Night of the White Buffalo: A Wind River Mystery by Margaret Coel Page B

were a blur, a mixture of anger and frustration, fear and shock, with a white man collapsed over a steering wheel, a black hole in his forehead and trickles of blood on his cheeks.
    â€œI spoke to the monthly meeting of women students about careers in law,” Vicky heard herself explaining. She wondered what on earth difference it made. She and Adam could have been munching on hamburgers at the convenience store in Ethete. Except that one clear, inane memory might trigger another, and that might make the difference. “It was a small group, about twenty students.”
    â€œTraffic was light.” Adam looked relaxed, leaning back, hands on the armrests. “Folks are staying home at night with that crazy shooter loose. No one knows when he might show up and send a bullet into your windshield.”
    â€œIt has been a few weeks since we’ve heard from him.” Gianelli shook his head.
    â€œWhat about last night?”
    â€œMaybe, but we don’t think so. Still early in the investigation, but no bullet holes in the truck. So traffic was light. How many vehicles on the highway near the shooting scene would you say?”
    Adam was shaking his head. “The highway was empty. That’s why I was surprised to see two vehicles pulled over on the side of the road, headlights on. We were still a good hundred yards away when the first vehicle pulled out and made a U-turn. Had to be going seventy when it passed us.”
    â€œDid you get the make? Any part of the license?”
    â€œLicense?” Adam snorted. “It was pitch-black out there except for the headlights. Big, dark-colored truck, like a Chevy.”
    â€œI was watching,” Vicky said, the memory spurting in her mind. She was in the passenger seat, watching the headlights coming toward them. The dark hulk rushing past. “The driver wore a cowboy hat.” The memory was getting clearer, like a pebble in a creek starting to reflect the sunlight. “I’m sure it was a man.”
    Gianelli scribbled in the notepad he had produced from a desk drawer. “What made you stop?”
    Adam drew in a ragged breath. She waited for what he would say: she could almost hear the words moving through his head.
I didn’t want to stop.
“I expected the second vehicle to pull out. A pickup with its headlights on. I figured the engine was running. I was concentrating on driving past, in case the driver was drunk and decided to pull in front of me.”
    â€œI caught a glimpse of the driver slumped over the steering wheel,” Vicky said. Another memory as clear as glass. “He looked sick or passed out. I asked Adam to stop. He slowed down and pulled in ahead of the pickup. When we walked over, we saw the man had been shot.”
    No one said anything for a moment. A matter of respect.
Aida
played softly. “We called 911 and waited for the BIA cops.” Adam’s voice was crisp and businesslike. As if that were all of it, the facts. “They showed up twenty minutes later.”
    â€œDid you recognize the victim?”
    Adam shook his head. “Not until one of the officers ID’d him. Dennis Carey, white rancher on the rez. We’ve seen him cooking buffalo burgers at powwows. He came to the farmers’ market this summer to sell buffalo meat.”
    â€œAnything else?”
    â€œWe stayed with the body out of respect,” Vicky said.
    Gianelli made some more notes, then looked up at her and nodded. He had worked among Arapahos and Shoshones on the rez long enough to glimpse their ways. “If you think of anything else, give me a call.”
    Vicky got to her feet and started past the desk toward the hallway, conscious of Adam close behind, the large presence of him. Then she turned back and, looking past Adam, said, “What about his wife? How is she doing?”
    Gianelli drew in a long breath. The answer was obvious, Vicky knew. How did she expect the woman would be doing after her