Eagle, Kathleen (7 page)

"I
played ball with a guy who got himself into a lot of trouble."

"Sam
Garrett, right?" Carter always had to supply the names, dates, and titles.
Carter was a wellspring of information. "It's no secret. Everybody heard
about him betting on point spreads and that kind of shit. That's crazy, dealing
with bookies and sharks. You're taking your life in your hands, you start doing
that."

"It
ruined him." Reese remembered the way the media had delighted in taking a
shredded man and holding the pieces up before the cameras.

"Excess
will do that. You've got to know your limits," Carter said, and he nodded
toward the alcove as the distraught gambler emerged. "There, see? We're
all settled down, ready to face the ol' man. Helen's got a real knack for
handling these people. It can be sticky sometimes. Women especially. They get
to boo-hooing like that, you hate to throw them out into the parking lot."

"You're
all heart, little brother." Reese turned his back on the woman,
sidestepping as he did so, shielding her retreat with his body. "Better
you than me."

"Better
me than most people. I'm very good at what I'm doing. Ten Star put me right
into management. I already had the background in business, so I slid right
in." Carter illustrated the sinuous move with his hand. "We're doing
great, aren't we, Titus?"

"The
contract with Ten Star is up for review. Some people say we should go with a
different company," Titus said. "Your dad was kinda leading that
charge."

"He
was always looking for some kind of charge he could lead," Carter replied,
but Reese was losing interest in the whole conversation. The unlucky gambler
had beat a retreat to the nearest exit, and Helen was coming out of the office
now, wearing a pair of dark glasses. He could feel the eyes behind those shades
connecting with his. He could also feel that contact being ripped away, as
though it had happened against her will, and the set of her mouth was so thin,
so tight...

"I'll
catch you guys later," Reese said.

"You
got some charging of your own to do, big brother?"

"She's
an old friend."

"Whatever
you say." Carter grinned. "Might as well see if the old shoe still
fits."

Reese
ignored the crack as he walked away. "Can I buy you a cup of coffee?"
he asked when he caught up to her.

"They
give it away here," she told him with a tight smile.

"Buy
you lunch, then. Or supper. What's your pleasure?" He just wanted to sit
with her for a while. He wished he could see her eyes.

"I
have to go. I want to make sure..."

"I
saw what happened. Are you the trouble shooter for that kind of crisis?"

"Oh,
no. I'm just a dealer." She adjusted her purse strap on her shoulder.
"We're trained to handle people who get into trouble like that. We try to
head it off if we can, but sometimes you don't spot it in time. I just hate to
see it happen."

He
could tell. "Let me take you somewhere else."

"She's
afraid of what her husband will do."

"How
much did she lose?"

"I
can't say." Another quick, tight smile. "But it was a lot of money
for her. A lot for most people."

"This
is no place for you to be working. You're not..."

"I'm
not what?" She was smiling at him still, and he had the feeling she was
giving him one of her secret looks, like she knew things he didn't know. He'd
hated it when she'd looked at him that way, back when all he'd known was his
little corner of South Dakota. "It's a good job," she was saying.
"The pay is very good. I'm not..."
Not what?

"I
don't know what you think, Reese, but this job is not beneath me. I'm not doing
anything illegal or dishonest or—"

"Hey,
I don't think anything." He touched her arm. She stiffened a little, but
she didn't move away, so he took hold. "That was a bad deal for that
woman, whether she got herself into it or not. It shook you up. It shook
me
up,
just as a bystander here." He smiled. "I'm only asking you if you
want to go someplace and get something to eat."

"Thank
you." She shook her head. "I don't. Not right now. But thank
you." She put her hand on his in a comforting way, as though this whole
incident was merely an extension of the bad stuff that had been happening
lately. "It's good seeing you again, Reese, and I'm glad you're not... I'm
glad to see that you're well."

She
was glad to see that he was well?
Well?

He
wished he could see behind those damned sunglasses.

The
noon sun beat hard on Reese's
back as he lined his long fingers up with
the rickrack imprint baked into the South Dakota clay. It still looked fresh.
There had been no rain since investigators had taken impressions of the tire
tracks and concluded that the vehicle that struck his father down was a
three-quarter-ton, four-wheel-drive pickup. They knew what the wheel base was,
the brand of its tires, the speed at which it was traveling. The main detail still
missing was the name of the so-called individual who had fled the scene.

The
medical examiner couldn't tell for sure whether the old man had died right
away. Reese had asked. He wanted to know whether the chickenshit driver had
killed his father by hitting him or by running away and leaving him to die at
the side of the road.

Reese
had been doing some running himself, and now that he'd stopped, the sweat ran
more profusely, dripping off his chin and puddling in the depression beneath
his hand. His heart pounded in his ears as the image of the old man lying there
in the dark burned in his brain. He let it burn. He tortured himself with it.
He listened to the wind and he thought he could hear the roar of a big engine,
but no sound from his father's throat. No outrage, no cry of pain. The ditch
grass rustled all around him while the cicadas made their racket in the shelter
belt by the creek below, but at the center, thunderous and insistent, was his
own heart pounding around the image of a dead man. It was foolhardy, running in
the heat. He usually ran early in the morning, but today he'd gotten a late
start, and he'd needed to get away from his father's house and all those damn
relics. He'd given up almost everything else, but he couldn't stop running. Everything
he'd been had begun with his running. He'd been running all his life, and if he
ran himself to death, so be it.

Why
was it that he could never get away?

He
had stuck with his old man through the lean times, through the mean times,
waiting for his chance, his time to walk, cool and easy. No big deal, just
"I'm gonna go for it now, Dad," and his old man had given him the
nod. Just that, a simple nod. It wasn't approval so much as admission that he
couldn't stop him.

His
father had been deep into tribal politics by then, and Reese had done a hitch
in the army before he'd tried it the old man's way, by going to college first.
Get an education and play the game on the side. Basketball was just a game
after all, a sport Roy himself had been good at in his day.
Taught the kid
everything he knew.
All the skills a man needed—passing, pressing, faking.
Reese was great at faking. Came in handy when his own turn for his own
lean-and-mean came around.

He'd
handled his early retirement in style. There were no press conferences, no
talk-show appearances. He'd walked away quietly. His injuries had gotten plenty
of press, and they were decent, respectable, manly injuries, incurred in the
line of duty. He'd given it all for his team, no questions asked. No pathetic
bleeding-heart explanations necessary.

Hardly
anybody knew about his crazy running. He had run every inch of these hills when
he was a kid. As a teenager, he'd run wild from one end of the rez to the
other. He had run circles around every basketball team from every podunk South
Dakota town in the league. He'd run and run until he didn't know when to quit.
Or how to quit. He'd given up the game, but not the running.

Which
maybe gave him something in common with the guy who had left these tracks. But
at least this guy had to know
why
he was running. Wherever he was, he
must have heard the news by now. He must know that he'd killed somebody, and he
had to believe he was a dead man if Reese ever caught up with him.

He
stood up now, laughing at himself. Oh, he was a big man, all right. If he
happened to run into his father's killer, he would mow him down. But he knew
damn well this was going to be another one of those shit-happens incidents.
That pickup was long gone from Indian country, the driver home free the minute
he crossed the river. The driver wasn't from Bad River. Reese knew that to be
true, if for no other reason than because he didn't want him to be.

"I
want you to have that much peace," he said aloud. "It wasn't one of
your own people who did you in. It was some outsider, wasn't it?"

Had
to be. In his later years Roy Blue Sky had become the man to talk to, the man
to see. His spirit would never rest if he'd been killed by one of his own
people. Internal strife was their downfall. Indians fighting Indians. If they
could ever get together, the old man used to say, they'd be dangerous. Like at
the Little Bighorn. The old man was an expert on the Battle of the Little
Bighorn.

"If
we ever got together, we'd be dangerous," Reese muttered into his
shirttail as he wiped his face.

He
was answered with a bark.

"Hey,
Crybaby, where've you been?" The black-and-white shepherd scooted under
the barbed-wire fence. He looked just like his father, Babe, who had been
Reese's dog when he was a kid. "I thought we were going for a run
together. How come you took off on me?" The dog answered with his habitual
whine. "Damn. You smell like skunk. You ditched me for a skunk?"

I'm
back now,
the
dog seemed to say as he bounced back and forth, challenging Reese to get going
again, which was a good idea because he needed water. The plastic bottle in his
holster was empty. He trotted back toward the house, trailed by a foul-smelling
Crybaby, who ditched him again when a car turned in at the approach and nudged
them from behind. Reese picked up a little speed, thinking he wasn't in the
mood for company. It was purely stupid of him to be running in this heat, and
he didn't like the way his heart was pounding because of it, and he didn't like
having anybody around him when his body was acting stupid. His weakness was
private.

Then
he saw that the driver was Helen.

She
parked her little blue VW in the shade of a cotton-wood and emerged smiling.
Her hair was pulled up and held by a clip, a few wisps brushing her long neck,
untouched by the heat.

"Hi."
She stopped short of greeting him in a physical way, but she came close.
"I was on my way back from town and I thought I'd stop and, um..."
Her nose bobbed like a rabbit's.

Reese
laughed. "That's not me. I've worked up a sweat, but not that bad."

"Crybaby,
did you have a fight with an old skunk?"

The
dog's ears perked at the invitation, but Reese leaned down and grabbed his
collar just in time. "Hold on, mutt. You'd be wise to keep your distance
until we've both seen some soap and water."

"It
so happens that I just came from the store. I'll show you soap." She
ducked into the car, pushing the driver's seat forward so she could reach the
grocery bags in the back. She produced a quart bottle, brandished it under his
nose as though it were the answer to a prayer.

"Looks
like tomato juice."

"I've
never actually tried it, but I've heard it's the best cure in these
situations." She took a closer look at the label. "I wonder how much
it takes."

"To
do us both? Probably more than you've got, so you'll have to choose. Which one
of us do you think'll clean up better?" Better yet, he thought to ask,
"Who did you come to see?"

"You."

Ah,
she was smiling again. She had the prettiest of smiles. He decided it was the
smile that was making him feel a little light-headed.

"Do
I get to shower before or after the tomato juice?"

"It's
your call." She was letting the dog run his nose over the cap on the
tomato juice bottle.

"His
tail stays outside while I get my head under some water. Ten minutes?" She
nodded. "Do you have anything that needs to go in the refrigerator?"

"Just
some milk."

"Need
help?"

She
shooed him along with an amiable gesture.

"Just
make yourself at home. Ten minutes."

He
popped a pill, drank a good quart of water, and headed for the shower. When he
emerged from the back room he was afraid she'd left. He felt profoundly let
down until he discovered a couple of packages in the refrigerator, things like
skim milk and cottage cheese that hadn't been there before. It was easy to
tell, since he'd thrown out everything he'd found in there except for a few
cans of pop. Then he heard her squeal, and the hissing below the sink told him
that water was running somewhere. He looked out the front window, and there she
was in the yard. Somehow she'd coaxed the dog into a metal tub, hosed him down,
and now she was dousing him with tomato juice. And the big dummy was putting up
with it.

She
had summer legs. Long and lean, lightly tan, beautifully shaped for anything
short, like the khaki shorts she was wearing now with that skimpy little tank
top. It was a hot day and she was dressed just right, shaped just right. Damn,
she had the sweetest little ass. Maybe it had broadened a bit, but in all the
years that had passed, she'd remained the standard by which all women were
compared. He'd begun to wonder whether his memory was playing tricks on him,
whether it had embellished those perfect legs and that sweet, sweet ass and
that—ah, there it was, that laugh that bubbled in her throat when she was
enjoying herself. She had been a bittersweet gleam in his memory bank, a
cherished throbbing in an ailing heart.

He
was glad to see that her niche in his chest was still justified. How could she
have changed so little in all these years? It was just like her to pitch right
in and bathe the stinking dog. He laughed out loud when Crybaby stood up and
gave a quick, all-over shake and doused her back. She couldn't hear him, but
she laughed, too.

"How
about some pop?" He'd brought two cans.

"Sure,"
she said, smiling over her shoulder. The dog seized the opportunity to stand up
in the tub and shake himself again. Helen jerked back, but she kept hold of his
collar. "Oh! You're asking for it, Crybaby. Do you have any idea what a
favor I'm doing you? No appreciation."

The
dog surely had no idea what a favor he was doing Reese by soaking her cotton
shirt. "Need help?"

"Can
I trust you to hold the hose?"

"What
kind of a question is that?"

"A
foolish one," she acknowledged as she unfurled herself in an effort to
hold the dog, hand Reese the hose, and straddle a puddle all at once. The
wide-legged stance was the funniest part. Her socks and shoes were thoroughly
soaked.

"Exactly.
The damage is already done."

"Exactly."
She swung around to the far side of the tub, tethered to the dog like a Maypole
dancer. "Try to aim at the dog. You're supposed to have a pretty
good—"

"I
do. All-star aim." He plugged the end of the hose with his thumb and aimed
most of the spray at the dog.

"Reese!
It's cold!"

"That's
what
he
says."

The
dog whined a little, but he didn't sound too miserable. Sure, hosed down this
way, he looked scrawny and pitiful, but how miserable could a guy be with that
little bit of a shirt plastered to those pretty breasts so close to his nose?
She was wearing a bra—Reese could see the straps—but it wasn't much of one. It
didn't do much to hide the beading of her nipples.

He
took a long, slow, deep breath. "The tomato juice got rid of the skunk,
but now you both smell like a pot of dog soup."

"Did
you hear that, Crybaby?" She smoothed the dog's shiny black coat with her
hands, trying to press the water out. "Yes, don't you worry. If he hasn't
had dinner yet, I'll protect you. There. I think you're all done."

Crybaby
shook himself again, and the water went flying. Helen shrieked, and Reese,
since he was out of range, laughed. "
Now
he's all done." He
grabbed a can off the front step and popped the top for her as he nodded toward
the door. "Shower's free."

"Really?"
She reached for the can. "You're not charging, huh?"

"Nope.
I'll even see if I can find you a dry towel. Or maybe I should just hose you
off out here."

She
took a quick sip before she set the pop on the step, planted her fists on her
hips, and offered an irresistible invitation. "Go ahead, hose me."

Grinning,
he stuck his thumb over the end of the hose and doused her, avoiding her face
in favor of her chest. She laughed and squealed, defending herself with
outstretched hands as he stripped away the years and turned her into a dripping
stringbean of a girl.

When
he lowered the spray to the ground, she tipped her head back, laughing, and
opened her arms to the heavens. "That felt good. Now I'll just stand here
and become a sun-dried tomato."

He
tossed the hose aside and turned off the spigot. "Now you get a real
shower and some dry clothes. One of my shirts should cover you."

"Down
to my ankles." She hopped up onto the step, toe-heeled her shoes off, and
peeled away her socks. "But I don't want to get your floor wet."