No Mercy

ELEVEN

I hadn’t seen Rollie Rondeaux for a few years. He still lived in the Diamond T trailer court on the outskirts of town. If Viewfield-population 275-could be considered a town.

The trailer park was off County Road 14. Two dozen mobile homes lined up in two rows facing one another across a pot-holed road. These trailers were dented from hailstorms, rusted from snowstorms, and beat up from windstorms. Faded black tires graced no fewer than ten silvery roofs. Metal skirting appeared optional, as I saw stained yellow and pink insulation hanging haphazardly from the pipes sagging in the mud.

Discarded plastic toys competed for front lawn space with vehicles propped up on cement blocks. Broken swing sets were visible in spots through chain-link fences where trash hadn’t accumulated.

Mangy mutts tethered with heavy chains howled outrage at the dogs allowed to run free. A few shrewd-eyed kids watched me drive by, their hand-me-down bikes at the ready to peddle off. Not a lot of door-to-door salespeople schlepping goods at the Diamond T. Bill collectors and repo men mostly. Pity these kids could tell the difference at such a young age.

Rollie’s trailer was a double-wide on a double lot with an oversized garage. Last time I’d been here it’d had a pale pink stripe around the middle. Now the stripe was turquoise. Not a huge improvement.

Six vehicles were scattered around; an Olds Cutlass and a Dodge Durango parked on the street. An El Camino, a Ford Escort, and old VW Bug in the driveway. A Chevy Blazer on blocks under the drooping carport roof. No clue which vehicle was his. Didn’t know if he was even home.

I drove to the end of the road, four trailers from Rollie’s place, parked in the driveway of a 10x13 with a FOR RENT sign tacked in the front window. I jammed the gun in my back pocket, untucked my shirt, and hopped out of the truck.

On the set of wooden steps, I peered inside the porthole-shaped window, acting like a potential renter. Knocked for good measure. When no one answered the door, I reversed course. Avoiding a huge pile of dog crap by the propane tank, I made my way the length of the trailer.

Individual metal clothesline poles ran parallel to the barbed-wire fence separating the trailer court from Rollie’s horse pasture directly behind it. I hid in the shadows until I reached the house next to Rollie’s. The windows were covered, two with tinfoil, the rest with cheap plastic blinds. I didn’t hear a window air conditioner, a TV, or a boom box.

Suddenly I felt ridiculous. What was I doing, slinking around a trailer court? What had I hoped to accomplish by stealth? This wasn’t Iraq, where an ambush lurked around every corner.

I marched up to Rollie’s front door and banged on it.

The door cracked only wide enough for a girl to squeak, “Go away. We don’t want none.”

“I’m not selling anyth-”

She slammed the door in my face.

I rapped again. Harder.

The door flew all the way open and a very pregnant Indian girl, no more than seventeen, demanded, “Jesus. You deaf? I said go away.”

“Not until I talk to Rollie.”

“Don’t know who you’re talking about, lady.”

“Tell him if he doesn’t get his ugly ass out here in about a minute, I’m coming in after him.”

I heard the footsteps behind me.

“You ain’t in no position to be making demands.” The soft click of a hammer cocking next to my right ear was followed by, “You got a minute to get your ugly ass outta here.”

Rookie mistake.

I pivoted, grasped his gun arm with one hand, and threw him down. His revolver-a S &W.38-crashed to the ground and discharged a shot. The girl shrieked. I placed my boot on the back of the kid’s neck, twisted his arm, and aimed my Walther P22 at his head. “Tell Rollie I want to talk to him right now.”

Rollie’s raspy voice drifted to me before I saw him. “Still feisty as ever, I see.”

I briefly glanced over at his form stuffing the door frame. Besides wrinkles and gray hair, he hadn’t changed much in the three decades I’d known him. He was six feet two inches, 250 pounds, with long gray hair plaited into two braids. Despite his last name, Rollie looked Sioux.

One hundred and fifty years ago his horny French ancestors had traveled down the Missouri River as fur trappers, mixing DNA with the various Plains tribes. Although Rollie claimed he was 100 percent Indian, it’d never stopped him from betraying his own kind for a buck. Which was exactly why I was here.

He eased down the steps. “Let him go and I’ll talk to ya.” He crouched and spoke to the kid on the ground. “I’m cutting you some slack on your poor protection skills this time, Junior, because no way could you’ve gotten the drop on her.”

“Junior?” I said. “This is your son?”

“Yeah, one of.”

I angled my head toward the girl in the doorway. “So is that one your daughter?”

“No, I ain’t his daughter, I’m his girlfriend!”

Rollie sighed. “That’s enough, Verline.”

Girlfriend? Yowza. She could’ve been Rollie’s granddaughter. Not touching that one. Maybe Rollie and Mr. Pawlowski were setting an example for the local senior citizens on the benefits of Viagra.

“I almost had her,” Junior complained.

“Almost ain’t good enough.” Rollie spit a stream of tobacco at an anthill. It exploded into dust the color of powdered milk. “They still calling ya No Mercy?”

“Only once.” I released Junior’s arm. He scrambled away and scowled over his shoulder.

Rollie’s gaze met mine, but he wasn’t smiling. “You look just like her.”

Her. Meaning my mother, Sunny Fairchild Gunderson. Rollie dated her before my father barged into the picture and “stole her away”-or so Rollie claimed. My mother swore it’d been love at first sight between her and Wyatt Gunderson. Consequently, there’d been no love lost between Rollie and my dad. The fact my mother had been killed by Rollie’s Thoroughbred-and Dad shot the horse upon discovering my mother’s body-only increased their animosity. Rollie had a soft spot for me. Probably because we both felt a measure of guilt over her death.

“Although you’re still acting like him,” he added slyly.

“Rollie. Never insult a woman with a gun.” I flipped the safety and returned it to my pocket.

He grinned. “So what brings you here, Mercy girl?”

“I need some information.”

“You know it don’t come for free.” He spun the cylinder on the revolver, dumped the bullets, and put them inside his beaded suede vest.

I traipsed behind him through the garage, dodging ratchet sets, wrenches, and crushed beer cans. We passed a disembodied welding torch and ended up at a resin table with a dilapidated umbrella. He settled himself in the chair in the corner between the garage and the crooked fence. I sat beside him. No way was I leaving my back exposed.

“How long you sticking around?”

“That a subtle way of asking if I’m selling the ranch?”

Rollie grunted. “You ain’t gonna sell the ranch.”

“You sure?”

“Yep. I know your dad. Bet he demanded some kinda ‘deathbed’ promise from ya, didn’t he?”

“I wasn’t here, remember?” I said tightly. “He died before I could promise him anything.” He’d died before I could say goodbye. That raw, grating sensation I knew would never go away coiled in my gut like a pile of old, rusty barbed wire.

“Shee, don’t matter. Wyatt guilted you into keeping your heritage long before he died.” He gave me a crafty smile. “John-John ain’t had no visions, telling what you oughta do?”

“No. Maybe I should talk to your brother Leon. John-John told me his yuwipi skills were in demand. Tell me. Did Leon reconnect with his Indian roots in prison?”

Rollie scowled. “Old fool. Between him and Verline, I can’t get a moment’s peace with all that claptrap. It’s driving me to drink.”

“You don’t believe in that woo-woo Lakota stuff?”

Absentmindedly he fingered the stone hanging from his necklace. “Be easier if I didn’t.” His eyes narrowed. “Don’t matter. Ask your questions. I ain’t got all day.”

“Fine. What do you know about Judd Moser and Donald Little Bear?”

“Why you interested in them?”

Rollie had the uncanny ability to smell a lie, so I didn’t bother concocting one. “Initially, Estelle Yellow Boy asked me to poke around to see if Albert’s friends would talk to me about why someone might’ve killed him.”

“But now?”

“Now? It’s personal. Those two names I gave you keep popping up. Those boys started some kind of an Indian Warrior club. Albert was a member; Levi wasn’t.”

Rollie measured me. “Seems strange that Estelle would ask you to help her. You hiding investigating experience I don’t know about?”

“No. And don’t get pissy. I’m not looking to hang out my PI shingle. This is strictly a one-shot deal.” South Dakota was one of the few states where private investigators didn’t have to be formally licensed by the state. I could call myself a PI if I wanted, and Rollie or Dawson couldn’t do a damn thing about it. Which, near as I could tell, allowed me lots of leeway.

Ironically, Rollie considered himself a PI above all else, touting his “modern-day Indian tracking” skills. He’d work for anyone who could pay his hefty fees. As a council member of the tribe, he had access to people and information white people didn’t.

No matter how many times Rollie turned in his brethren, those Indians still confided in him. Some folks claimed he maintained files on every tribal member and their families, dating back decades. Others claimed he had spies everywhere on the rez and knew everything about everyone. So though he was generally reviled, no one dared cross him. Even my father had had to play ball with Rollie a couple of times.

“So you know anything about this group calling themselves the Warrior Society?”

He looked at me consideringly. “Not much. An elder heard a rumor some young punks were doing their own version of the Seven Sacred Rites. According to one of the kids who was there, they did ’em wrong, not in harmony with traditional at all.”

Even among Lakota people discrepancies abounded about which ceremonies were “traditional” to Native religion, and which ones were transformed after Christianity gained a foothold on the reservation. I knew a few, simply because Jake and John-John participated in the common ceremonies: the sweat lodge, vision quest, making of relatives, and the Sun Dance. The other rites, preparing a girl for womanhood, spirit keeping, and the throwing of the ball, weren’t as prevalent. And contrary to popular belief, the Ghost Dance, which played a part in the Wounded Knee Massacre in 1890, wasn’t part of Lakota ritual at all.

“Who’s leading them?”

“I don’t know. I just know them rituals weren’t about dancing for healing or a prayer offered to the Great Spirit for guidance, it was more like a… sacrifice.”

“What kind of sacrifice?”

“Blood. Flesh. Tears.” His troubled gaze connected with mine.

I played devil’s advocate. “But isn’t that what the Sun Dance is all about? Men piercing their flesh? Crying to the Great Spirit as they dance in the sun? Then blood flows from the wounds after they’ve ripped away the sticks attaching them to the sacred pole?”

“That’s the simplified version, yes. But what I’m talking about is blood, flesh, and tears from unwilling participants.”

Chills tracked down my spine. “Like Levi?”

“I ain’t sure.” Again, Rollie touched the teeth and stones on his choker like it was a talisman. “You been to the rez and talked to them boys?”

“Not yet.”

An engine revved down the street. A woman’s screech was lost in spewing gravel and the thump of rap music.

“Lemme offer you a piece of advice before you go charging in. The only thing those punks understand is fear. Don’t think of them as kids; think of them as animals. Get the upper hand right away.” He chuckled. “But you don’t have no problem invoking fear in people, do you?”

I shrugged.

“I recognize the hardness in your eyes, Mercy.”

“Yeah?”

“Uh-huh. I saw it in the mirror when I came back from Vietnam. That look will fade in time.”

“And if I don’t want it to fade?”

“Then your past deeds will eat you from the inside out until there’s nothing left but a bitter black hole where your soul used to be.”

Rollie summed it up better than the army shrink. But he was just as wrong. The hardness in me was the truest part of me. I’d accepted it long ago. Why couldn’t everyone else? I didn’t answer, merely stared at him.

“What’re you gonna do when you find whoever killed your tunska?”

“If you have to ask, Rollie, I haven’t made myself clear.”

He nodded. No judgment.

I released a pent-up sigh. “Is there anything else you know about the Warrior Society?”

“For whatever reason, there’s at least one adult tribal member helping them with these so-called rituals. Which is why it’s so disturbing that he’s teaching them wrong.”

“Any whispers on who the elder might be?”

“A couple. Paul Yellow Boy, for one, which was why I was surprised when you said Estelle asked for your help.”

No wonder Estelle wanted Paul kept out of it. But surely she didn’t suspect he had something to do with Albert’s death?

“You’ll let me know what you find out, Mercy girl?”

“Is that the price of the information you gave me? I share mine?”

Rollie harrumphed. “You ain’t getting off that easy.”

“I figured as much.”

“Tell you what. Feel free to use my name whenever you’re in Eagle River. It’ll probably open a few more doors for you. Anyone gets nasty, tell ’em you’re working for me.”

“Do I need an official business card, boss man?”

“Smarty-pants. No. If anyone calls me to double-check your credentials”-he smiled broadly-“I’ll set ’em straight. Of course, that means as my employee all information you uncover pertaining to this case or any other belongs to me. Along with any monetary compensation you might be receiving. You getting paid?”

“No. Doing it out of the unkindness of my black heart, Rollie.”

“Then I rescind my offer of employment.”

“Indian giver.”

He laughed. “My advice is never do no work for free. People don’t appreciate it. Charge the heck outta them and they think it’s worth something.”

An interesting philosophy I’d have to remember.

“Long as you’re here, did your dad ever find out who was causing all them problems for the Lohstrohs?”

I frowned. “What problems?”

“Some outfit from out of state offered them big money for their ranch. They said no, and some weird things started happening.”

“Was their ranch for sale?”

“No, that’s why it struck Wyatt as odd.”

The Lohstrohs were one of our neighbors to the north. Because our ranch was so big and an oddly jagged shape, it was bordered by three other ranches on the north side: Lohstrohs’, Mattsons’, and TJ and Luke Red Leaf’s small family operation. On the east side, our neighbors were the Newsomes and the Quinns. I wasn’t sure about our west-side neighbors because the land that’d been known as the old Jackson place had been sold twice in the last twenty years. Our border to the south was the Eagle River National Grasslands. “When was this?”

He scratched his chin. “Wyatt called me from the ranch a coupla days before he took sick the last time. He didn’t sound too good. Asked me to dig around and see what I could find. I said I would but…”

“But you didn’t.” Because Dad was dead. “What kind of stuff happened?”

“Small, random fires. Kathy Lohstroh was run off the road twice. Fences ripped down. More’n just usual kids’ pranks. Let me ask you something else.”

I nodded.

“After Frank Jackson died, why didn’t Wyatt snatch up his place when everyone knew he’d had his eye on that chunk of land forever?”

Easy: no money. We might be land rich, but when it came to cash, we were dirt poor. “You think we need another fifteen thousand acres to worry about?”

“Never know what kinda land baron you’ll end up being; it’s in your blood, that’s for damn sure. You might could get another chance to add to the Gunderson legacy. I heard the Quinns was looking to get out.”

Why were all our neighbors bailing? A weird feeling rippled through me. Had the Swamp Rats approached them? Or another group?

I’d bet a year’s worth of hay that Kit was circling the Quinns and the Lohstrohs like a vulture. So if Kit got his hands on my land and the Quinns, he’d have most of Eagle River County turned into hobby ranches.

Why was that a bigger betrayal than the corporate hunting groups? “Why didn’t anyone tell me this before now, Rollie?”

“Don’t know. I’m just as curious as you are as to why all this land is going up for sale, besides the drought. This part of flyover country is considered the armpit of the nation. Makes you wonder why it’s becoming so popular, eh?”

“Good clean air, good clean living, low taxes, and a low crime rate.” My stomach clenched and I scowled. “Guess with two unsolved murders in two weeks, the crime rate claim isn’t necessarily true anymore.”

“From what I’ve heard, Dawson is a real stickler on patrolling. He picked up Junior for speeding over by the Newsome place last week.”

A perfect opening. “So, what do you think of Dawson?”

“Sneaky.”

“That’s it?”

Rollie blinked at me. “Ain’t that enough?”

He had a point. “Yeah. Thanks for the help, boss. I gotta run.”

“Boss. Heh.” He smiled, even as he said gruffly, “G’on, Mercy girl. Get outta here.”

It was still early enough to tackle a few names on the list. Estelle mentioned Albert’s friends didn’t show up at the rec center until evening. She hadn’t mentioned whether they held jobs, but since the unemployment rate on the Eagle River Reservation runs 80 percent it was unlikely they’d be pulling fries at Burger King.

Jake’s remark about Chet Baker seeing Levi and a bunch of boys a few weeks back prompted me to stop there first.

Chet delivered propane for the local co-op. When I rolled up to his place on the other side of the Viewfield city limits, I wished Rollie had given me an official PI badge.

As I waited for Chet to get off the phone, I studied his cramped office. The place stank of cigarettes, motor oil, and body odor. Catalogues were piled on top of dingy filing cabinets. Grungy windows lined one side of the building. The linoleum was stained black from never seeing a can of Mop & Glo. The coffee machine hadn’t been near a scrub brush in months. Several years worth of “girlie” calendars-circa 1970-decorated the paneled walls. The joint harkened back to the days when ladies avoided men’s domains-garages, filling stations, and hardware stores.

Chet hung up the receiver, plucked a yellowed hankie from the front pocket of his denim coveralls, and blew his nose. “So what can I do for you, Mercy?”

I asked him what he remembered about Levi and his friends riding around in the back of a pickup.

“Was the damndest thing. I figured they was up to no good, so I followed them.”

“Where’d they end up?”

“By that abandoned silver mine offa County Road Nineteen. I seen beer cans around there, so I knew it was a place them fellas partied.”

“Were they drinking?”

He shrugged. “Probably. But that’s not the main reason they was up there.”

Because he didn’t get many visitors, Chet dragged out the drama.

“What were they doing?”

“They were loading rocks in the back of that truck.”

“Rocks?”

“Yeah. Know those big flat ones? Kinda yellowish-orange shale? Well, some of the Indian guys on the rez use ’em for different kinds of ceremonies. Couldn’t imagine what those punks wanted with ’em.”

That stumped me. Entertainment was a scarce commodity on the rez. “Did you see them doing anything else?”

“Nah. When I saw they were ready to take off, I did, too. Didn’t want them to see me taking notice of what they were doing. Don’t need trouble from them.” He fiddled with the stapler in the center of his desk. “Mind if I ask why you’re asking all these questions, Mercy?”

It was tempting to play the I’m-a-PI-and-I-work-for-Rollie card since it was brand-spanking new, but I refrained. “I’m trying to track down some things Levi loaned out. Now that he’s gone…” My gaze fell to my boots, then I looked at him with sorrow that wasn’t faked. “Hope would like to have those things back. We don’t want Levi’s friends to think we suspect they ripped him off, so we’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention it to anyone.”

“No problem. I sure hope you find what you’re looking for.”

Oh, I will.

I hopped back in my truck and hit the road. My next stop was my best friend Geneva’s house, to talk to her daughter, Molly, about the names on the list. Although I knew Geneva was busy with a houseful of kids and a ranch to run, it bothered me a little that she’d come around only a few times in the aftermath of my father’s and my nephew’s deaths.

Still, Geneva was my oldest friend. She’d married her high school sweetheart, Brent Illingsworth, right out of high school, and they took over Geneva’s family ranching operation. I wasn’t the only one who’d bailed from Viewfield; Geneva’s parents had flown the coop with the rest of the snowbirds and hightailed it to Arizona.

A hot, hay-scented breeze stirred my hair as I motored down Geneva and Brent’s driveway. I parked in front of the small two-story farmhouse. Chaos ruled here. A Big Wheel was overturned in the sandbox next to an orange plastic slide. Vacant tree swings swayed in the wind. Boards were hammered in a haphazard line up a gigantic elm tree, a tree house in progress, or one that’d been abandoned. Clothes in graduated sizes flapped on the line. The doors flew open on the huge metal barn and kids raced from every direction.

Six-year-old Krissa grinned at me. “Mercy! Wanna see the new kitties?”

“Sure. In a minute. Let me-”

“She don’t wanna look at no dumb cats. Leave her alone.” This from twelve-year-old Doug.

Two tugs on my pant leg. I peered into Nikki’s angelic face. Wispy blond ringlets, enormous blue eyes, pink cheeks, and a shy smile. At age three, she was still small enough for me to scoop up. “Hiya, Nikki.”

She set her head on my shoulder. I melted.

“We’re s’posed to bring you inside. Right away. No goofing off.” Doug rolled his eyes. “Mom and Molly are so bossy.”

The old ranch house had seemed bigger when Geneva and her brothers Rome and London lived here. The kitchen still smelled like molasses, sugar, fresh coffee, and laundry soap.

Geneva saw me holding Nikki and smiled. “You’re a sucker. Next she’ll be rifling through your purse for candy.”

“I don’t mind.” It surprised me how easy it was to indulge in my softer side with Geneva’s kids and how easily they accepted it. And me.

“There’s cookies and Kool-Aid in the sun porch. Then I wanna see some kids outside picking up the toys in the yard. And keep an eye on Tiffany.”

At the mention of cookies they vanished.

“Sit,” she said. “Coffee?”

“Sure.”

She poured two cups and joined me at the table. Molasses cookies were piled on a china plate.

I studied her over the rim of my cup. Geneva had been the prettiest girl in our graduating class. Natural honey blond hair, dark blue eyes, razor sharp cheekbones, and a thin, regal nose. Early on she’d grown into a woman’s body, full hipped and curvy, with big breasts the envy of every girl in school. I would’ve hated her if we hadn’t been best friends since kindergarten.

She was still gorgeous even though she’d plumped out considerably. Now, deep fatigue lines were etched around her eyes, and she didn’t smile as often as I’d remembered.

“Molly will be right down.” Geneva sipped coffee, leaned back in the chair, and sighed. Probably the first time she’d sat down all morning. “How is Hope doing?”

“She sleeps a lot. She cries a lot. She doesn’t talk much.”

“I can’t imagine losing one of my children.” She shuddered. “I don’t even know what to say. God. Molly and her friends are just numb. We all are. Stuff like this doesn’t happen around here.”

“I know.” I bit down on a cookie and sighed softly because it was so crisp and sweet and tasty. I hoarded two more and glanced up guiltily when Geneva didn’t keep the conversation going. As longtime friends we rarely had awkward pauses. It didn’t matter if we hadn’t seen each other in two days or two years, we always picked up where we’d left off. Her silence left me unsettled. “What?”

“I don’t know how to say this.”

“Then just say it straight out.”

“Why are you talking to Molly?”

I snapped a cookie in half. “Has the sheriff been here to talk to her?”

“No.”

“Then there’s your answer. Dawson is doing nothing to find who killed Levi, and it isn’t because he’s busy working on the Yellow Boy case.”

“No offense, but what can you do?”

“Figure it out on my own.”

“Good Lord, the rumors are true. You are turning into your dad.”

I blushed, but I wasn’t surprised she’d made the connection. “Kids can’t keep secrets. Somebody knows something. Even if I have to talk to every teenager on the rez and in the county to find out who might’ve wanted Levi dead, I’ll keep at it until I get some answers.”

“What happens if you run out of time? Don’t you have to go back to active duty?”

I paused a beat too long because Geneva demanded, “Well?”

“I’m on medical leave.”

The blood drained from her face. “What happened?”

“Had a freak eye injury that won’t allow me to return to my former position.” The army liked their snipers to take out targets on the first try. If I couldn’t, there were plenty of younger shooters who could.

Geneva slapped her hands on the table. “I cannot believe you didn’t tell me this before now. Jesus. I oughta smack you.”

“You’d hit an injured soldier?”

“No. But I’m still pissed off.”

“You’ll get over it. You always do.”

Geneva made a face that read maybe I won’t. “So is that why you’ve been dragging your feet? Because if you can’t go back to duty, you might have to live here?”

“Have to live here? Nice dig.”

“You know what I mean. You couldn’t wait to get out and see the world. You never wanted to be a ranch wife with a half-dozen kids…” She clapped her hand over her mouth.

Wow. That was another good dig. I didn’t react this time.

“Damn, Mercy. Sometimes I don’t think before I open my mouth. I don’t get out much.”

“Forget it.”

Geneva babbled to cover the awkward silence. “Sometimes I wish we could sell this place. Move into a split-level in Rapid City with three bathrooms. The kids could walk to school. Brent could get a normal job, and there’d be enough money for Dan to go to college. I wouldn’t have to worry about making ends meet.” Color spread across her cheekbones. “Sorry. Then I think about what Hope’s going through and Estelle’s going through… I got nothing to complain about.”

“You will complain once you see what Krissa and Nikki did to the bathroom,” Molly said from the doorway.

I faced her. “Don’t you look bright and fresh.”

“Only until I clean stalls later this afternoon.”

Geneva scrambled out of her chair like she couldn’t wait to get away from me. “The weeds in the garden are calling my name.” She squeezed Molly’s shoulders and left us alone.

Molly and I sat in silence. I could be polite or I could get to it. “Tell me about Levi and these kids he’d been hanging out with lately.”

“I don’t really know Moser and Little Bear, but I’ve heard they are bad news.”

“How so?”

“Drinking and driving. Stealing stuff. Starting fights, especially with the cowboys.” Her eyes met mine. “The white cowboys. Until recently Levi hung around Albert and Axel. Then Albert and Axel were both in Moser’s group and they left Levi out. From what I’ve heard from Sue Anne, Moser and them guys didn’t want Levi because he wasn’t Indian enough.”

How little they knew. But it fit with what Levi told me.

“To show you how mean those guys are, Moser and Little Bear teased Levi, letting him hang out with them sometimes, making him do stuff, acting like they might let him in, all the while knowing their elder wouldn’t accept Levi into the club.”

“Do you know who this elder was?”

“No.”

“Did Albert want to leave the group after this leader wouldn’t let Levi in?”

Molly nibbled her cookie like a mouse. Crumbs fell on the plastic tablecloth. She stayed quiet as a mouse, too.

I forced myself to be patient. “Molly?”

“No one can leave once they’re in. I guess Moser and Little Bear told Albert he couldn’t be friends with Levi anymore.”

“Or what? What could they do to him?”

“Punish him.”

Damn. This just got more and more bizarre. “What kind of punishment?”

“I’m not sure.” She rearranged the cookies on the plate in a flower pattern.

I placed my hand over hers. When she looked at me with innocent eyes, I hated what I had to do. “My nephew is dead. His mother is home bawling her eyes out because she can’t understand why someone killed her son. I need to know what these so-called friends are doing before they hurt anyone else.”

“I can’t tell you because I don’t know. I’m white. I’m not in the group.”

I needed a different tact. “Who would know about the punishments?”

A long pause. Then she softly said, “Sue Anne White Plume.”

The Indian girl from the dance. Why wasn’t her name on the list? “Was she dating Levi?”

“They liked each other a lot, but they were both quiet about it. I think they were sneaking around behind Moser’s and Little Bear’s backs.”

“What’s the best way for me to contact her?”

“You can’t go to her house. Her parents are like total drunks. They’d freak out and use it as another excuse to beat her.”

I forced myself to ignore the beat her portion of Molly’s warning. “Does she have a cell phone?”

Molly shook her head. “She doesn’t have enough money for food half the time, which is why she works at Taco John’s.”

Few kids in this country had it as bad as the kids on Eagle River Reservation. “When’s her next shift?”

“She said she’s working tomorrow from ten to two.” Molly chewed her lip and pulverized the cookie in her fingers. “You won’t tell her you talked to me? Because I don’t want her to be mad.”

“I’ll try to keep you out of it. One other thing. If Sheriff Dawson stops by and asks you questions, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention my name.”

“Why not?”

“Let’s just say the sheriff and I don’t see eye to eye on a lot of things.” I scooted back from the table and tried to lighten the situation. “Krissa said something about showing me some kitties?”

Molly smiled softly. “Poor things. She loves those little babies so much we tease her that she’s gonna love them to death.”

As if that were possible.