Chapter 27

Valerie Boren-Odell, 1990

In the mountainous region lying east of Talihina, where, owing to the vast lumber industry which was developed in that region upon construction of the Frisco and Kansas City Southern Railways, shady characters were wont to congregate, the presence of law enforcement officers was constantly in demand.

—H. Lee Jackson, 1938. Indian-Pioneer Papers Collection, interview by Gomer Gower.

"I wasn't alone out there." The map I brought with me to Curtis's house crinkles as I trace a fingertip from Edwin's accident site to the location where I found his lost horse. "And I'd bet you a fish dinner that Roy and Edwin weren't, either. That loose horse ran a long way, lame and banged up. Something…or someone set him off."

"I'd take that bet," Curtis says. "Except we'd be on the same side of it. So I guess we'd have to split the fish dinner."

We look up at the same time and realize we're in awkwardly close proximity, studying the map from opposite sides of his kitchen table. One of those unexplainably transfixed moments occurs, intensified by the fact I came on lunch break to make this appear to be a casual puppy-shopping trip…in case anyone should be looking on.

Curtis saw through the puppy-shopping ruse instantly, of course. He invited me inside, closed the door, and said, "Now tell me why you're really here. Because I know it's not for a puppy."

"Sorry. I didn't mean to raise your hopes." The words carried such strong potential for a double meaning that I blushed.

"You didn't." He was kind enough to keep things on a professional level, following along intently while I pulled out the map, described the recovery of the horse, and the fact that waning daylight plus the slow pace of the injured animal prevented me from taking an up-close look at the place where Edwin's fall started. I didn't dare stay long enough to climb the ridge.

No details have been gained from Edwin. Four days have passed with him under sedation, following emergency surgery to drain fluid off his brain. Officially, the horse balked, lost footing, and fell. Random bad luck. Unofficially, a lot of people know that horse to be experienced and unflappable. He's a sturdy, agile Choctaw pony of the breed the tribe once raised wild in these mountains, a horse with a steady gait and too much good sense to spook at his own shadow and go tumbling end over end.

There's a quiet suspicion that Edwin and Roy may have been targeted by someone looking to make a point. A disgruntled local, irked about tourists, pine pigs, and government regulations? An operation growing weed or running a backwoods methamphetamine lab? One of Parker's supporters sending a message?

In any case, I was the first target via the note, but the repercussions caught Edwin. I am, as Arrington put it, "on thin ice." He wasn't one bit pleased that I'd gone after Edwin's escaped mount alone. "Bad idea, given the trouble following you lately, Boren-Odell." Beneath the reprimand lay the unspoken warning—stir the pot too much, you'll land yourself a lateral transfer to some other unit, only it won't really be a lateral. Your next location will be an NPS armpit. If you have a next location at all.

Yet here I am, against all good sense, looking for advice…or maybe perspective from the one ally I've been able to count on. "It wasn't only that I was losing the light, though," I admit. "I know I was being shadowed. I heard…something, more than once. But whenever I stopped to get a bead on it, it would stop, too. Animals don't do that. People do. I ended up taking a look at the slope through my field glasses, then moving on, since I was by myself."

"Good call."

"The thing is, I saw plenty of evidence of a disturbance below where the fall started, but looking upslope, I couldn't tell what caused the fall, at least not through the glasses." I touch the map again. "If a rock tumbled from up there and it was enough to set the horse off, seems like there would be visual evidence, you know?"

"Seems like it." Folding his knuckles under his chin, he pushes a thumb against his bottom lip. I realize I've come to know he does that when he's thinking. When his interest is piqued.

"Roy told me he heard what he thought was a rock bouncing downslope, then Edwin's yell." I've mentally analyzed it over and over, and I keep coming down to one scenario. "But Roy didn't actually see the rock fall. If someone took a shot at Edwin with a small-caliber rifle…maybe a .22 with a sound suppressor installed, you could think you're hearing stone striking stone, especially out there. Maybe Roy didn't hear a rock falling. Maybe he heard a bullet strike a rock, and then the echo."

I attempt to gauge Curtis's reaction, but he doesn't make it easy.

"Am I off base here? I trust you to give it to me straight." I trust you. I haven't said those words to a person outside my family since…since Joel died, and the investigation into his death was short and shallow, weather deemed the cause, not poor decision making by the incident commander.

"It's possible."

"That I'm off base or that I'm right?"

"Either." He's given me what I asked for—honesty. It stings. "But you have good instincts, Val. I think you're right about Sydney, and I think you're right about Alton Parker, even though I've known the man my whole life. The problem is, no matter how many ways I draw the lines, I can't connect the dots. You may not want to hear this, but you have to face the fact that a break in the stone wall might not happen. If this investigation comes crashing down, the fallout will land on you."

I turn away from him, from the map, let my gaze wander through the window to a hollowed-out place under an elm tree, where Bonnie has bedded down for a midday nap with her three remaining puppies. She gently offers tongue baths, checking each of her little ones. I think of Charlie, of all he's counting on from me.

And of Sydney, who has no one to count on.

I think of those three little skeletons in the cave, girls who could have fallen victim to something so sinister I struggle to comprehend it. My packet from Mr. Wouda arrived yesterday. I opened it, scanned the material—a report written in part by Gertrude Bonnin, a research agent for the Indian Welfare Committee of the General Federation of Women's Clubs, and several newspaper pieces about Kate Barnard's efforts to stop crimes against oil-wealthy children of the Five Tribes. The women of Oklahoma came early to the fight, Mr. Wouda's handwritten note read. Women such as my aunt, Alva Grube, but you won't find that in the history books. Had they won the battle, your mountains would have far fewer ghosts.

As always, I'm torn in two—the mother half and the professional half: the part that promised Charlie a good life here and the part that swore an oath as a law officer.

What's right?

"I just…" There's no quitting for me. Not yet. "I have to check the accident scene. To be sure. If it's a dead end, I'll let it go."

Curtis exhales slowly. "Not by yourself, you don't."

"Curtis, I'm not asking…"

His hand covers mine, warm, strong, compelling. I want to fall into that touch, but at the same time I want to pull away from it. I can't seem to do either. I sit there, frozen.

"Look, Val," he says, and I turn away from the window, meet the intensity of his gaze. "I get that you're a professional. You don't need to be looked after and all that. But you do need backup. Just in case." A hint of irony tugs one side of his lips, forms a dimple there. "Where else are you going to get it?"

Either my resolve goes to mush or he's right. I'm not sure which. "When you put it that way…" Maybe it's just nerves, but the words come out sounding snarky. We both laugh. "S-sorry," I gasp. "I didn't mean it…like th-that."

"Yeah, you Feds," he quips. "All attitude. Hope it doesn't rub off."

I feel the slightest, almost imperceptible squeeze before he releases my hand. Or maybe I imagine it.

In the next moment, he's full-on business, taking a pencil to the map. "Let me see if I can find out who owns the land that juts into the park here. It's weird that I can't say right off. I know most of the families around, plus a lot of the out-of-towners who come and go to hunting and fishing places. I've met the absentee owner who has the property with the road frontage there, a hundred acres maybe, some old hunting blinds and a cabin, but I'm not sure what's behind that place. Looks like it could be a four-, maybe five-hundred-acre piece? If it's landlocked, that might explain an interloper using park land to gain access to the acreage…and being kind of sensitive about it."

"Sensitive enough to shoot at somebody?"

Resting his palms on the table, he pushes to his feet. "Depends on what they're doing back there."