Chapter Twenty-Four
Chase waited 30 seconds for a reply after he knocked on the surgeon’s door. When it was not answered, he nodded to the Sergeant who took a slim card from his vest pocket and slid it through the digital keypad. It hummed, clicked and the light turned green as the card opened River’s lock.
It was a suite, probably comped although the heart surgeon surely made enough money to afford the high-end hotel room. It had a balcony with French doors and one of his men went to check if the doctor was hiding out on it.
The room was obsessively neat and no sign of anyone having been staying in it. They opened drawers, closets and checked the drains in the sink, tub, and kitchenette. Even the mini-bar was fully stocked.
“It’s a ringer,” Cameron said. “They knew we were coming and changed the reservation list to an open room.”
“Check the rooms on either side and one floor lower,” Chase ordered but Cameron stopped him with a terse word as he activated his chemical sniffer. Designed to ferret out minute traces of harmful radioactive waves, he had adaptive it to seek out and triangulate certain other isotopes. It worked very much like a microchip worked on a dog.
“He’s been here but not in this room,” Cameron said. “The concentration is greater near the elevator.”
“The Penthouse?”
Cameron walked over to the Penthouse Elevator and held the scanner to the doors. He got a strong reading. “We can’t access the Penthouse from here, we have to get it from the lobby.”
“What about the stairs?” Chase asked. They were locked and did not go to that floor from the 12th. By the time they had returned to the lobby and been admitted into the Penthouse elevator, a half hour had passed. His two men stationed in the lobby reported that guests had come and gone but none were the doctor, Otseno or the boy. It took some threatening and blustering before Security would allow them entry to a private residence but Chase had come prepared with a Federal warrant even though it wasn’t quite legal on reservation land. Someone had called the Secret Service and to Chase’s annoyance, agents were on the way to the casino to investigate the disappearance of a presidential grandson no one had previously heard of or reported.
“We have to be out of here before the Secret Service arrives,” he told his men. “Dir. Hamilton hasn’t told her husband that the boy is his grandson.”
“With or without the boy?” one asked and Chase snarled it had better be with or they would all be dog meat.
They searched the penthouse down to the cupboards and the laundry chute. The most that Cameron could state was that he had been there and suggested that they try in the subway system for further traces of him.
Without a word to the management, they left the hotel and followed the doctor as he retraced Lakan’s trail underground.
I
We followed the buffalo although rightly they were bison. Their trail was easy, they left behind a huge cloud of dust. They didn’t run far, perhaps a quarter of a mile before they settled down and started grazing again.
This time, as I approached the lead bull raised his head to stare at me and snorted softly. He pawed the ground but he was more curious than angry. Slowly, I approached him while Rachel called dire warnings behind me. I think I was more surprised than she when the bison let me touch his shoulder. In my head came the image of me scratching the area nearest his hump where ticks had lodged, driving him mad with itching.
I dug in my nails, and found the hard scabby lumps, removing them. The harder I scratched, the more the bull leaned into me and grunted his relief. I climbed on his back and he reached around with his massive horned head to sniff at my feet. Grumbled and lazily twitched his tail. Waited for me. I had to swallow nausea in my throat at the rank smell of him, it was worse than a wet dog and heavier than pig manure.
“Rachel,” I called softly. “Come up slow.” I patted his shoulder as he watched curiously but only continued to switch his tail and stomp at green bottle flies.
Reaching down, I took her hand as she swung her leg over his back. She settled herself against me and held onto my waist. She smelled like a girl and I drew in an appreciative lungful.
“If Crazy Horse could see us now,” she giggled. “No one would believe this.”
“They might when we ride into town,” I grinned and directed Buffalo Hump to head for the nearest civilization. Riding him was more like sitting on a camel and he was wider than was comfortable for human legs but he covered ground faster and more efficiently than we could travel.
The herd milled around puzzled at our scent but eventually followed the bull. We traveled for several hours heading east and hit a drift fence that channeled us towards a wash that became a creek and finally a river that Rachel said was the Snake.
Here along its banks, we saw signs of occupation. Coke cans and campfire rings, places where canoes and white water rafts had been dragged ashore.
I slid off Buffalo Hump before he attempted to cross and helped Rachel down. Both of us were leg sore, stinky and thirsty. Rachel cautioned me against drinking straight from the river. I told her that I guessed that it would be full of bacteria from animal feces and heavy minerals not intended for human consumption. She showed me how to dig a hole in the sand and let water filter in, cleaning most of the dangerous stuff out. We used the coke cans to scoop out the clean water and drink.
The bull and the herd spread out along the banks and grazed after drinking. I gagged as a few dumped in the water and turds floated lazily past us.
Hunger pains gripped my stomach and wistfully, I thought of the backpack lost in the cave. It would have had candy bars and sandwiches in it.
“Hungry?” Rachel asked. “I recognize that look on your face.”
“What look?”
“The one that boys have when they see something they want and can’t have it.” She walked off and began scanning the ground.
“What are you doing, Rachel?”
“Looking for something to eat,” she said. Before too long, she bent over and dug up a plant throwing it at me. Others followed. Amole. Agarita berries and sump weed. I knew all the names of the plants but didn’t know how I knew them. When she had an armful, she pulled off her t-shirt and piled them in the material carrying it back to me. After that, she scrounged for cow patties, picking only the driest. Once I realized what she was doing, I joined her.
There weren’t any trees out here to start a fire so we made do with what the pioneers used. She even had the foresight to find flint and striker stone. Within a few minutes, she had a merry little blaze going. Using the coke can, she boiled up a sort of tea and roasted mesquite beans. We dined on plants that most people would have considered weeds and it was just enough to satisfy the hunger pangs.
Next, she waded into a shallow cove of the river and washed off. I marveled that she could endure the cold until I remembered that she was counting on my super metabolism to warm her up. When she flung water at me, I ducked and gaped at the flopping fish that lay at my feet.
“Lakan, wake up,” she snapped. I grabbed the salmon and whacked its head on the nearest rock killing it. Then it was my job to gut and clean it. Rachel was a mean fisherman. She tickled two salmon and a trio of catfish that we cooked for later. Bellies full, we gathered up our leftovers, doused the fire and followed the river downstream.
One moment we were alone on the wild grasslands surrounded by bison, the river and lonely cottonwoods struggling to grow and the next, we were on the edges of a camp with boy scouts, tents, ATVs, and teepees.
Most of the kids were around 14 and all boys. There was a mix of white, black and Hispanic. The Boy Scout leaders were two middle-aged white men who looked fit, tanned and perplexed when we walked into camp.
“Where did you two come from?” The older one had gray hair and brown eyes, his accent was east coast. “Are you lost from another group?” He stared at our bedraggled clothing, my shoes were worn almost to uselessness and lack of outerwear.
Rachel burst into tears and blubbered about falling off her whitewater craft, me diving in to save her and both of us being separated from our party. She told them our names, Blake, and Rachel and that our cell phones had gone to the bottom of the river. She also said that our families were on the reservation.
Both men bundled us into blankets, brought us to the tent, plied us with food, coffee, and first aid. I let them baby me; it felt good to just lay back and pretend I was helpless. Besides, I was really hungry and the taste of hamburgers, hot dogs, and chips satisfied the hole in my belly more than weeds and fish.
The group leader’s name was Rudy Scolari and he wanted to call the police on his cell phone. Rachel convinced him to call the Tribal Council instead of 911 as the only authority recognized on Reservation land was the Indian Police. The last thing we wanted to do was let the authorities know where we were or that we’d surfaced.
Bellies full, warm and comfortable, I finally asked a question. “Where are we?”
Scolari looked puzzled. “Badlands National Park.”
“No,” I shook my head. “What state?”
Now, he looked alarmed. “Did you hit your head? What’s your name? Today’s date? Who’s the president?”
“I’m fine,” I answered patiently. “We were on the Snake and probably crossed a border. We started our trip bear Bennett’s Mountain.”
“Holy crap,” Scolari said. “That’s nearly a hundred miles north of here. You’re in southern Idaho, not the Dakotas.”
“The reservation?”
“Four Rocks. Small, mostly Blackfoot and Cree.”
Hereditary enemies of the Sioux, I thought. Rachel spoke up. “My grandmother is near here. We can call her. Abenita Stands Alone.”
Scolari gaped at the mention of the woman’s name. Even I had heard of and read about the fiery Amerindian crusader. She also happened to be a State Senator and had been governor for two terms back in the 80s.
“You know her number?” We both asked at the same time and Rachel nodded. The Boy Scout leader handed over his cell and she dialed from memory.
Her conversation was in Abenaki. I heard every word and even heard the replies but I kept my mouth shut and my face blank. The number she had dialed was the time and temperature in Spanish; it was repeated as Rachel carried on her pretend conversation. Finally, she said goodbye in English and shut the cell off.
“She says she’ll send a plane for us as soon as she can arrange it. She wants us dropped at the nearest bench where it can land.”
“That would be Sumpweed Bench, about ten miles from here,” Scolari mused. “That’s in the middle of nowhere. Town’s closer and has a decent road in and out. You should both be checked by a doctor, not just first aid from me.”
“You can’t refuse a Senator’s order,” Rachel said so that was why we were sitting on an ATV in the middle of a godforsaken part of the country where the average person per square mile was 2.