The Drowning Man (16 page)

She parked next to the cabin and made her way up the sawed-log steps to a porch that ran along one side of the cabin and wrapped around the corner. Little pieces of gray chinking lay on the plank floor. She followed the porch around to the door that faced the lake, even more beautiful from there, concentric rings of light dissolving and reforming, the colors deepening into magenta and bronze against the turquoise surface. She could see the images of pines along the shore, even the image of the cabin, reflected in the water.

She was about to knock at the door when a man's voice said, “Come in.” It was the voice on the phone, muffled by the logs and cracked strips of concrete.

She should have mentioned to Annie where she was going, Vicky thought, but it was a fleeting thought, like the glimpse of something from the corner of her eye. The doorknob turned in her hand, and she stepped inside.

VICKY STARED AT
the man hunched toward an easel in front of a window that overlooked the lake and the valley crawling into the sky. The picture he was painting looked like a half-formed image of the view. He dabbed his brush at the canvas, and the edge of the lake pushed forward. He had on a white shirt that stretched across thick shoulders, dotted by little circles of gray perspiration. His hair was the color of straw that dipped down his neck into the collar of his shirt. She could see the red tips of his ears poking through strands of hair.

“I'm Vicky Holden,” she said, taking in the small room: wood-framed sofa with faded plaid cushions pushed against the log wall next to the door, Navajo blanket draped over the top, matching chair, and rectangular table, its surface hidden under the slopes of magazines. Perpendicular to the easel was what looked like a bookcase, but instead of books, small cans of paint and an assortment of boxes that probably contained brushes and other supplies sat askew on the shelves. A metal crutch lay on the floor along the bookcase.

“Figured it was you that drove up.” He studied the tray that contained various cans of colored paints at the base of the easel before dabbing the brush into one and making another slice of turquoise on the canvas. Then—slow motion, like a dream—he worked the brush into a tan cloth for a moment before setting it next to other brushes in the tray. Beneath the thin cliff of light-colored hair was a high forehead, a prominent nose and chin. He had the profile of the Marlboro Man. She could picture him sitting on a fence, looking out over a pasture, face and hands weathered by the sun and wind.

At the periphery of her vision, Vicky saw a slight, dark-haired man in blue jeans and a black tee shirt rise out of the wing-backed chair facing toward the fireplace. “Guess I'll be taking off, Ollie,” he said. His hair was black and smoothed back above his ears, shiny looking. He cleared his throat and came around the chair, trailing one hand along the top of the back. A large diamond sparkled on his pinky.

“Looks like you have other business.” The man stared at Vicky. There were mica glints in his gray eyes, and she had the acute sense of being appraised, of some value being determined.

“Sorry to interrupt.” Vicky looked back at the artist. She hadn't seen any vehicles, but the two-track ran around the cabin. Other vehicles were probably parked in back.

“You were expected.” Ollie Goodman swung around on his stool, and that was when she saw the wrinkled scar of burned skin stretched across the other side of his face. It had the deep red color of a dying ember. His eye was stretched into a tiny slit.

“Does it bother you?”

“I'm sorry,” Vicky said. She must have flinched. She realized that she'd stepped backward.

“Don't let him put you off,” the other man said. “He likes the reaction.”

“Thank you for that bit of analysis.” Goodman gave a slight nod in the other man's direction. “Justin Barone, one of my associates,” he said, keeping his one good eye on Vicky. “You met Diana, I believe, at the gallery. They handle the business end of things. I prefer to spend my days in the quiet and solitude of the canyon. With the other spirits of what used to be.”

Barone was still appraising her. Vicky could feel the gray eyes boring into her back like a laser. She turned to him. “Vicky Holden,” she said. “I'm an attorney.”

“Attorney?” The man coughed out the word. He seemed to find this interesting. There was the faintest hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth. “Well, as much as I enjoy the company of beautiful women,” he said, “I shall leave you and Ollie to speak in private.” He lifted one hand in the artist's direction, then let himself out the door. There was the clack of footsteps along the porch, then quiet.

“You're here about the murder of that Indian cowboy on the Taylor Ranch.” Goodman turned back to the easel. “When was that, exactly?”

“Seven years ago.”

“Ah. Seven years. Who would have thought that much time could pass in what feels like a snap of your fingers. You might as well sit down. You will pardon me for continuing my work. I have a client waiting for this painting of the high meadow.” He dipped his head toward the tray, picked up another brush, and took his time twirling it through a can of green paint.

Vicky found a wood, high-backed chair wedged between another case of paints and a small table. She scooted the chair forward and sat down. From outside came the sound of a motor turning over, then the noise of tires digging into the two-track. “What can you tell me about the day of the shooting?” she said.

The man laughed, a strangled sound that emerged from half of his mouth. The eye in the burned skin drooped almost closed. “Shooting took place after I left the ranch. I'd been working there that morning, in my usual place. Sun shining on the face of the bluffs, blue shadow on the log cabin. Sold that painting right away. As for the shooting, what I can tell you is nothing. Nothing. Exactly what I told the investigator who camped out here for two hours, asking a lot of inane questions. Did I know Raymond whatever his name was?” He waved a hand between them. “Did I know Travis Birdsnest?”

“Birdsong.”

“No, I did not know them personally. A couple of cowboys that worked on the ranch. Cowboys came and went around there, still do as far as I know. But I saw what those two were up to. Oh, I saw that, all right.”

Vicky leaned forward and waited.

The man pulled half of his mouth into a smile. “I saw them here in the canyon, scraping the ground in front of a petroglyph. I didn't have to be a genius to know they were looking for artifacts. Found 'em, too. That's why they kept coming back. I must've seen them three, four times.”

“How did you happen to see them, Mr. Goodman?”

“Mr. Goodman? Please. Let's dispense with the formalities. We both know why you're here. You're hoping I'm going to hand you the means of getting that killer out of prison. But what you're gonna get is this: He belongs in prison. He's a thief, just like his buddy. They were stealing artifacts…”

“Where were you when you saw them?”

Goodman turned his head sideways, displaying the handsome profile and looking at her out of the corner of his eye. “I have a perch in the rocks with an unobstructed view of the petroglyphs above. I can make my way upslope quite well, thank you very much, with the help of my old friend here.” He tipped his head toward the metal crutch on the floor. “Painting images of the spirits is how I make most of my living. I sit for hours with the spirits, and they tell me many things. Oh, back then before the murder, the spirits told me how those two cowboy Indians had discovered their tools. Yes, even their buried bones. They're very valuable today. Rich people pay a lot of money for old Indian bones and chisels and knives carved out of stone.”

“You saw Travis and Raymond plundering the sites…”

“The spirits and I watched them, but they didn't know we were watching. Next time I saw those two Indians, they were working on the ranch. I put it together. I got the image, all right, and I understood what it meant.” He leaned back. Half of his face broke into a smile; the other side remained as impassive as an image carved in rock. “Sure those Indians went looking for work on the Taylor Ranch. You drive out of the canyon, you're at the ranch. Perfect place for them to hide out. Spend all day up in the high pastures. Who's gonna go looking for them? Anybody report them digging up artifacts, they'd be back at the ranch before the cops got their ass up the canyon.”

“Did you report what you saw?”

“Yeah.” He hesitated. “I reported two clowns desecrating holy ground. Sheriff said wasn't his territory. I should take my story to the feds. Well, I got more to do than chase around trying to find the proper authorities. A couple weeks later, those Indians got a bigger idea. Instead of looking for bones and bits of tools, they'd steal a petroglyph and hit the big bucks. Took one of the best pieces of art in the canyon. Whoever chiseled that petroglyph—spirit, shaman, take your pick—knew what he was doing. He was a great artist. Produced two masterpieces. First one was stolen seven years ago. Now the second one's gone, the one the Indians call the Drowning Man.”

“Travis couldn't have taken the Drowning Man. Maybe he didn't have anything to do with the first theft, either.”

Goodman turned away, giving Vicky another sideways smile. “You ask me, some other Indian—yeah, one of your own people—got the idea for making off with another masterpiece. Figured he'd make some big bucks, the kind of money that pair of cowboy Indians pulled in. You seen the oils I did of those petroglyphs?”

Vicky gave a little nod. “Nothing's making sense,” she said, trying to bring the subject back to Travis. “Everybody seemed certain that Travis and Raymond had stolen the petroglyph, sold it, and got into a fight over the money. Yet somebody had tried to sell the petroglyph to the tribes. Contact wasn't broken off until after Raymond was killed. That would suggest, wouldn't it, that the petroglyph hadn't yet been disposed of? Travis was arrested immediately. How would he have had time to sell it?”

“Duncan's Antiques,” the man said.

“Excuse me?”

“Out on Highway 789. Duncan has an oil of the Drowning Man for sale right now. I've got a few petroglyph paintings left at the gallery in Dubois. Guess you seen those. Petroglyphs sell great in Santa Fe, too. Course those Easterners that go there like my Western landscapes, too. They're willing to pay the kind of money that supports the arts. Supports my art, that's for sure.”

Vicky studied the man holding himself upright against the narrow back of his stool, blue jeans clinging to bony thighs. “There's something else that doesn't make sense,” Vicky pushed on. “How would two Indian cowboys know where to unload a valuable petroglyph?”

“What?” Ollie Goodman blinked at her, a look of comprehension gradually invading the unscarred half of his face. “Same place he and that other cowboy sold the tools and bones. There's a lot of…” he glanced across the room, taking time to reconsider, she thought, to plot his way. “Let's just say there are some less than honest dealers in the art world. Couple Indians selling bones and tools in some flea market, and all of a sudden, a dealer finds them. Probably gave them the idea to go for the real art. ‘Get me a petroglyph'”—Goodman dropped his voice and took on a conspiratorial tone—“‘ I'll make it damn worth the effort.'”

He tried another tentative smile. “What? You don't agree?”

“I'm thinking that an artist like you, with connections in Santa Fe, could have run into a few dishonest dealers.”

This seemed to halt whatever line of thought the artist had been pursuing. The emerging smile on his lips dissolved into a crimped, thin line. “Now why would you think that? Because I'm an artist? I make my living selling my work to people who value true art? Quite a leap from selling art in the legitimate marketplace to cavorting with criminals. But I understand. Oh, I see the picture. You're an attorney whose main interest is springing a thief and a murderer from prison, and you're willing to do whatever it might take to accomplish your mission. Should that involve casting a little dirt on the reputation of a legitimate artist such as myself, well…” He shrugged. “That, I suppose, is what you will do, but I warn you. I won't hesitate to sue you if you make any slanderous statements.”

Vicky got to her feet. “I appreciate your time,” she said, starting toward the door.

“I don't doubt that you'll be very well paid.”

“What?” She turned back.

“Sooner you get that Indian out of prison, sooner he'll be reunited with his money. I expect he'll spread a little of it your way. You ask me, he was damn lucky to get a manslaughter conviction. That lawyer of his did him the biggest favor of his life.”

Vicky didn't say anything. She crossed the room, let herself out the door, and took a deep breath of the warm mountain air. It had the faintest taste of sage. She hurried around the porch and down the steps, aware of the fast beat of her footsteps in the silence, as if she were running from something…something unholy.

She negotiated the curves down the canyon and turned south onto the highway, heading back through the reservation to Lander, Ollie Goodman's voice ringing in her head.
He'll be reunited with his money.
It was almost comical. There she was, jeopardizing the law firm, ignoring the agreement she'd made with Adam, and for what? A man who technically wasn't even her client. A man who could have stolen a sacred petroglyph, maybe even murdered his friend.
Damn lucky to get a manslaughter conviction.

And yet she couldn't shake the image of Amos Walking Bear, the fear and grief in the old man's eyes. “You gotta help Travis,” he'd said.

Vicky swung left onto Highway 26, taking the shorter route across the top of the reservation to St. Francis Mission. She had to talk to John O'Malley.

 

VICKY TAPPED THE
brake as she drove around Circle Drive. Boys of various sizes, ten to twelve years old, with brown faces and black hair falling over their foreheads and white teeth flashing in wide grins, jostled one another across the grass in the center of the mission. She stopped as they tumbled out into the drive. Two of the boys hoisted large bags with bulges in the sides and bats protruding from the end. The smaller kid, with a round face and a cowlick shooting from the back of his head, let his bag drop into the field. He stared at it a moment before fitting the strap onto one shoulder and staggering off, the bag bumping along behind.