Читать книгу The Man From Oklahoma - Darlene Graham - Страница 10

BRAD ALEXANDER waited with his headlights doused. Only after he saw his boss’s black Ford Taurus swing around the corner of Frankfort and Third, did he ease his BMW out of the alley and into the Channel Six parking lot. He killed the Beemer’s engine and punched in a number on his cell phone. “We need to talk. I’m in your parking lot…Trent just left?” he said as if he didn’t know. “Oh. He gave you an interview? Great. I’ll be right in.”

Inside, the place was nearly dark, battened down for the nightshift. Peppy commercial music from a back room told him someone was working, feeding the beast, as they said in this business. “Ms. Evans?” he called out.

“Here.” Her voice came from down a long dimly lit hallway. Someone was standing behind her. That skinny kid—the cameraman who seemed perennially glued to her side. He had shaggy hair and wore an earring, was probably a fag.

As Brad watched her silhouette walking toward him—tight straight skirt, mile-long legs—he noted again what a fine piece of woman Jamie Evans was. Too bad they weren’t getting to know each other under better circumstances.

“I wouldn’t normally come to the station,” he started, “but I can’t believe what I just heard. One of the detectives said the Osage County Sheriff spotted your Channel Six vehicle out on the Hart Ranch today.”

“Shot a teaser,” Jamie shrugged. “It’s not illegal.”

“It was stupid as hell, Ms. Evans.” He leaned sarcastically on the Ms. as if it was an insult. “If I’m going to feed you tips that give you the advantage on this story, I expect you to show a little discretion.”

“Discretion?”

“Biddle. If he spotted you, you alerted him.”

“Alerted?”

“You know what I’m talking about.” Brad’s eyes narrowed on her. “You talked to him, didn’t you? You realize you may have given Biddle time to hide important evidence. What did he say, what did he do, when you told him poor Susie’s remains had been found?”

“What did he do?”

“Ms. Evans,” he ground her name out through clenched teeth. “Echoing the question is an old lawyer’s trick. Do you want to keep using me as a source on this story or not?”

As soon as he said it, Brad wished his mouth had an “undo” button. He felt his nostrils flare as he fought to rein in his temper, reminding himself that he was the one who needed Jamie Evans.

“Do you want me to keep using you?” When it came to the DA’s office, sometimes Jamie wondered who was using whom. She wasn’t about to admit she’d talked to Biddle. Alexander’s eyes had flashed with such fury just now that she thought he might actually strike her.

“Thanks to your little teaser, Ms. Evans, we’ll have to hustle to get a search warrant out there, maybe even tonight.”

“A search warrant?” Jamie’s pulse shifted into high gear. “For what?”

“I’m not inclined to tell you.” Brad’s voice was petulant.

“Now, Brad.” She tried for a conciliatory tone. Even if Brad Alexander did grate on her nerves, big time, how often did a neophyte reporter connect with a powerful source like this? The First Assistant District Attorney. She didn’t exactly understand why he was coming to her, and she even wondered if Brad the Brat, as she and Dave liked to call him behind his back, had the hots for her or something. She scrubbed that very revolting thought. But Brad definitely had some kind of hidden agenda. “Look. I’m sorry I went out there. But the M.E. was my official source on that one, and you should have told me Biddle was a suspect. Now, what are we looking for?”

“Did you get video of Biddle?”

“Nothing useful,” Jamie said. She knew what was coming next. Segments of news video had ended up in courtrooms before. “What are we looking for?” she pressed.

“Probable cause.”

Employing that we bit worked every time. Brad seemed suddenly cooperative now that Jamie had something he wanted.

He went on, “The cops have circumstantial evidence, motive—”

“Motive?”

“Yes. The Biddle marriage was strained. If they split up, she would have taken him for half of everything—the ranch, the mansion, the oil royalties.”

Jamie frowned. Nothing in her investigation had indicated marital problems. How had the police—and Brad—gotten this kind of information? She made a mental note to find out.

Brad was still talking, checking his list off on his fingers, “We have opportunity, witnesses, everything but modus operandi, which, in a crime of passion, wouldn’t apply. Now we need some physical clues. A knife, specifically. The autopsy showed a significant marring, a scrape on the clavicle, which would indicate a slashing or hacking wound.”

Jamie could feel Dave cringing beside her, but she pressed on while Alexander was in the mood to talk. “A cut across the collarbone. Was that the cause of death?”

“Probably not. The M.E. thinks it was a fall—she had a broken neck. But the wound would have been significant, too, possibly from a large hunting knife.”

Dave made a shocked little noise, then said, “There would have been a lot of blood. You know, bloody residue wherever…the, uh, injury took place…” His voice trailed off.

“So then, out at the ranch,” Jamie asked, “they’re probably going to do that test you told me about once? The one where the black light turns old bloodstains blue? Whaddaya call it?”

Suddenly Brad looked worried, and a warning blip crossed Jamie’s radar. “Yes. Luminol,” he said absently. “They’ll spray the walls, the furniture, maybe even rip up the carpet.”

Jamie waited for him to go on, but he didn’t, so she scrambled for more questions, anything to keep him talking. “So they’ll test those surfaces for blood residue, for DNA evidence?”

“Yes, DNA,” Alexander said, clearly distracted now.

“What about the Biddle mansion here in Tulsa?” Jamie pumped him. “Are the cops going to spray there, too?”

“Of course.”

Jamie’s source was drying up right before her eyes. He checked his watch. She quickly said, “And what about that neighbor who overheard them having a loud argument the night Susan Biddle disappeared?”

Brad seemed surprised that she knew about that, and the question brought him back into focus. “Old Mrs. Petree has passed on unfortunately.”

“But you guys still have her deposition?”

“Yes.”

“Now what?” Jamie pressed.

“Van Horn will get the Osage County Sheriff to go out and search the Hart Ranch immediately. We can get a search warrant for the Tulsa home from a judge here first thing tomorrow.” Brad’s eyebrows shot up and he checked his watch again. “Listen. I’ve got to go.”

“Wait,” Jamie said as he backed up. “Will they search the whole ranch? And when will they do this search?”

“Tonight, if possible.”

“You’ll tell me when they go?”

“Yeah, sure. Yes,” he repeated more emphatically, then stopped in his tracks, seeming suddenly intent on that idea. “In fact, I’ll page you. You’re thinking of covering it?”

“Absolutely.” Jamie shot Dave a look, and Dave arched an eyebrow as he tugged on his earring. “Maybe we can even get the chopper,” he muttered.

As Brad watched their exchange, he felt less tense, more in control. The reporter and her skinny shadow would be on that ranch like stink on shit, and a little media ruckus would prove a very useful distraction. He’d make sure Van Horn let him organize the search warrants so he could stall to allow himself enough time. Now if only the tall grasses were very dry and the winds were blowing just right…

THE CUT-CUT-CUT of the Skyranger Six chopper blades always made Jamie jumpy. Somehow, the monotonous beating seemed to intensify her motion sickness. The tiny helicopter rocked in the wind like an empty soda can on a string. She glanced back at Dave, all cozy in the rear seat, surrounded by his equipment, chewing a wad of gum, happy as a clam. The pilot was grinning from behind his aviator sunglasses. Jamie hated them both because they never got airsick.

“Not far!” the pilot hollered over the noise. “Sorry for the bumpy ride!” He pointed. “Over there’s the tallgrass prairie. Largest expanse of native tall grass remaining on this continent.”

Jamie and Dave exchanged smirks. They had nicknamed this pilot Encyclopedia Jones because of his tendency to spout arcane facts.

The sun was just coming up at their backs, casting the rolling Osage Hills in a cool lavender light. To their right, the endless Tallgrass Prairie Preserve reflected the soft peachy hues of dawn. Rising clouds in the distance promised a thunderstorm later in the day. Despite her nausea, Jamie loved this part of her job—these rare moments when she got to see the natural world from the vantage point of the helicopter window. Pure magic.

“I didn’t think old Phil was going to go for this, did you?” Dave bellowed from the back seat.

“Yeah. He’s pretty stingy with this bird,” the pilot agreed.

“I guess nothing else newsworthy is going on at dark-thirty,” Jamie joked. It had been a late night, convincing Phil Hooks that the helicopter was the only way to get out to the Hart Ranch in time to catch the search and possible arrest of Nathan Hart Biddle.

Soon she recognized the river and the landscape of Hart Ranch ahead, then made out the barns and outbuildings—and the three sheriff’s cruisers parked in an open triangle in front of the ranch house.

“They’re here,” she called over her shoulder to Dave. “Start shooting.”

“I’m way ahead of you.” He’d already begun.

The pilot angled the chopper to give the photographer an unobstructed view, and Jamie felt her stomach twist. She clutched her barf bag close. Then she saw something that distracted her. “Does that look like smoke?” She leaned toward the pilot and pointed.

In the distance a hazy column rose from the rolling hills, wavering in the dawn light. The pilot glanced once, didn’t seem to see. Dave was filming the cruisers and ranch house, now directly below them. Jamie looked down. No activity was visible. Jamie wondered if they’d pulled Nathan Biddle out of bed, wondered if he’d figured out the awful truth by now.

She glanced toward the sunrise again, and this time she was certain she saw smoke. “Go that way!” she commanded over the noise.

“Boss didn’t authorize a bunch of running around, lady. This thing eats fuel, you know.”

“That could be a fire!”

“So? Out here on the tallgrass prairie they set fires all the time to burn off that pesky Japanese grass.”

“A controlled burn? With the wind gusting like this? Besides, it’s over by part of the Hart Ranch. Isn’t that the plateau where we filmed yesterday?” She directed this question to Dave, but didn’t wait for the answer. “That’s near that old cabin. It can’t be more than a couple of miles. Fly over and check it out. I’ll take responsibility for the fuel.”

The pilot made a sour face and practically turned the chopper on its side, making Jamie’s sweet roll and coffee lurch up dangerously. He flew at full speed toward the smoke on the horizon. Jamie pointed as they passed over the roof of the old cabin, barely visible through a thicket of dry-leafed blackjacks. As they got closer to the column—large and definitely smoke—the fire itself became visible. Flames made eerie Z’s on the gray hillsides, and the pilot immediately changed his tune.

“That’s a big one, all right,” he said. “We’d better not fly any closer.”

“Holy shit!” Dave exclaimed while filming.

“That’s no controlled burn.” Jamie was already digging out her cell phone. “I’m calling it in.”

She made a hasty call to alert the station first, then she punched 911, wondering if the cruisers on the ground a mile behind them would be called into the act. She told the dispatcher who she was, that she was looking at a massive grass fire, clearly out of control, headed directly for the Hart Ranch complex. The dispatcher took careful coordinates of their location, with the pilot shouting out landmarks over the chopper noise.

Just as she’d figured, Jamie was ordered to stay on the line while the dispatcher contacted units from the nearby town of Pawhuska. She covered the mouthpiece and shot a look of disgust back at Dave. “I have to hold.” She studied the fire. “It’s definitely moving southwest,” she muttered toward the window.

Suddenly she turned her head and shouted to the pilot, “Head back to the ranch! We’ve got to warn them.”

The pilot did another sickening turn and flew full throttle toward the ranch house. They landed near the cruisers in a cyclone of dust, and immediately the sheriff came marching out of the ranch house, looking angry, waving them away.

Jamie jumped from the door while the blades were still rotating. With the cell phone pressed to her ear, she held up her free hand in placation. “Prairie fire!” she yelled. “Out of control! A mile or two northeast!”

The big man cupped his hands and shouted, “Did you call it in?” as they ran toward each other.

“Yes!” Jamie’s throat was so dry she no longer felt any nausea. “Pawhuska’s sending units. I’m on hold with the 911 dispatcher.”

“I’ll take over!” the sheriff said. “Give it to me!”

Jamie handed him the phone.

“You with Channel Six?” he asked as he held the phone to his ear, waiting.

“Yes.” Jamie paused to catch her breath as Dave and the pilot jumped out and rushed toward them. Dave filmed as they stood in a cluster, telling the sheriff as much as they could about the fire. “We may need you to go back up and call in the exact parameters of the fire,” the sheriff said. The pilot nodded.

Nathan Biddle emerged from the ranch house with the two deputies on either side of him. At the sight of him, Jamie’s pulse—already racing—quickened even more. The sheriff called out the situation before they’d gotten halfway across the yard. Biddle stopped and turned, hollered something urgent to one of the deputies. An argument ensued. Jamie could only catch the words high-strung thoroughbred over the chopper’s noise.

Biddle finally made a cutting motion with his arm, then turned and ran in the direction of the barns. The deputies trotted over to the group. One faced the sheriff and said, “The man’s got a high-dollar stud horse he wants to save and six brood mares. He says he can swim them all across the river.”

“Wouldn’t take no for an answer,” the other deputy put in.

“Nathan ain’t going nowhere,” the sheriff said dryly. “Let him move his horses. We got bigger problems now, anyways, boys. The Tulsa DA can waste his own time trying to find some old hunting knife that ain’t here.”

Jamie wanted to ply the sheriff with questions, but he was shouting, “Yeah, Sheriff Bates here,” into the cell phone.

“Okay,” he said next. Then, “I’ve got the Channel Six Skyranger helicopter out here. They volunteered to go up and provide aerial support. Pawhuska will take fire-ground command. Until we know more, go ahead and have Blackpool’s units go east on Highway Twenty.” He stopped and spoke to the pilot. “You can get close enough to provide air guidance, can’t you?”

The pilot nodded, and Jamie said, “I’m going back up with you. We’ll do a phoner. Dave can feed back video.”

A deputy passed a cell phone to the sheriff, and Jamie took hers back. She and Dave followed the pilot to the chopper. As they lifted off, Jamie looked down toward the barns. She saw Nathan Biddle, now wearing a tan cowboy hat and a dark leather jacket, mount his paint while he held three other horses on long leads. She watched him galloping toward the river for as long as she could before they all disappeared under the dense canopy of blackjacks.

In the wind and shifting smoke, it was all the trio in the helicopter could do to keep their bearings and identify roads and landmarks. They made a wide circle, spotted two other dwellings in the immediate path of the fire, and called in the locations of these. By the time they circled back, firefighters from six towns had arrived with twenty units to battle the blaze. The wildfire was suddenly the day’s big media event.

“The fire is eating up everything in sight,” Jamie reported, while Dave fed digital pictures back to the station.

Jamie was so caught up in the moment that she completely forgot about Biddle until she spotted him again, this time riding at a hard gallop toward the old cabin up on the plateau. The horse he rode now was black, huge and powerful. Its pounding hooves created an enormous ribbon of dust in the dry morning air. The fire, snaking around the base of a hill, was making its way up to the plateau like a hot orange army on the march.

“Where’s he going?” she shouted back to Dave as she poked her finger at the glass, indicating Nathan passing below them.

Dave leaned forward. “To that cabin obviously.” He picked up his camera and twisted to get a good clean shot of the horse and rider.

“Turn around and land on that plateau by the cabin!” Jamie ordered the pilot.

“Ms. Evans, that fire is getting too close for comfort now—”

“Exactly! He wouldn’t be taking such a risk without a reason. Now land this thing!”

They circled and touched down just as Nathan Biddle threw himself from the saddle and raced full speed toward the cabin. Only then did Jamie see the old motorcycle parked under the sloping shed roof supported by two log poles. Someone was in there.

She jumped from the chopper and ran, feeling rather than seeing Dave on her heels. Up close, the cabin looked like something out of a movie about pioneers: chinked-log construction, a fat stone chimney that seemed larger than the little box of the cabin itself, drying gourds hanging on exterior walls.

“Wow!” Dave exclaimed as he filmed.

As they burst through the open door, Nathan Biddle, his jeans soaked to the skin, was standing with his back to them next to an enormous shirtless man with a long black ponytail, who was lifting a large wood-framed drawing off the rough-hewn wall. It was a yellowed charcoal sketch of a swan in profile, done in bold black lines.

Jamie sucked in her breath when she saw what Biddle held. An Osage war shield! The unmistakable white markings on stretched buckskin, the five eagle feathers hanging at the bottom, two others strategically placed at the top. Surely it was some kind of copy. No authentic Osage shield existed outside the protection of a museum these days.

Biddle turned from his task and squinted at her in horror. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“We landed outside,” she explained as if anyone within a mile couldn’t hear a helicopter landing. “That fire’s closer than you think and the road’s covered in smoke. I’ve got the chopper outside. We’ll lift you both out. Let’s go!”

The big man beside Biddle said, “I will get the bound volumes. You get grandfather’s Peyote fan and crucifix.” Biddle nodded and swung around with the shield, headed for a battered old dresser. The other man crossed to some crude bookshelves in the corner, seeming to dominate the room as he moved. “Do not film these objects,” he quietly commanded Dave as he passed near him.

Dave obediently lowered the camera. “Okeydoke,” he muttered under his breath, and gave Jamie a wild-eyed look as he angled the viewfinder upward and the tape heads continued to turn.

All over the cabin were other Osage artifacts. Blankets, beaded work, paintings. And shelves and shelves of books, stacks and stacks of papers, piled on a rickety drawing board shoved under the one grimy window. Surely they weren’t trying to save all this stuff.

“Mr. Biddle, I don’t know what you’re trying to do here—” she held out her hands imploringly as she stepped toward Nathan “—but we don’t have much time.” In fact, the smoke seemed to be getting thicker in the air that gusted into the open doorway.

Biddle stopped what he was doing, turned and stared out the door. “Robert,” he called to the big man who was unplugging a laptop computer, “you must go now. I’ll stay behind and gather his papers.”

“No,” Robert answered as he pulled several oversize leather-bound books off the shelves. “I’ll stay. You go. I have the Indian.”

“And how much gas have you got in that thing?” Biddle argued. When Robert didn’t answer, he said, “That’s what I thought. And what about Bear?”

Jamie realized that the Indian must be the ancient-looking motorcycle parked out front, but who was Bear? Her question was answered when a large butterscotch-colored dog lumbered in from the back porch area. He looked part chow chow or mastiff. He’d been drawn by the sound of his name, she supposed. “You don’t understand,” she pleaded. “This fire is huge. Take the dog if you want to, but please, we must go. Now.”

“Not until we get our grandfather’s things,” Biddle informed her as he kept working steadily.

“You’re risking your life—and ours—for some dusty old books and a fake Osage shield.”

Robert never stopped in his efforts, but Nathan turned to her, and the look in his eyes could have frozen water. “Nothing in this cabin is fake,” he said.

“I didn’t mean…” Jamie faltered. “Just hurry. Please.”

But when they got outside, the pilot had bad news. He climbed out of the chopper as Dave scrambled into the back seat. He eyed Robert and pulled Jamie aside. “That guy weighs three hundred pounds if he weighs an ounce,” he told her, “and this chopper’s only designed to lift three average-size adults, plus a little equipment—and no dogs.”

“What are you saying?” Jamie asked, but she knew. Through the chopper’s window, she saw Dave, staring straight ahead, protectively clutching the thirty-five-thousand-dollar camera issued to his care. Leaving the equipment—and the precious film—behind would only save them about twenty-five pounds, anyway.

“I can’t take everybody, especially…oversize personnel.” The pilot’s aviators reflected the orange-tinted plumes of smoke beyond the ridge. “The big guy stays.”

“The hell he does.” The voice behind them was Nathan Biddle’s.

Jamie hadn’t noticed that he’d walked up. “Mr. Biddle, I—”

“My cousin goes, and so do all my grandfather’s papers and effects. And so does the dog.”

Jamie and the pilot turned their heads to look at the large man Biddle had called his cousin. He’d pulled on a grimy T-shirt and stood silently, with the volumes tucked under his meaty arms like rescued children. The large dog cowered against his thigh.

“This bird will only hold so much weight,” the pilot insisted. “It’s either you two or—”

“Then I’ll stay,” Jamie jumped in.

“We both will,” Biddle turned to her, calm reassurance radiating from his dark eyes. “The horse can swim us across the river, if necessary.”

“The boss won’t like this. Me leaving his star reporter behind,” the pilot argued.

“I won’t let anything happen to Ms. Evans,” Biddle replied.

“I’ll drop these two and circle right back.” The pilot, clearly frustrated, clearly frightened, looked up at the smoky sky. “Let’s hope the wind doesn’t shift, and the smoke doesn’t get too dense, and my fuel doesn’t run out.”

Jamie placed a hand on the pilot’s shoulder. “You’d better get going.”

Biddle stepped over and grabbed the sleeve of Robert’s T-shirt. “Get in,” he said in answer to Robert’s pained expression. Then he gave his cousin a shove. Once Robert was seated, Biddle bent forward, lifting the picture and the shield, setting them gently onto his cousin’s lap. Then he lifted the old dog’s hindquarters until he got him tucked safely between his cousin’s large boots. “Take care of Bear—and our grandfather’s things.”

Robert, who had been mute until this point, turned his face toward Nathan, and Jamie saw that his dark eyes brimmed with meaning. “No, my brother. Not his things. I will take care of our grandfather.”

The pilot cranked up the rotors and as Jamie ran backward to get clear of the blades’ blast, she stumbled. Biddle was right beside her and she felt his strong hand grip her arm. He practically lifted her off her feet as he circled a muscular arm around her waist and hauled her back. Not only did his touch feel powerful, it felt…stunning.

He lowered her to her feet and she turned away from his face, pretending to cough at the dust, afraid that her expression would betray how profoundly that moment of contact had affected her. As she turned to watch the chopper lift off, she saw Dave in the back window, with his camera against his face. Naturally, he had filmed the entire embarrassing encounter.

She started to say something smart to ease the tension, but when she turned, she saw Nathan Biddle’s broad back and long legs striding away from her. He crossed through the smoky churned-up air and pulled the motorcycle backward out of its parking place. He started rolling it toward the narrow road that led down off the plateau.

“I thought you said it didn’t have any gas,” she said breathlessly as she trotted up beside him.

“It doesn’t. Robert runs around on fumes half the time.” He kept on rolling the machine at a good clip until they were out onto the road. “Don’t worry. The stallion won’t run out of gas.”

Jamie was completely confused. “Aren’t we gonna take the horse with us?” she asked.

“We’ll come back for him.” He mounted the motorcycle. “The cycle’s noise would’ve spooked the stallion,” he explained as he fired up the engine. “And he’ll be testy enough, with both of us riding him out of here and smoke everywhere. Get on.” He reached for her hand.

Jamie, suddenly wishing she’d worn a pantsuit that morning, gave him her hand and let him guide her onto the seat behind him. She fit her thighs around his hips, futilely tugging down on her slim short skirt. She gave up as he lurched away, realizing she had bigger things to worry about than modesty. Though he seemed awfully sure of himself, she was not sure she should trust this man with her life.

They roared down the road, veering off onto a path that careened steeply down to a deep creek. When they got to the bank, he said, “Okay,” and put out his hand for hers again, assisting her off the bike.

Jamie was totally confused now, but her confusion turned to utter shock when he dismounted and shoved the bike into the creek.

“What the…!” she cried as the water gurgled over the submerged vehicle. Was she in the hands of a crazy man?

“When the fire gets here, these dry cedars and blackjacks will go up like kindling, and so will that old cabin.” He grabbed her hand yet again and pulled her back up the path behind him. “That bike is a priceless antique, the progenitor of the modern Harley,” he explained as they climbed. “Robert would never forgive me if I didn’t save it.”

“Save it!” she exclaimed. “You just ran it into the creek!”

“Better than letting it burn to a crisp. He can restore water damage.” He stopped climbing and looked down at her. “What do you suggest? Loading it onto the horse?” He raised his eyes to the veil of smoke scuttling over the treetops. “The wind’s shifting. Come on.” He jerked her along behind him. “We’re not out of the woods yet. And as much as I hate reporters, I still don’t want to see you get charbroiled.”