The Man Who Fell from the Sky (A Wind River Mystery) - Hardcover

Coel, Margaret

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0425280306 ISBN 13: 9780425280300

Publisher: Berkley, 2015

Synopsis

New York Times bestselling author Margaret Coel returns to Wind River with Arapaho attorney Vicky Holden and Father John O’Malley investigating a lethal link between legendary outlaw Butch Cassidy and a present-day murder...

When Robert Walking Bear’s body is found in the Wind River mountains, his death appears to be accidental—except for the fact that he had been hunting for Butch Cassidy’s buried loot with a map he had gotten from his grandfather, a map believed to have been drawn by the leader of the Hole in the Wall gang himself.

It isn’t long before rumors circulate that Robert was murdered by his own cousins to get the map and find the treasure themselves. Despite there being no evidence of foul play, the gossip gains credibility when both Vicky and Father John are contacted by an anonymous Arapaho claiming to have witnessed Robert’s killing.

When one of Robert’s cousins falls prey to another deadly accident, Vicky and Father John are convinced the victim is the witness who confided in them, and the hunt for the killer is on in earnest—before more die in search of Cassidy’s cache.

About this title

About the Author

Margaret Coel is the New York Times bestselling, award-winning author of the acclaimed Wind River Mysteries featuring Father John O’Malley and Vicky Holden (Night of the White Buffalo, Killing Custer, Buffalo Bill’s Dead Now), as well as the Catherine McLeod Mysteries (The Perfect Suspect, Blood Memory) and several works of nonfiction. Originally a historian by trade, she is considered an expert on the Arapaho Indians. 

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Berkley Prime Crime titles by Margaret Coel

Catherine McLeod Mysteries

BLOOD MEMORY

THE PERFECT SUSPECT

Wind River Mysteries

THE EAGLE CATCHER

THE GHOST WALKER

THE DREAM STALKER

THE STORY TELLER

THE LOST BIRD

THE SPIRIT WOMAN

THE THUNDER KEEPER

THE SHADOW DANCER

KILLING RAVEN

WIFE OF MOON

EYE OF THE WOLF

THE DROWNING MAN

THE GIRL WITH BRAIDED HAIR

THE SILENT SPIRIT

THE SPIDER’S WEB

BUFFALO BILL’S DEAD NOW

KILLING CUSTER

NIGHT OF THE WHITE BUFFALO

THE MAN WHO FELL FROM THE SKY

Anthologies

WATCHING EAGLES SOAR

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This book is an original publication of the Berkley Publishing Group.

Copyright © 2015 by Margaret Coel.

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eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-19128-0

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Coel, Margaret, 1937–

The man who fell from the sky / Margaret Coel.—First edition.

pages ; cm

ISBN 978-0-425-28030-0

1. O’Malley, John (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Holden, Vicky (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 3. Wind River Indian Reservation (Wyo.)—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3553.O347M36 2015

813'.54—dc23 2015012397

FIRST EDITION: September 2015

Cover illustration by Tony Greco & Associates Inc.

Cover design by Lesley Worrell.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

For Carl Schneider, my longtime friend and fount of useful information, suggestions, wit, wisdom, and encouragement.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My deep gratitude to all those who were willing to help me with various aspects of this book and who took the time to read all or parts of the manuscript and make suggestions that greatly improved the story: In Fremont County, Mark Stratmoen, coroner; Ed McAuslan, former coroner; Virginia and Jim Sutter, members of the Arapaho Tribe; and Todd Dawson, special agent, FBI. In Boulder, Sheila Carrigan, Beverly Carrigan, Karen Gilleland, Carl Schneider, John Tracy, and, as always, my husband, George Coel. Any errors that may have crept into this novel are mine, and certainly not theirs.

CONTENTS

We shall surely be put again with our friends. E’yahe’eye!

—The Ghost-Dance Religion and the Sioux Outbreak of 1890, James Mooney

1

THE NARROW DIRT road clung to the mountainside between the granite peaks jutting overhead and the drop-off into the valley. Ponderosas, scrub brush, and scruffy undergrowth looked fat and green after the spring rain, greener than Alan Fergus remembered the Wind River range ever looking. It was the fourth Friday in May. The foliage wouldn’t turn gray and dusty until the summer heat set in. Tommy had been locked down in a classroom about as long as any twelve-year-old boy could stand, and since Tommy had a day off from school, they had made plans for a fishing trip. He and the boy rose early, the blue-black sky striped in red and pink and white, ate what Alan called a hearty breakfast, oatmeal that would stick to their ribs, and spent an hour in the garage packing up the fishing gear. Quiet, quiet, he had reminded the boy. Don’t wake Mom. Let her sleep in for once. Usually Sarah was the first one up. A good hot breakfast on the kitchen table before she and Alan drove to the body shop and Tommy ran the half block to catch the school bus.

It had taken some work to convince Eton to come in early and handle the front counter until Sarah arrived. All the cajoling and promises of extra time off next week had been worth it. A perfect day to escape, father and son, man-to-man. Tommy, almost grown now, getting so tall. They hadn’t taken enough special times together, and before he knew it, Tommy would be gone. Off to some college, most likely. Maybe Laramie. He was a good student. A little restless, but what boy wasn’t restless? He had been restless, and his father had taken him to Frye Lake to fish, and it had made all the difference. Sucked the restless, fidgety parts right out of him. Alan had backed out of the driveway this morning as the white-hot sun burst like the afterglow of fireworks in the eastern sky.

Tommy seemed pleased with the change in routine. Bouncing on the seat to whatever music blasted in his earphones, gawking this way and that, pointing out a hawk that lay flat out in the sky, guessing how many trout they would bag today. A dozen, two dozen. Our limit, for sure.

Yeah, our limit, Alan agreed.

The road narrowed as it started into a curve. Alan kept the pickup as close to the middle as he dared. The edge could be moist and soft. Theirs wouldn’t be the first pickup to slide down the mountainside. He drove slowly, in and out of wide stripes of shadows, and listened for an oncoming vehicle. If he listened hard, his dad had taught him, he would hear a vehicle before he saw it. Although he wasn’t sure what he would do. Slam on the brake and back up, search frantically for a wider place in the road in which to pull over.

“Keep your fingers crossed,” he said as he plunged into the curve.

“Keep my fingers crossed?”

“That the fish are biting. Should be hungry with the rain. Seen the lake yet?”

Tommy leaned toward the windshield and stared past the drop-off, eager eyes searching for a glimpse of shimmering blue water. The wide curve straightened into a narrow brown road that glowed in the sunlight.

“There it is.” The boy’s excitement was contagious. First sight of the fishing hole was always exciting, filled with expectations and promises. Tommy tapped the windshield. “Down there. We’re getting close.”

Alan stole a sideways look. Bull Lake spread below, meandering through the valley, reflections of ponderosas dancing on the blue surface. Another couple of curves, and the road would empty into a long straight shot down to the lake. They’d be there in ten minutes.

“Looks like another fisherman.”

“Really? So early in the season?” Alan had been counting on having the lake all to themselves. Nobody else to worry about, no thumping music and portable grills, makeshift picnic tables, lawn chairs, and kids running around, hollering and scaring off the fish. Through an alley between the trees, he spotted the truck parked close to the narrow strip of land where he was planning to stop. He swallowed back the disappointment. There was a good shelf there they could wade onto and cast into deep water where the fish were usually biting. The shelf disappeared on either side of the truck, but if he drove past, he might be able to pick it up again. Part of the fun of fishing for Tommy was the wading, the walking into the water, as if he were walking on the water.

Alan took the last couple of curves, listening for an oncoming vehicle, and headed down onto the straight road that cut through willows and tangled brush along the lakefront. He could see the truck parked ahead, a grayish monster with an extended cab and a metal box in the back. It was nosed toward the lake, water lapping the shore a few feet away. The tailgate stuck out into the road, and Alan had to slow to a crawl to get around it without slipping into the willows.

“Dad! He’s in the water.”

Alan worked his way around the truck before looking back. My God! A large body—a man’s body—bobbing in the water on the far side of the truck. He let the pickup roll a little farther ahead, wanting to spare Tommy another view of the dead man. “I’ll go have a look.” The pickup jerked to a stop. “Stay here, you understand?”

The boy looked scared, as if he might start crying. He nodded slowly, but he didn’t say anything.

Alan got out and slammed the door. The sound reverberated in the crisp, clear air. He glanced back as he made his way through the marshy undergrowth toward the body. Tommy was up on his knees, looking out the rear window, eyes as big as black marbles. He couldn’t save the boy from everything. Not from this view of death.

The body rolled and swayed facedown in the water, the back of a dark blue padded vest bulging, arms outstretched, as if the dead man might be attempting to float. The blue jeans looked like heavy weights pulling the legs down. There was an odd feeling of acceptance that clung to the body, as if the man had walked onto the shelf, stumbled, and been unable to get up, so he had settled in and waited for death. Clumps of black hair lifted off a pinkish scalp dotted with black freckles and moles. Alan reached down, then pulled his hand away. What sense did it make to turn the body over? The man was dead, and the look of his face would only burn itself into Alan’s retinas. Besides, whatever might have happened, no investigator would appreciate his tampering with the body. He looked around, realizing he may have already interfered by walking over here.

He hurried back to the pickup, punching at his cell, willing it to come to life. No service. No service. The boy was still on his knees, looking out the back window, when Alan slid behind the steering wheel. He turned the ignition and drove forward. There were camping spaces on the other side of the road ahead where he could turn around.

“We’re leaving him?”

“I’m afraid he’s dead, son. There’s nothing we can do for him. We have to report this.”

“You think he came up here to fish and fell into the water?”

“I don’t know.” Alan was thinking he hadn’t seen any fishing poles or tackle box in the truck bed.

He took a right toward a camping space and maneuvered the pickup through several tight turns until they were headed back toward the body and the truck hanging over the road. No telling how far he would have to drive up the mountain before the cell phone tapped into a tower somewhere. He looked sideways at Tommy, who was still fighting back tears.

“I’ll make it up to you, son.”

“I don’t ever want to come here again,” the boy said.

2

RUTH WALKING BEAR might have been hosting a party. Darting among the Arapahos in the living room, hoisting a metal coffeepot, pulling orange-red lips into a smile around tiny teeth, searching with dark eyes for the next empty mug. “More coffee? Cake? Cookies? Casseroles. Eat up. Eat up.” The silver embroidery on her red, Western-style blouse flashed as she moved about. Her flip-flops squished on the vinyl floor. She had curly black hair tinted red, and the curls sprang free from beaded clips like feathers in a headdress. Odors of fried meat, strong coffee, and warm cookies wafted from the kitchen, where women were arranging trays of food and setting out stacks of paper plates. Ruth stopped before one of the elders. “Why, Grandfather, your cup is empty.”

Vicky Holden kept an eye on the woman. Something forced and terrified about her. In another life, she and Ruth had attended St. Francis School together. Kids, climbing onto the school bus and crossing the reservation in blizzards and wind and rolling dust. Ruth had exuded confidence, as if she were driving the bus, in control of the weather, but Vicky had suspected even then that the confidence was a mask, like the party face she wore now. During the years Vicky had been married to Ben Holden, she often ran into Ruth at the powwows and ceremonies. They would chat and gossip—two women together. But Vicky had left Ben and that old life, gone to Denver, and become a lawyer. Everything was different when she returned, or was it just that she was different? It seemed that Ruth and the other women had gone away, set their moccasins on the traditional path, as the grandmothers said, and she had been unable to follow.

Vicky tried to excuse herself from a short, gray-haired woman who claimed she had also gone to St. Francis School, although Vicky had no memory of her. The woman had been peppering her with questions. What had she heard about Robert’s death? “People don’t fall into a lake and die. Must’ve been pushed, right? Who might have done it? What does the coroner say?” For some reason, the woman—what was her name? Cathy?— assumed that because Vicky practiced law in Lander, she was part of the conversations in the legal corridors of the white world.

Vicky had dodged the questions. She didn’t know the answers, but Cathy, like every other woman on the rez, probably knew quite a lot or thought she did. The women never missed a gathering. They looked after the elders, cared for one another’s kids. They lived by the moccasin telegraph and took pride in staying connected. What Cathy wanted from her was news to pass on. But the questions had only reinforced Vicky’s feeling of being an outsider among her own people. Woman Alone, the grandmothers called her. The Indian lawyer their relatives or friends went to when they got into trouble, but not one of them.

It took several tries before Vicky managed to break free. She made her way through the conversations buzzing about the room and stopped next to Ruth, who was refilling another cup of coffee. “Wouldn’t you like to rest awhile?” Vicky nodded toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms. Most of the houses on the rez were the same Federal style with living room and kitchen on one side, a couple of bedrooms and a bath on the other.

“I don’t need to rest, and I certainly don’t need a lawyer.” Ruth struggled to keep the orange-red smile in place. “Robert’s dead and I have to go on the way he would expect me to, so that’s what I’m doing. You need some coffee?” She started to turn toward the kitchen and the stack of Styrofoam cups visible at the end of the counter.

“No, thank you.” Vicky set her hand on the woman’s arm. She could feel the tremors rising from somewhere deep inside. “Won’t you at least sit down. I can pour the refills.” She stretched out her hand to take the coffeepot, but Ruth stood motionless, her eyes on the man coming through the front door.

“Ah, Father John,” she said, as if she were expecting someone else. Then she handed the coffeepot to Vicky and started across the room. Conversations started to dissolve, like the wind dying down.

Vicky watched the little crowd surge around the tall, redheaded man inside the door, reach for his hand, pat his arm. He had on blue jeans and a blue plaid shirt. The brim of a tan cowboy hat was curled in his fist against his thigh. It had been a long while since she had seen John O’Malley, the mission priest at St. Francis. She thought of the interv...

About this edition

• Publisher: Berkley
• Publication date: 2015
• ISBN 10: 0425280306
• ISBN 13: 9780425280300
• Binding: Hardcover
• Language: English
• Edition number: 1
• Number of pages: 304