All small towns have their secrets, Nick Dean thought as he
drove north on Montana's Route 191. Some more than others.
The town of Whitehorn, northwest of Billings, seemed to have
more than its fair share, or so he'd discovered these past
few days.
He swung his blue Blazer into the passing lane to go around
a slow-moving station wagon, its windows steamed up by a
carload of kids of varying ages and a harassed-looking woman
driver. It was dusk, that nebulous time of evening just
before the streetlights come on. A cold October wind whipped
occasional clumps of tumbleweed across the highway, adding
to the feeling of desolation. With a shiver, Nick rolled up
his window.
Of course, having been born in Red Lodge, near the southern
border close to Wyoming, and having spent most of his adult
life in Montana, he was used to often-frigid weather. He
even enjoyed it much of the time. The day's high of
thirty-eight, dropping at least ten degrees since
mid-afternoon, was warm compared to what it would be at the
height of winter, when the wind-chill factor could take it
down to thirty below in an hour. Glancing at a darkening sky
thick with churning gray clouds, he decided it was entirely
possible that the first snowstorm of the season was building.
That was all he needed right now.
Nick rolled his shoulders to get the kinks out. He'd been on
the move from early morning, starting off with breakfast at
the Hip Hop Café, hanging around over coffee refills,
trying to overhear conversations or bits of gossip. Some
people had been chatty and friendly, others outright
suspicious. He'd learned several interesting things since
he'd arrived in town, especially from the older generation,
but nothing concrete.
Next, he'd spent several hours at the Whitehorn library
checking out old newspapers in their morgue. After a late
lunch he'd driven to the Whitehorn County Hospital, where
he'd persuaded a young redhead in medical records to allow
him to paw through some old files.
After all that he still had more questions than answers as
to what had happened to Charlie Avery, whose remains had
been discovered recently on the Laughing Horse Reservation
north of town. He had a few suspects—men who hadn't
exactly seen eye-to-eye with Charlie—but not a shred
of proof that pointed to any one person actually doing him in.
Nick ran a hand through his flyaway blond hair, feeling the
frustration. For the most part, he enjoyed his work. Being a
private investigator meant he was his own boss, worked his
own hours and got to call most of the shots. It sure beat
the years he'd put in with the Butte Police Department
working vice. That job, too, had called for patience,
something his father had taught him as a teenager working in
the family construction business. The problem was that most
of the people who hired private investigators wanted action
now.
He watched the streetlights come on and noticed that now his
was the only vehicle on this stretch of highway, both ahead
and behind. Most of the residents of Whitehorn were home
having dinner in their warm kitchens. He wasn't really
hungry, so he decided to drive on to the Whitehorn Motel,
where he'd rented a room, and pick up something from their
coffee shop later.
Luck was with him on this case, Nick acknowledged, at least
as far as his client was concerned. Melissa Avery, the woman
who ran the Hip Hop Café, was anxious to find out what
had happened to her father after he'd disappeared some
twenty years ago. But because of the elapsed time, she
realized that the trail might be cold and that Nick wouldn't
have results quickly. The first thing he'd done when he'd
arrived in Whitehorn after driving the hundred thirty-six
miles from Butte had been to check with the coroner, where
he'd verified Melissa's right to be concerned.
Charlie Avery had definitely been murdered.
But by whom and for what reason—that was what Nick was
intent on discovering. And he would, he felt certain. He'd
never taken a case yet that he hadn't solved, though
admittedly, some took months, while a few had been resolved
in a matter of weeks.
That's where patience came in. An investigator had to
carefully gather facts; keep extensive notes; interview
anyone and everyone remotely connected to the victim, his
family and friends; ascertain motives, opportunity and
means. Eventually, the pieces of the puzzle would fall into
place. That's where the satisfaction came in, unlike police
work where, often as not, catching the culprit didn't
necessarily mean a conviction. Smart, high-paid lawyers,
legal technicalities, uncertain witnesses—any one of
those and a number of other factors, and the criminal walked.
Nick had found that frustration much harder to deal with
than the patience required to unravel a mystery.
His eyes flickered over the hilly terrain to the left, the
dormant scrub grass, the scraggly bushes. Winter was
sneaking up on them. He flipped on the lights and had barely
gone ten feet when something just ahead had him leaning
toward the windshield and squinting. He hadn't been
mistaken, Nick decided as he made out a form at the side of
the road. A woman stood motioning for him to stop, yet he
could spot no disabled vehicle. Surely she hadn't been out
walking along this deserted strip of highway. Quickly, he
pulled the Blazer to a halt.
Leaning over, Nick rolled down the window and studied her in
his headlights. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, with
long, windblown hair and a thin face. She seemed lost in the
folds of an oversize tan raincoat as she approached,
carrying what looked like a heavy canvas bag. "Car
trouble?" he asked.
She answered his question with one of her own. "Can you
give me a lift?"
"Sure." He shoved open the passenger door and
watched her climb slowly inside. "Where you headed?"
She had trouble closing the door, but finally managed it.
"I—I'm not sure. Where are you going?" She
struggled to fasten her seat belt.
Up close in the light from the dash, Nick saw that she was
quite pale and, despite the cold, her face looked flushed.
"I'm heading for the Whitehorn Motel." Her blue eyes
were huge and seemed a little vague. "But I could take
you somewhere else. It's getting colder and looks like it
may snow." At that, he turned the heater on.
"I don't want to trouble you. The motel's fine." Her
voice was so low he had to lean closer to hear her.
Shifting into gear, Nick glanced over again. "Are you
from around here?"
"No, no. I just came back to make sure she was all
right."
"She?" But the woman was staring out the windshield,
apparently unaware of his question. "You came back to
make sure who was all right?"
Suddenly, she came to attention. "No one. Never mind."
Nick saw perspiration gathering on her face, unhealthy
perspiration not caused by the heater, he was certain.
"Are you all right? Maybe I should turn around and take
you to the hospital."
"No, I'm fine. Really." She huddled in her coat,
pulling up the collar.
"My name's Nick Dean," he said, giving it one more
try as he downshifted around a steep curve. Another glance
told him she had her eyes closed and wasn't planning on
giving him her name, whether because she was ill or from a
need for privacy, he couldn't tell. He wanted to ask her
what she was doing on this lonely stretch of highway
hitchhiking, if she knew someone in town and who the
mysterious "she" she'd been checking on was. Still,
it was none of his business. Perhaps the best thing he could
do was to get her to the motel, where she could either check
in or call someone.
As he straightened the vehicle after the curve, Nick
suddenly felt the jolt of a tremendous explosion. Fire burst
forth, flames shooting out from under the hood as the Blazer
came to an abrupt stop. The driver's door shot open and Nick
was thrown out, hitting the cold ground, then rolling down
the embankment. His left shoulder and then his head took the
worst of it. He had no time to prepare himself, no time to
brace against the tumble and roll into the fall. As he
plunged down the hill, he heard another roaring eruption.
He didn't see the black smoke billowing up from the
wreckage, nor hear the lone, frightened scream of a woman.
Before his body rammed into a cluster of prickly bushes that
stopped his plunge down the incline, Nick Dean mercifully
passed out.
Sara Lewis checked her watch and saw that it was nearly
seven. The wind was really picking up, and it had begun to
snow just as she'd left the Whitehorn County Hospital and
climbed into her six-year-old white Volkswagen. Fortunately,
the little car ran like a top, and the reliable heater had
the interior warm in moments. She would have to dig out her
fur-lined parka soon, Sara thought as she turned onto the
two-lane road that paralleled Route 191. The highway would
have gotten her back to the reservation more quickly, but
she much preferred the slower pace of Pale Bluff Lane,
especially when she was tired.
And she was tired, Sara admitted to herself as she shook
back her long black hair. They'd had a shipment of valuable
tapestries come in this morning at the Native American
Museum where she was artifacts curator. She'd been in charge
of the paperwork, cataloging each arrival, checking the
authenticity and overseeing the hanging. She'd been anxious
to get the job done before the five o'clock closing time, so
she'd worked through her lunch hour.
But she'd gotten every piece finished and hung to her
satisfaction. So she was comfortably tired, not drained.
Afterward, it had been her choice to drive in the opposite
direction from her home to the hospital. She had an
arrangement with her friend, Dr. Kane Hunter, another Native
American who worked in town. They'd grown up together and
had remained good friends. One of the children in the
reservation's day-care center where she volunteered on
weekends—Chad Laughing Face, a chubby
four-year-old—had diabetes and a family that had
trouble affording insulin. Kane was good enough to tend the
boy free of charge and to keep him supplied with insulin if
Sara picked it up when needed. She'd been happy to oblige
tonight, just one of the things she did on the reservation
to make life easier for her people. Things she did quietly,
as was her way.
Sara's stomach growled, reminding her that her body wasn't a
machine and needed sustenance, and soon. Some hot, homemade
soup would hit the spot, she thought, and the wheat bread
she'd made yesterday. Then a cup of tea and a long soak in
her claw-footed tub.
She smiled as she leaned into the curve she was rounding. By
most people's standards, this was probably not an exciting
evening for a twenty-nine-year-old woman in the prime of
life. But it suited Sara just fine. She didn't crave
excitement, never had. She liked her life; her small house
on Laughing Horse Reservation, where she'd grown up; her
job, which she'd trained for both at Montana State
University and at the museum in Bozeman, where she'd worked
part-time to pay the expenses her partial scholarship hadn't
covered. A woman proud of both her heritage and her
independence, Sara knew she was strong and stable.
She also knew that those were the very things that
apparently frightened off most of the eligible male
population. Sighing, she acknowledged not for the first time
that she was caught between a rock and a hard place. While
attending college, she'd dated some white men, but hadn't
felt totally comfortable with any one of them. Certainly not
Jack Kelly, the all-American football star who'd surprised
her with his avid interest, then taught her the hardest
lesson she'd ever learned. Though there were few Indian
males living on Laughing Horse in her age group, she'd dated
a couple. And there was the rub.
She'd come to believe that no white man would accept and
respect her cultural background. And she hadn't run across a
Native American man who was strong, dedicated and as
dependable as Sara believed she needed a man to be. She was
beginning to think she never would for with the exception of
her good friend Jackson Hawk, who'd married Maggie Schaeffer
recently, and Kane, who'd been in love with someone else for
a long while, few young Indians were comfortable with
themselves, had come to grips with their heritage and were
therefore able to remain happily on the reservation.
And Sara couldn't picture herself living anywhere else.
Definitely a dilemma, she thought as she crossed over the
intersection of Route 191 and turned onto the road leading
to Laughing Horse. A dilemma but not a tragedy, she told
herself. She had lots of friends, the warm love of her
mother and grandmother, who both lived near her own small
house, and work she enjoyed. Many people had far less.
Life was a trade-off, after all, and—
Sara instinctively stepped hard on the brakes as a tall
figure loomed just ahead of her, caught in the twin circles
from her headlights. He was apparently having trouble
staying upright, and she might have missed him altogether if
he hadn't been wearing a bright red jacket. Pulling off the
road, she stopped by a thick copse of pine trees.
Shifting into Park, she left her lights on and jumped out of
the car. For a moment she didn't see him, then realized he'd
fallen onto the shoulder of the road. She rushed over,
noticing that he was trying to sit up.
Dried grass clung to his thick blond hair and there were
scrapes and bruises on his angular face. A large gash on his
head near his left temple was bleeding, and his jeans were
dirty and ripped. "What happened?" she asked quickly.
With his head pounding and his left shoulder hurting like
hell, Nick was having trouble remaining in a sitting
position. But he didn't think about his discomfort, only of
getting help. "Blazer," he finally managed to
answer. "Caught fire. Have to get the woman out."
Straightening, Sara looked in each direction and could see
no Blazer, no fire, no woman. "Where did this happen?"
He waved a hand vaguely. "Up on the highway. Gotta get
help. I started walking. Fell." He tried to push himself
upright, but the effort was just too much.
"Here, let me help you." Sara moved to his side and
slipped one arm around him.
"Oh!" he cried out. "My shoulder."