From A Dead Sleep Read online

  No one knew what eventually brought Oldhorse to the hills outside of Winston. Some suspected that he’d gotten in some sort of legal trouble up north, but it was nothing more than pure speculation among a rural citizenry that loved its gossip. He was rarely seen in town, infrequently turning up in a local store, picking up supplies or selling well-crafted wood carvings. His home for the past several years had been a bare-bones cabin without a phone or electricity, wedged along a slope near Red Cliff about three miles from Bailey’s house.

  Lumbergh had once been told by the previous police chief that Oldhorse “seemed like a man who was on an endless journey to find what he was looking for, but had long ago lost track of what that was.” He’d also been told by the former chief that Oldhorse was the best hunter and tracker he’d ever met. When out in the woods, no blemish escaped his notice and no prey escaped his crosshairs.

  Lumbergh watched Jefferson pull up the driveway behind his Jeep and join multiple county squad cars already on the scene. The area was a flurry of officers and activity. The perimeter was being taped off, photographs were being snapped, and multiple work-lights on tripods lit up the range.

  Oldhorse was riding shotgun alongside Jefferson, and in his officer’s eyes Lumbergh read a tale of considerable stress. Jefferson’s face was pale, and he looked like he’d been sweating. The men stepped out of the car. Oldhorse seemed emotionless. His salt and pepper, long hair that had been jet-black in his youth was uncharacteristically void of a ponytail. Looking a little heavier than the last time Lumbergh had seen him, he wore an oversized denim shirt under a half-dozen beaded necklaces with stone pendants and jeans with tall moccasin boots that came up to just under his knees. A sparse mustache decorated his upper lip.

  The men approached the chief, and before Lumbergh could thank Oldhorse for coming, the rugged Native American quickly spoke in his eerily monotone voice: “Tell me that the lost boy isn’t Sean Coleman.”

  Lumbergh was taken aback by the statement. He looked at Jefferson, who shook his head and rolled his eyes.

  Oldhorse continued. “Tell me that I’m not being asked to find the yuhektob who once called me Tonto and asked if there was gambling on my reservation.”

  Lumbergh’s shoulders sank. “No. It’s Toby Parker who’s lost,” he clarified. “Didn’t Jefferson explain that?”

  Jefferson loudly jumped in to defend himself. “It’s a little tough to talk when a knife is being held to your throat!”

  An annoyed and dismissive grunt left Oldhorse’s gullet before he turned toward the officer with irritated, narrow eyes. “As I said; I didn’t know it was you that was floundering up my hill like a wounded rhino.”

  Jefferson puffed out his chest. “Well if you had a driveway like a normal person, you’d have seen my squad lights and—”

  Lumbergh grabbed Jefferson’s shoulder and commanded his silence with a parental glare. He quickly explained the situation to Oldhorse, who sponged up the details without expression. In fact, the quirky recluse displayed such little acknowledgment that Lumbergh half-wondered if anything he’d said had been heard. He looked to be in a hypnotic trance, as if he’d been driving through the desert for hours. Only when his small, precise eyes began shifting from side to side did Lumbergh recognize a hint of comprehension. Just as the chief turned to point toward the creek where they had lost Toby’s trail, Oldhorse jetted off in an adjacent direction, walking purposefully toward Lumbergh’s Jeep where the boy’s mother was sitting inside the open passenger door.

  A sheriff ’s department coat was draped over Joan Parker’s low-hanging shoulders, and her short legs hung outside of the vehicle. Her face was wooden and her spirit dead. Lumbergh watched Oldhorse approach her. She didn’t react to him until he was standing directly in front of her. As her eyes rose to meet his, his hand went tenderly to the side of her face and he leaned in close to her ear to speak.

  The two lawmen watched from afar in wonderment.

  Lumbergh sensed Jefferson turn toward him in search of some sort of insight, but he had none to offer to his officer. He hadn’t a clue what Oldhorse could be saying to the mother. Whatever it was, the chief noticed an expression of cautious reassurance develop in her demeanor, and that was a good thing.

  “Do you smell that?” asked Jefferson.

  Lumbergh raised an eyebrow. “Smell what?”

  Jefferson tilted his head back and let his nostrils flare.

  “You don’t smell that? It’s kind of like perfume.”

  The chief shook his head and answered, “That’s my cologne, Jefferson. I had plans with my wife tonight, remember?”

  “Oh yeah. Okay,” Jefferson said discreetly. “It smells good.”

  “Thanks.”

  Seconds later, Oldhorse was on his way back to the lawmen. He passed them both without missing a stride but muttered the words, “I’ll find the boy.”

  The chief felt a hand on his shoulder and he turned to catch the supportive gaze of his wife, who flashed him a look that let him know she knew that they would find Toby. She offered to stay behind with Jane and he thanked her, understanding the unsaid maternal instincts in force. He gave her instructions to radio him if the boy made it back on his own.

  The county sheriff had yet to arrive on the scene, but Lumbergh hadn’t enough patience to wait. Within minutes, the small convoy of men had made their way across the creek with beams of flashlights pointed out in front of Ron Oldhorse, who took the lead.

  Oldhorse seemed to pay little attention to the men behind him, as if they were just along for the ride. Two of the county deputies took up the rear, carrying canvas backpacks with blankets and water. Radio equipment dangled around their waists. Jurisdiction etiquette and respect for the police chief kept them in a subordinate role. Lumbergh and Jefferson had slipped on coats and hiking boots while Oldhorse was content with his denim.

  Conducting a search at night was outside standard procedure; typically a search would begin in the morning. But what had happened that night was personal, and Lumbergh couldn’t bear the thought of sitting still while a boy with Toby’s challenges was missing in the dark and frigid temperatures.

  Without hesitation, Oldhorse surpassed the area where the others had lost track of Toby’s trail and began climbing up the steep embankment beyond it, forcing the others to hustle to keep up. Within minutes, they reached an area where large, coarse rocks jutted out from the side of the hill. Oldhorse paused there only for a moment, squatting down with his flashlight and placing his hand on a small carpet of moss that covered the underside of one of the trees that grew out from the formation at an angle. He soon took off again, digging the toes of his moccasins into the mountainside with large strides as he climbed higher.

  Lumbergh felt the bite of the cold, even through his well-lined jacket. He couldn’t imagine how Toby was faring with lighter wear and missing a shoe. He placed his hands to his mouth and called out the boy’s name loudly, prompting others in the pack to do the same. Oldhorse remained silent.

  When the group reached an area where the incline leveled out a bit, Jefferson bore down on his pace, huffing and puffing to catch up to the chief, whom he’d fallen behind.

  “What do you make of all this, Chief?” he asked in an out-of-breath voice. “Who’d come through Winston, kill two men, and chase a kid off into the woods?”

  “The boy wasn’t chased,” Ron Oldhorse intervened from far enough ahead of the two that they were surprised he’d heard them. “It’s just him out here.”

  “We already know that, Oldhorse!” Jefferson shouted back in annoyance. “This is a private conversation between me and the chief, so just mind your own business!”

  Lumbergh screeched to a halt and latched his hand firmly around Jefferson’s arm.

  He stepped up to his officer’s chest and spoke in a calm but direct tone. “Jefferson, I know I’ve been telling you to be more assertive, and I’m guessing your pride’s still a little on the mend since Sean dressed you down the other day, but
Oldhorse is doing us a favor here. He’s the best chance we have of finding the boy quickly and finding him alive. You need to show him the proper respect.”

  Even in the dark, Lumbergh could visualize Jefferson’s lowered head and the humbled slump of his frame. Jefferson quietly apologized and Lumbergh gave him a motivational slap on the shoulder before following after Oldhorse.

  Each time Toby’s name was cried out by a member of the group, the others would join in, like a pack of wolves howling at the moon.

  “I wish I knew . . .” spoke Lumbergh out of the blue after lunging forward to step over some downed limbs.

  Jefferson, uncertain if his boss was speaking to him or himself, said, “Knew what?”

  “The answer to your question, from before. About what kind of person would do this.”

  When Jefferson didn’t respond back to him, Lumbergh asked him if he had something to say. After thinking it over, Jefferson decided he did, and built up a breath of nerve.

  “Listen, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, like I’m saying this because of a beef with your brother-in-law or something like that . . .”

  “Just spit it out.”

  “Well, I’ve been thinking . . . The story that Sean told us, about the guy who shot himself on Meyers Bridge . . . Do you think this has something to do with that?”

  Lumbergh raised an eyebrow. “If you’ve got a theory, I’d love to hear it.”

  Jefferson took a few seconds to catch his breath before continuing. “Well . . . It’s just that . . . What if there really was a dead body?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Okay, let me just throw something out there. I’ve known Sean for a long time. Longer than you. We both know he’s got a temper. We both know he’s not afraid to mix things up.”

  Lumbergh’s face twisted in confusion behind the cloak of night. He couldn’t imagine where his officer was taking his theory, but he felt compelled to humor him by letting him continue.

  “What if he ran into that guy after he left O’Rafferty’s?”

  “The dead guy?”

  “Yes, on Friday night. Maybe out in the parking lot or on the way home. Maybe he got into a fight with the guy over something and something bad happened. Maybe . . .”

  “Maybe Sean killed him?” Lumbergh interrupted.

  Jefferson said nothing.

  Lumbergh continued. “That’s what you were going to say, isn’t it? What if Sean killed some guy, then made up a ridiculous story about the guy killing himself, right?”

  Jefferson remained silent as the men continued along the mountainside, navigating around trees, rocks, and an endless barrage of nature’s obstacles.

  After a choir of voices shouted out Toby’s name again, the chief added, “Finish your thought; I want to hear it all.”

  “First off, I’m not saying that it happened on purpose. Maybe they were tussling and the guy fell wrong or something. Anyway, let’s say that a buddy of the dead guy figured out what happened to him and found out that Sean was behind it. Maybe he saw them together or read about Sean’s story in the paper, so he came looking for Sean. You know, looking for answers. Maybe Sean knew this person was coming for him and that’s why he left town.”

  “And instead, Zed, Bailey, and Toby were the ones home when the bad guy showed up?”

  “Yes, exactly!” Jefferson’s excitement broke through. He clapped his hands together, grinning from ear to ear. He was ecstatic that the chief had followed his involved logic.

  Lumbergh let the idea settle in his mind. The fact that the killer had taken out Sean’s dog suggested that there may have indeed been a personal grudge at play. And Lumbergh had already deducted that Zed and Bailey had most likely been victims of poor luck rather than targets. It all went down in Sean’s apartment, after all. Yet, there were more holes in the officer’s theory than there were scurrying nightcritters in the forest through which the five men were trouncing. If Sean had really killed someone, why would he report anything about the man to the authorities? His story alone would establish a link between the two, and if the guy came up in a missing person’s report, or if his body was found, Sean would be the prime suspect.

  Logic would have led the chief to entirely disregard the notion of the dead man in the river, but there was a particle of history that suddenly wedged its way into his mind: Tariq—the drifter that Sean believed was an Islamic terrorist.

  When that went down, Sean had absolutely convinced himself that he was acting as the frontline investigator in a terrorist case and was going to take down a very bad man to win the long desired admiration of an entire community who largely thought of him as a nuisance. When that didn’t happen and he became the butt of new jokes, his pride was dealt a devastating blow.

  Lumbergh’s mind twisted in acrobatics that he hadn’t exercised since his days in Chicago.

  Could it be possible that there was a dead man, and he had died at Sean’s hand?

  And could it be possible, that after Sean had tossed him in the river, he began developing grandiose thoughts about concocting a mystery—a mystery that he would publicize by bringing it to the law? Maybe he knew the police would never take him seriously, and when they didn’t, he’d prove the naysayers and his brother-in-law wrong by finding the body himself and looking like a hero. Was that where he was? Downstream somewhere searching for the body?

  If that was the plan, though, it would mean that the man’s death was no accident. Sean was adamant about the man shooting himself in the back of the head, so if he existed and his body was found, it would have to have a bullet hole there. And, because no one accidentally shoots someone in the back of the head, the whole suicide notion would be Sean’s only out unless he was willing to implicate a third party. The thought was ice-cold, like the sleet that continued to drift down from the night sky.

  The scenario was nearly unfathomable, and if Lumbergh had heard it offered by anyone else, it would have probably made him laugh. A sense of guilt taunted him for even considering it. He shook his head, weighed the absurdity of it all, and reminded himself that there wasn’t a shred of evidence to suggest that the mystery person who Sean described to them even existed. Trying to link a hypothetical dead body to the carnage at the bottom of the hill was completely unfounded.

  Oldhorse came to a sudden stop when they reached a crest in the hill before it rose up another fifty or so yards. The trail of men behind him halted in response. A couple of them leaned forward with their hands on their knees to catch their breath. The Indian didn’t speak. He stood motionless with his flashlight pointed to the ground before him. Half a minute passed and he remained statuesque. Lumbergh left the others behind to walk up beside him.

  “What is it?” He spoke softly, getting no answer. “Ron?”

  Just as he was about to place his hand on the Indian’s shoulder, Oldhorse raised his flashlight and switched direction, climbing along the shoulder of the hill the group had just crested.

  Lumbergh watched the woodsman’s beam move quickly and deliberately like a bloodhound on the heels of a convict. The others picked up their pace and concentrated their beams on the same targets as Oldhorse did.

  Ahead lay a rocky area where a short row of weather-rotted fence posts, surely several decades old, were planked vertically in what seemed to serve more as a marker than a property boundary. Oldhorse’s light beam traced the ground around a couple of boulders before it rose up and caught the reflection of a small pool of water sitting in a shallow crevice on top of a large rock with a flattened top. The other beams followed suit, illuminating the water hole, much of which was rust in color and home to clumps of bird droppings.

  “Did he stop here?” Lumbergh directed at Oldhorse.

  Before Oldhorse could reply, an audible moan rose up from the other side of the rock. One of the lawmen reached for his gun in case it was an animal. Oldhorse quickly waved him off before disappearing around the side of the rock. The lights followed him to the ground and the first th
ing one of the beams homed in on was a pair of feet. Resting above a black, high-top shoe was a foot covered only in a densely muddied, white, damp sock.

  “Here!” a voice sounded out as all men scrambled to spotlight the body of the boy who was curled up in the fetal position.

  He was shivering furiously, lying on his side with his arms crossed in front of him to fight the cold. Directions were shouted back and forth and a pair of blankets poured out of one the backpacks the men were carrying. They were quickly wrapped around the child.

  Lumbergh felt the dampness of Toby’s pants and wrapped his hand around the boy’s exposed foot to find it ice-cold and brittle. Toby’s eyes were closed and his mouth seemed to be uttering out a muted conversation with someone who wasn’t there.

  “Toby?” Lumbergh spoke in an attempt to gain the boy’s focus. “Toby!”

  The child was lost in a different world. His head was lifted by one of the searchers and a folded-up coat was placed beneath it. His windbreaker had some moisture on it and it was quickly removed by the men. Before it could be replaced with a thicker coat, Oldhorse scanned the boy’s body for injuries. He found none other than scrapes and bruises. When his pants were removed, the men found a couple of gashes across the front of his legs that had stopped bleeding but were still quite tender. They wrapped him up in a cocoon of blankets. All along, the boy continued his one-sided, cryptic, and muttered conversation.

  “Radio my wife!” the chief requested of one of the men. “Channel thirteen! Let the mom know we’ve found her boy!”

  Tuesday

  Chapter 24

  The illuminating projection from the large television screen in the corner pulsed along the darkened room’s long walls. At the center of the screen, Daniel Day-Lewis brushed his long black hair from his face and took off in a sprint through a forest. So low was the volume of the film’s soundtrack that it was nearly inaudible under the dueling sounds of impassioned breathing.