Read Online Killing Custer by Margaret Coel - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Margaret Coel
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men shouting. The crowd pressed forward, and she caught a glimpse of a figure in buckskins and black boots sprawled on the pavement. Sirens swelled in the air. And nervous rumors rippled through the crowd: Custerâs been shot.
Vicky crossed Main alongside the yellow police tape that wrapped around a large, wet place where blood had been hosed from the pavement. A couple of cops in jeans, white shirts, and vests patrolled inside the tape, heads bent, eyes scouring the pavement. Looking for what? she wondered. A lost button? An eagle feather? Prints of horse hooves? Some obscure object that the forensic team had overlooked yesterday that would point to the Indian who had shot Custer?
She hurried down the sidewalks through the residential area. Rows of brick bungalows sheltered behind bushy pine trees and cottonwoods dusted with whispery clumps of cotton. Her office was on the corner ahead, a redbrick bungalow with a porch that stretched between the two front windows and a small sign in front that said, Vicky Holden, Attorney at Law. Annieâs black Pontiac stood at the curb behind the pickup driven by Roger Hurst, the lawyer she and Adam had hired to handle what Adam called the little cases. When she and Adam had been partners. Vicky crossed the street and slowed her pace, giving her heart a chance to stop hammering. The sirens had cut off. An accident, Adam had said. Still, the sound had unnerved her, an echo of the chaos of yesterday. By the time she let herself into the bungalow, her heart was slowing to a steady, almost normal pace.
Annie was on the phone, the perfect image of a no-nonsense librarianâshoulder-length black hair, quick, dark eyes, silver beads at her neckâexcept that she was a no-nonsense secretary, personal assistant, and, Vicky had to admit, close friend. Annie reminded her of herself. Making her own way in the world, a woman alone, with an ex-husband in the state prison at Rawlins and two almost-teenage kids. One day she had appeared in Vickyâs office. âI hear youâre looking for a secretary,â sheâd said, âand Iâm a good one.â
At the time, Vicky hadnât been sure she was looking for a secretary. Business was slow. How would she handle the extra expense? She had been about to tell this young woman, who had driven in from the rez in an old pickup that laid down so much exhaust Vicky had smelled it in the office, that she wasnât hiring. Then Annie said she had kids to feed, and that had gotten Vickyâs attention. Vicky had been on her own and still alive after ten years with Ben Holden and his fists and accusations. Trying to support two kids, Susan and Lucas, while she went to college and law school in Denver, looking toward the future, when she wouldnât have to beg for a job. She had never found the way to do it all. The waitressing jobs that hardly covered the rent and left her exhausted and sleeping in class; the night shift at a brewery that paid for the babysitter but not much else. In the end, sheâd brought the kids back to her own parents on the rez. When the future finally arrived, the kids were grown and on their own. She had hired Annie on the spot.
Vicky closed the beveled glass doors on the sound of Annieâs voice and dropped into the chair at her desk. The computer made tiny gyrating noises when she turned it on. She watched the icons dance into place, then clicked on her calendar. Two appointments this morning, canceled. Will and Mary Whiteman, hoping to finalize the adoption of their granddaughter, and Bonner LeBois, needing a new will, now that he had married Beverly. All from Ethete, which meant a long drive south on 287, across the reservation border into Lander. She checked the afternoon schedule. More cancellations. Only Donna Red Cloud still on the schedule, but she lived in town with her white husband.
Someone was watching. Vicky felt the eyes boring into her like laser beams. She swung her chair
Vicky crossed Main alongside the yellow police tape that wrapped around a large, wet place where blood had been hosed from the pavement. A couple of cops in jeans, white shirts, and vests patrolled inside the tape, heads bent, eyes scouring the pavement. Looking for what? she wondered. A lost button? An eagle feather? Prints of horse hooves? Some obscure object that the forensic team had overlooked yesterday that would point to the Indian who had shot Custer?
She hurried down the sidewalks through the residential area. Rows of brick bungalows sheltered behind bushy pine trees and cottonwoods dusted with whispery clumps of cotton. Her office was on the corner ahead, a redbrick bungalow with a porch that stretched between the two front windows and a small sign in front that said, Vicky Holden, Attorney at Law. Annieâs black Pontiac stood at the curb behind the pickup driven by Roger Hurst, the lawyer she and Adam had hired to handle what Adam called the little cases. When she and Adam had been partners. Vicky crossed the street and slowed her pace, giving her heart a chance to stop hammering. The sirens had cut off. An accident, Adam had said. Still, the sound had unnerved her, an echo of the chaos of yesterday. By the time she let herself into the bungalow, her heart was slowing to a steady, almost normal pace.
Annie was on the phone, the perfect image of a no-nonsense librarianâshoulder-length black hair, quick, dark eyes, silver beads at her neckâexcept that she was a no-nonsense secretary, personal assistant, and, Vicky had to admit, close friend. Annie reminded her of herself. Making her own way in the world, a woman alone, with an ex-husband in the state prison at Rawlins and two almost-teenage kids. One day she had appeared in Vickyâs office. âI hear youâre looking for a secretary,â sheâd said, âand Iâm a good one.â
At the time, Vicky hadnât been sure she was looking for a secretary. Business was slow. How would she handle the extra expense? She had been about to tell this young woman, who had driven in from the rez in an old pickup that laid down so much exhaust Vicky had smelled it in the office, that she wasnât hiring. Then Annie said she had kids to feed, and that had gotten Vickyâs attention. Vicky had been on her own and still alive after ten years with Ben Holden and his fists and accusations. Trying to support two kids, Susan and Lucas, while she went to college and law school in Denver, looking toward the future, when she wouldnât have to beg for a job. She had never found the way to do it all. The waitressing jobs that hardly covered the rent and left her exhausted and sleeping in class; the night shift at a brewery that paid for the babysitter but not much else. In the end, sheâd brought the kids back to her own parents on the rez. When the future finally arrived, the kids were grown and on their own. She had hired Annie on the spot.
Vicky closed the beveled glass doors on the sound of Annieâs voice and dropped into the chair at her desk. The computer made tiny gyrating noises when she turned it on. She watched the icons dance into place, then clicked on her calendar. Two appointments this morning, canceled. Will and Mary Whiteman, hoping to finalize the adoption of their granddaughter, and Bonner LeBois, needing a new will, now that he had married Beverly. All from Ethete, which meant a long drive south on 287, across the reservation border into Lander. She checked the afternoon schedule. More cancellations. Only Donna Red Cloud still on the schedule, but she lived in town with her white husband.
Someone was watching. Vicky felt the eyes boring into her like laser beams. She swung her chair
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