside, a pair of blond, fur-coated women shied away from me as if I had a communicable disease. The place was crowded with similar white types. They acted as if I smelled bad.

Actually it was the casino itself that smelled bad; it reeked of smoke, both tobacco and marijuana. Smoking in public establishments is illegal in California, but then so is gambling, except on the reservations. That hadn’t stopped them here.

Tables — blackjack, poker, roulette — crowded the dome, and there were banks of slot machines. Waitresses in scanty red outfits and preposterously high heels served drinks to the players and kibitzers. Chips clattered, bells bonged, shouts went up from the tables. Women in workers’ gloves pulled tirelessly at the handles of slots. Dim lighting gave permission for people to perform acts that they never would have in the privacy of their own homes: men fingered cocktail waitresses’ asses; women cozied up to much younger men; drinks spilled, bettors staggered, arguments erupted. And yet there was a kind of innocence about all this frantic activity: they were greedy children on the playground before the final bell rang.

As I stood looking around, a young brown-haired man in a security guard’s uniform approached me. “Ms. McNear?” he asked.

“Yes?” I said warily.

“I’m Tom Williams, a friend of Jake Blue. He called and told me you’d be in. Said you were interested in the Harcourts.”

I smiled and shook his hand, concealing my annoyance at Jake’s interference. Did he think I needed help in finding the Harcourts? Or was he checking up on me for some reason?

Williams and I walked through the main room, which also contained two cocktail lounges and a large snack bar. As we went, I was on the receiving end of a few dark looks that reminded me yet again of the prevailing attitude toward Natives. A man in a denim jacket started to jostle me, then turned away when he saw I was with Williams.

The reactions surprised me. I had seldom been the target of blatant racism before. I’d been raised in a section of San Diego where white, Hispanic, Black, and various other races lived in relative harmony. In college at UC Berkeley being a person of color was considered a plus. And San Francisco was much the same. Here, however, my eyes were being opened to all sorts of negative behaviors.

“This is where the action is,” Tom said. “See that blond gent over there at the craps table? That’s Paul Harcourt, tonight’s big winner.”

An impressive pile of chips sat in front of Harcourt, and a small crowd of onlookers were cheering him on. He was tall, well over six feet, and handsome, with a trim, athletic body clothed in what reminded me of a 1970s leisure suit. He laughed a lot with his audience, his blue eyes crinkling at their corners, his ultra-white teeth flashing. He raked in chips and laughed some more, and when he cashed out, he left a generous tip for the croupier.

“Aren’t his family major stakeholders in the casino?” I asked Tom.

“Sure, they practically live here. He’ll join the rest of the family in the cocktail lounge.”

“I’d like to meet them.”

“I’m not sure they’ll welcome a journalist, but I’ll introduce you.”

In the lounge, Paul Harcourt sat down in a booth with a silver-haired older man and another blond man who looked enough like him to be his twin. Tom and I loitered near the entrance as the waitress delivered them draft beers.

“The Old Man,” Tom said, “is supposedly very ill — kidney trouble, arrhythmia, bladder problems. But that could change; I hear that he’s going to start having some experimental treatments pretty soon.”

“Oh? What kind?”

“Don’t know.” He steered me closer.

Paul Harcourt’s eyes focused on me, narrowed. He elbowed the white-haired man next to him, and they both stared. Then the other man shrugged and looked away. Still staring at me, Paul started to get up, then changed his mind and stayed put.

Tom said, “Hi, folks. This is Sharon McNear, a journalist who’s here to do a travel piece on the county.”

The Harcourts exchanged looks. The Old Man shook his head. Paul said, “We don’t encourage publicity.”

I said, “Not even in the interests of improving tourism in this area?”

“We get plenty of tourists in season.”

The other blond, who I assumed was his brother, Kurt, added, “You can’t judge a place by what it’s like in January.”

“But I can extrapolate what it’s like at the height of the summer season.”

“I’m not so sure there is such a thing as the summer season here.”

Tom gave me a look that said, “You’re on your own,” and moved away from me.

“Meruk County’s been unfairly ignored by the press,” I said to the Old Man. “I understand your family owns a large cattle ranch, Mr. Harcourt, which is why I wanted to meet you. Ranching is a primary business here, isn’t it?”

“That’s right. It’s our lifeblood.”

“I also understand you have a large airstrip. I imagine it’s necessary to patrol your land from a plane.”

He nodded. Kurt said, “Patrolling by air is standard procedure on a ranch as large as ours. Cattle... well, frankly, they’re not very well endowed with brains or good sense. They wander off, get in trouble, and then it’s up to us to rescue them. We pinpoint the location and then send the ranch hands out.”

“Do all three of you fly, Mr. Harcourt?”

Ben Harcourt said sharply, “You don’t intend to write about us, do you?”

“Well, I hear you’re very prominent citizens.”

“We value our privacy, miss.”

“So we’d rather you didn’t use our names in your article,” Paul added with a scowl.

Kurt’s manner was less hostile. “If you want to mention cattle ranching, I can put you in touch with some knowledgeable people in the county agriculture department.”

“All right. Thank you.”

Then the Old Man drained his drink and said to his sons, ignoring me, “It’s getting late. If you boys don’t mind, I’ll ask Andy to drive me home now.”

“Sure, Dad.” They spoke in unison and stood up. Paul helped him from the booth. The Old Man tried to protest but gave in as his son guided him out into the lobby.

Kurt said, “I need to be going too. Thanks for your interest, Ms. McNear.”

“Wait. The story will run in the San Francisco Chronicle and the Sacramento Bee. The L.A. Times too, although we haven’t firmed up our agreement yet. That’s excellent coverage.” Fortunately I had friends and acquaintances at many newspapers who would back up any inquiries.

“I’m sorry. As my father said, we have no interest in publicity.”

I watched as he joined his brother and they went outside.

10:05 p.m.

Jake Blue was sitting in the same booth as before, staring into a half-full beer stein when I arrived at Billiards ’n Brews. The place was doing a fair amount of business, the jukebox playing retro rock, but nobody was dancing. The patrons slouched in their chairs, some chatting with their companions but most not. A curiously subdued scene.

Jake ordered a beer for me. Then he said, “You have a good time at the casino?”

“I wouldn’t call it that, but your friend Tom put me in touch with the Harcourts. Thanks to you.”

“I hope you don’t mind my asking him to help you out.”

“Depends on why you did.”

“Just wanted to make sure you were okay. That casino can be a pretty rough place for a Native. What did you think of the Harcourt bunch?”

“I couldn’t get a good read on them. They’re unusually shy of publicity.”

“They should be. The Old Man used to mix it up pretty much — bar brawls, started wrecking cars back in the nineties.”

“Drunk driving?”

“Oh yeah. Drunk and entitled — bad combination. Both of the boys there too?”

“Yes, but they’re hardly boys.”

“They are to me. Two cases of arrested development. Overprivileged, overeducated bastards with more money than good sense.”

“They really make you angry. Why?”

For a few seconds he stared down at his beer glass, and his fingers tightened on it. He took a deep swallow, expelled his breath slowly.

Finally he said, “My sister, Josie, was killed four years ago. I think one of them might have done it.”

10:27 p.m.

Over our drinks, Jake told me about his sister’s murder. Josie had gotten her degree in education from UC Berkeley and returned to teach on the elementary level in the Meruk schools. Four years ago, her body had been found in the woods a mile or so from where the two other Indigenous women later died; she’d been roughed up and strangled. No one had ever been arrested for the crime.

Could her murder be related to the recent murders? It seemed unlikely because of the four-year time difference and the fact that the methods were not the same. Still, it was possible that there was some sort of connection.

“I still don’t understand why you think one of the Harcourts was responsible,” I said. “Were they friends of Josie’s? Did she date one of the sons? Did she owe them money?”

“She didn’t believe in borrowing money. She may have dated one of the sons, I’m not sure. She was seen with either Paul or Kurt shortly before she died.”

“With either Paul or Kurt?”

“The person who saw them wasn’t sure. It was from a distance and they look a lot alike.”

“Josie didn’t say anything to you about it?”

“No. When we were growing up together, she was open, confided in me, but after she came back from Berkeley, all that had changed. She was very private. No, more than private — secretive.”

“Were you able to get a look at the sheriff’s department’s files of their investigation?”

He laughed bitterly. “They didn’t want to release them to me, even though I was her next of kin. They gave in when I mentioned the Freedom of Information Act. Stupid bastards didn’t know that it only applies on the federal level.”

“Did you keep the copies?”

“Sure I did.”

“May I see them?”

“Why? You’re not going to write about Josie’s murder?”

“No. Call it journalistic curiosity. But I am going to mention the murders of the Native women.”

“What for?”

I decided to go with the most believable explanation. “I’m Native myself and I have a vested interest.”

He was silent for a time, glowering into his glass. Then he said, “All right, you can see the files. But I want them back.”

“Of course.”

“I could bring them to you at the E-Z Rest.”

“I’d prefer to pick them up at your place.”

He frowned, then shrugged. I could tell that talking of his sister’s murder had taken a lot out of him; all the flirtatiousness he’d displayed when we first met was gone. “All right,” he said listlessly. He signed a tab that lay on the table, and we left the Brews.

It was a short walk to a side street where he entered a small, brown-shingled cottage and returned with a thin folder. I tucked it into the pocket of my parka and headed back to the shack.

11:47 p.m.

I was shivering by the time I reached the shack. A thick layer of clouds covered the sky, making the night inky black, and with the windchill the temperature must have been close to zero.

The shack was frosty white in the beam from my flashlight as I stepped up to the door. I couldn’t wait to get inside and warm up. I switched the light to my left hand, got the padlock key out of my pocket, and started to insert it.

Scraping sounds behind me.

I tensed, turned in time to see a shadowy form with an upraised arm but not in time to duck out of the way. A glancing blow landed on my arm, jarring the flashlight loose, then strong hands shoved me to the ground.

The light went out when the flash landed on the muddy ground. Stunned, I lay prone in the darkness. The hands pawed at my upper body, then my neck, as if the attacker intended to strangle me. I sucked in my breath, my throat and lungs burning from the cold, and lashed out with my legs, connecting solidly with some part of the attacker. He — yes, definitely a male — yelped and his hands jerked off me. I drew back to kick again, but he’d had enough. I heard his footsteps running away down the slope.

Had the son of a bitch been trying to kill me? There didn’t seem to be any other reason for the attack. He hadn’t made any effort to get at the folder or the pouch containing my identification and the .38 in the inner safety pocket of the parka.

I lifted onto my hands and knees. When I turned my head, wincing, I saw the beam of his flashlight come on, pointed away from me, making erratic splashes of light in the darkness as he ran. Seconds later I heard him splash through the water under the stone bridge, and he and the light disappeared into the woods.

Still groggy, I groped for the flashlight. Luckily it hadn’t broken; the beam came on when I shook it and flicked the switch. I’d dropped my keys too, but I was able to find them with the light. I got to my feet and leaned against the door while I fumbled the key into the padlock and got it open.

Inside I lit the lanterns and took one of them into the bathroom to inspect the damage in the mirror. There was a small bump on my head and a little blood where the skin had been broken, and a thin red scratch around my neck. I fingered it, wincing.

And then I realized that the silver pendant was gone.

The attacker hadn’t tried to strangle me; it was the pendant he’d been after. Who? Jake? Henry Howling Wolf? I couldn’t imagine why either of them, or anybody else who’d seen me wearing it, would want it badly enough to assault me to get it.

Had he followed me here from Aspendale? I’d been alert when I left the village and on the walk through the woods, as always, and hadn’t seen or heard anyone. Or had he somehow found out I was staying here and lain in wait for me?

My head ached and my vision was slightly blurred. I didn’t think I was badly hurt, but my body cried out for rest. I got into the bunk and used an old breathing trick to relax so I could sleep.