“Why don’t you take them to an animal doctor?” Ben asked.
“Because animal doctors want money. Like everybody else.”
Ben examined the birds more carefully. Clean dressed bandages, gauze patches—even splints. He realized their snap judgment had been mistaken. This boy was obviously dedicated to his birds.
“What’s your name, kid?”
The boy hesitated. “I go by Wolf.”
“Wolf?” Ben scrutinized his ruddy skin and his long, inky black hair. “You’re a Native American.”
“So?”
“Creek Nation?”
“Maybe. What’s it to you?”
“What’s your real name, Wolf?”
“Why should I tell you?”
“Because if you don’t, I’ll tell your parents you held us at rubber-band-point.”
“Names are personal.”
Christina stepped forward. “Mine’s Christina. He’s Ben. Now what’s yours?”
He looked away. “Lemuel.”
“Lemuel?” It was worse than Ben had imagined. “Not exactly an Indian name, huh?”
“It’s no kind of name for a warrior,” the boy said.
Ben couldn’t dispute that. “We’ll call you Wolf. What’s your last name?”
“Natonobah.”
“Great. Wolf Natonobah.”
“So you’re a warrior,” Christina said. “Like in Dances With Wolves?”
He stared at her stonily.
“Didn’t you see that movie?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I snuck in the exit door after the lights went down. I hated it.”
“Really?”
“I hate all that noble savage crap. Give me a movie where the Indians beat the hell out of the white men, that’s what I like. White men ruin everything.”
“Like this forest?” Ben asked.
“Yeah. And my birds.”
“You must come here often.”
“What of it?”
“Have you seen any…suspicious activity out here?”
“Tonight I saw two white fools creeping around with flashlights.”
Ben had to smile. “You were tracking us, weren’t you?”
“I followed you. Tracking wasn’t required. A blind man could’ve followed your trail.”
“What about before tonight?”
“I’ve seen other white people, if that’s what you mean.”
“On Monday nights?”
“Yeah. A week ago, last Monday night, I saw a small plane land in the clearing.”
Bingo. “And what happened after the plane landed?”
“The pilot and a man on a dirt bike met. They traded packages.”
“And what was in the packages?”
Instinctively, Wolf glanced down at his pocket. He caught himself, looked up quickly. “I don’t know.”
It was too late. “What’s in your pocket?” Ben asked.
“None of your business.”
Ben tilted his head. “Christina.”
Christina stood behind Wolf and held his arms while Ben searched his pocket.
“Hey, where’s your goddamn warrant?” Wolf squirmed beneath her grasp.
“Sorry,” Ben said. “We’re not cops. Far from it.” He removed a small glassy package from Wolf’s torn jeans and shone the beam of the flashlight on it. The white powder twinkled in the light.
“Holy smokes,” Christina said. “Is that what I think it is?”
“I don’t know,” Ben replied.
“Well, taste it.”
“Taste it? How would I know what cocaine tastes like?”
“You used to work for the D.A., didn’t you?”
“Oh yeah. And on the first day of work he used to line us all up and make us taste cocaine. Give me a break.” He placed the powder in his pocket for future examination. “Wolf, had you ever seen a rendezvous in the clearing before?”
“No. But two Mondays before, I heard a strange noise. I was too far away to follow it, but I think that was the plane coming in for a landing.”
“That jibes with what Burris told me. Shipments every other Monday.” Ben grasped Wolf by the shoulders. “Wolf, do you think you would recognize these men if you saw them again?”
“It was very dark. But my eyes are like Katar, the hawk’s. I would recognize them.”
“Christina, if we can learn who was running the drugs, we can prove you weren’t involved. And maybe find out who the murderer was in the process. Wolf, can you show us this clearing you mentioned?”
Wolf folded his arms across his chest. “What’s in it for me?”
Ben pulled two twenty dollar bills out of his wallet. “This would buy a lot of birdseed. Maybe some first aid supplies, too.”
Wolf snatched the bills out of his hand. “Let’s go.”
He led them out of the shack, careful to rechain the bicycle lock behind him. They had gone only a few hundred yards before Ben clamped down on Christina and Wolf’s shoulders. “Shhh!”
“Not again!” Christina said. “Are you still hearing things?”
“Yes. Behind us.”
“That’s what you said before.”
“Yeah, and as it turns out, Wolf was following us. But since he’s right here at the moment, who’s following us now?”
Ben and Christina looked at one another, then out into the black forest. They spread their flashlight beams in a wide arc, but saw nothing.
The now familiar shiver crept up Ben’s spine, then spread throughout his entire body. Was he losing his grip? Or was someone following them? The same person who followed them from the jailhouse, perhaps, or who ransacked Christina’s apartment. And if so, what did he want now?
“Do you want to see the clearing or not?” Wolf asked impatiently.
“We do,” Ben said. He turned his eyes to the path ahead and followed Wolf through the forest.
But he kept his ears focused behind him.
21
BEN DROVE UP THE curved driveway of Margot Lombardi’s home in the South Livingston Park neighborhood near Southern Hills. Her house was French Provincial, painted white brick with a blue canopy over the front door. The flower beds were blooming with bright red tulips.
The glass front door was slightly ajar. Ben knocked.
A voice emerged from inside. “Please come in.”
He pushed through the door. Although none of the foyer furnishings were Reynoldsesque showstoppers, they were attractive—delicate, tidy, and tasteful. He found Mrs. Lombardi in a sunken living room on a striped fabric sofa. She was wearing a long dark skirt that reflected her shoulder-length black hair and dark sad eyes. They introduced themselves.
“Thank you for seeing me,” Ben said.
“You’re the lawyer?” Her voice was like crystal—thin and fragile.
“That’s right. Ben Kincaid.”
“You seem young for a lawyer. Forgive me, but do you have a business card?”
“I’m sorry, no. I don’t use them. They give me the heebie-jeebies.”
Margot arched one thinly penciled eyebrow. “You’re afraid of business cards?”
“It’s a long story. Do you mind if I sit down?”
She motioned toward a chair separated from the sofa by a cherry wood coffee table. Margot was tall and extremely slender. Possibly less than a hundred pounds. She seemed to favor loose-fitting, billowy clothes, probably because they gave her an imagined fullness nature didn’t provide.
Ben passed his Oklahoma driver’s license across the table, careful not to disturb any of the ornamental knickknacks and figurines. He had the feeling that if he breathed too hard the entire room would shatter and dissolve. Including the hostess.
She examined the license briefly. “Forgive me for being overcautious. I find I must restrict with whom I speak. Recent events are bad enough without fanning the flames of gossip.”
She passed the license back. Ben noticed her fingernails were chewed to the quick. “First of all,” Ben said, “let me convey my sincere condolences regarding your husband’s death.”