White Wolf McLeod Page 12

  They returned to the car where Chino was told to put his hood back on. “You handled yourself good back there, Chino. You have just found employment, but you are still on probation, and we don’t trust people very easily. You’ll have to earn your trust with us. Until then, you’ll be watched very closely. One wrong move and it will be your last. Understood?”

  “Perfectly.” Chino pulled the hood over his head himself. “Lead on, gentlemen. I am eager to get started.”

  He was driven to a safehouse where other employee initiates of the family were lodged. It looked like a military barracks, and it was surrounded by a ten-foot wall topped with barbed wire. He was shown a room that was just a step up from the room at the YMCA, but at least it smelled better. In fact, it reminded him of some of the Army posts he had lived in. He had barely a chance to settle in when Benny returned with a small man dressed in an expensive suit with a cloth measuring tape draped over his neck. His purpose was fairly benign, and Chino allowed him to measure him for clothes that Cortez would consider more appropriate.

  He was told that the facility operated on a pretty strict regimen. Lights were turned off at eleven. Reveille was at six sharp. Breakfast was served between seven and seven-thirty. Miss the most important meal of the day, and one went hungry. Lunch was served between twelve and twelve-thirty, except when on assignment, during which Chino would have to fend for himself. The rule that governed the behavior of the recruits demanded that no one on probation could travel outside the compound alone. Dinner was served between six and six-thirty. All telephone calls were monitored, and a five-minute limit was severely imposed. Pay was four hundred a month plus any expenses that might be incurred during the course of the job assigned. Otherwise, room and board was supplied. If his background investigation checked out and if he proved his loyalty during the next six months, he could expect a promotion of sorts. At least he would receive more freedom and more pay. But it would be a long time before he would be completely accepted by the family.

  Chino wondered how many men he would have to slay before he would be welcomed with open arms. But then that would only elevate him to the position of a talented killer. No one would look past his muscle for his marvelous brain. For some silly reason, that last thought caused him to laugh.

  In the morning, he rose refreshed at the sound of the bell; it reminded him of being back at school. He showered quickly and then headed for breakfast. Only one other man had arrived early for breakfast, and he nodded to him. He walked over to a buffet table and helped himself to the fare of eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, and an oatmeal porridge, adding a glass of orange juice to wash everything down with.

  “How long have you been here, if you don’t mind my asking?” Chino greeted the other man.

  He looked up. He had a face that millions of Americans would remember forever, for he was a dead-ringer for Lee Harvey Oswald. “I’ll be leaving today,” he said dryly.

  CHAPTER TEN

  FINAL DESTINATION

  TWO DAYS AFTER Chino had successfully infiltrated the Mendendez family, McLeod was sitting in a coach seat on a plane heading west for Nevada. After reading the three updated reports by Charlie, Mary, and Tim, he still was not sure where this case was leading, but it was becoming more interesting—and yet, frustrating at the same time.

  Thus far, he had been able to confirm that brotherly love was not a characteristic often exhibited in the relationships between the mob families, either in New York or anywhere else within the United States. Their actions and behaviors reminded him of feudal lords that once dotted and controlled the European landscape. None of these petty barons who wielded absolute control over their minions entertained thoughts of giving up one minutia of their power, even if it meant growing more powerful both politically and financially. And maybe that was their weakness, for as long as they banded together in an uneasy truce, the Government would always have an edge to keep them in line. That is, if certain governments were not trying to feather their own nests by creating an unhealthy relationship with these criminal elements. The nation could ill-afford to allow these short-sighted potentates, whose interests defined a narrow field of control while dreaming of becoming emperors over the entire world, to be allowed a free hand to wage open war amongst themselves, endangering the life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness of the common individual. Fractionalized Europe had seen too many wars, which had resulted in unmitigated misery and deprivation inflicted upon the common people, who only wished for a prosperous life. Because of the petty rivalries and mutual distrust between those would-be kings, Europe suffered two world wars and now a sometimes hot but mostly cold war between two major and dissimilar ideologies. McLeod upheld the belief that this could not and would not become the future of the United States, not so much as it would pit the White Man against himself (and include the black and brown), but because it would have a devastating effect upon his own people who had already suffered more than enough indignity from the invaders that had stolen their homeland.

  Then, too, there were the politics involved. The families realized that the titular power resided in the Government, and while they themselves refused to become legitimate in the eyes of the world, they wheedled, bartered, and bought men and women at the highest levels of Government in an effort to protect their own shadowy world interests and at the same time wield political power against their enemies.

  And now he was winging his way nearly across the continent to meet one of these barons. What exactly did that make him? What was his role in this silly little game of life? Peacemaker? Kingmaker? Executioner? He wondered once again why he had chosen this profession. What was his purpose in the never-ending struggle between the baser drives of humanity and the so-called “common good”? Did the public really give a rat’s behind for all the long hours and deprivations he suffered to bring criminals to justice? There were times when he felt like the little Dutch boy with his finger in the dike, stopping up one small leak while dozens of others continued to weaken the wall that held back the relentless sea. Crime was growing at an exponential rate in this country, abetted by the apathy of the same people he was sworn to protect. Worse was the growing belief that crime was the only way to get ahead in this life at the expense of others.

  His wife had asked the same questions in her own manner. Korean-born, she had been raised to respect, honor, obey, and support her husband. However, that did not mean that she accepted his chosen profession without misgivings. If the truth were told, she fervently wished that he had preferred to do something totally outside both law enforcement and the Government. She did not concern herself with how much or little money he brought into the house each month, for they could survive any situation under her management of the household. She worried about his mental health and self-esteem. Forasmuch as the job came fraught with danger, long hours, and frequent jaunts across the length and breadth of the nation, as long as he was happy and satisfied with his calling, she would support him. She just did not have to like the current situation.

  “YOBO, WHERE YOU going?” she asked him as he changed clothes before leaving for the airport.

  “Nevada,” he replied.

  “Why?” To an outsider, her tone would have suggested an Inquisitor. To him, it was just her way of trying to understand his current assignment so she could worry about the right things.

  “To meet some of the better members of our corrupted society.”

  “Why you take-a off your prayer beads?” she demanded as he removed the wooden string of beads off his left wrist.

  “I’ll be in disguise. Where I am going, no one wears them.”

  “You take-a off your medal, too?”

  McLeod fingered the Buddhist medal that perpetually hung around his neck through his undershirt. It had been given to him in Korea by a monk for whom he had come to have the highest regard for one who was not an Indian. “This will never come off,” he told her in no uncertain terms. “I always keep it with me. It protects my body. And it will be with
me when they burn this body.”

  “Maybe you burn sooner than you think.”

  McLeod shook his head in the negative. “Nah. I’m destined to live to be a hundred and fifty years old.”

  “You wanna die an old man?”

  “I’ll never be old,” he replied, pulling on his pants. “My spirit will always be young.”

  “Why you do this? Why you help the White Man’s government? What they gonna do for you?”

  McLeod laughed as he pulled on a light blue satin shirt. “Because they pay so good, darling.”

  “You have-a too much smartee mouth,” she shot back. The fact that she was willing to argue with him meant that, while she had some reservations about him leaving again, she was satisfied that her husband was performing his job with a clear mind and undaunted purpose.

  “When you coming back?” she asked.

  “It shouldn’t take me more than a week. Want me to bring something back for you?” He slipped on an expensive suit jacket that had been a gift from his Uncle Luigi, given to him several years ago. He had probably worn it only three times prior to this trip.

  “Yeah. You just come back in one piece. Then I be a happy woman.”

  THE AIRCRAFT CAPTAIN’S voice suddenly broke into his thoughts to announce useless information that some passengers felt they just had to know to convince themselves they were actually flying: the altitude at which they were currently cruising, the weather conditions they would encounter during the flight, and the expected arrival time at Lake Tahoe. He also reminded everyone to set his or her watches back three hours to reflect the time difference between Eastern Standard Time and Pacific Standard Time.

  McLeod refocused his mind on the facts his team had already amassed. Theoretically, he could wrap up this case with all the information he had at hand. That would certainly make Welsh happy. Then his boss would not have to worry about him delving a little deeper into Andrew Prescott’s private affairs. That order had struck a nerve in him, and he had given thought to follow his superior’s wishes. But then he had already crossed the line when he gave Tim one more assignment before he left on this possible goose chase: find out all he could on Prescott. There were too many threads that ended in Prescott’s lap.

  There was the issue of the murder of Ricardo Alvarez. True, it had probably occurred outside the U.S., but it had been brought into the port of Boston, and the latter action was enough to warrant his investigation. The admission—off the record, of course, and improvable—that the CIA had committed the act did not so much bother him as it should have, he supposed. What did concern him, however, was the depth of infiltration of the mob world and outright cooperation between the Company and a number of notorious families. “The tip of the iceberg.” This phrase came back to haunt him. The boy’s murder was supposed to be a warning to all of the parties involved. That fact had more ramifications that Carter had pills, he reflected with alarm. There were more threads unraveling from the cloth that cloaked the heart of the demon that bred evil and motivated men to sell their souls in an enterprise that would poison the very fabric of society. Some of these threads led to dark and dangerous recesses of the underworld, none of them pleasant and probably insuring a sure death. What disturbed him most was the knowledge that some of the inner workings of the Government were hip-deep in this underworld, wittingly partaking in the destruction of humanity. He shook his head sadly, remembering the old adage: “The right hand does not know what the left hand is doing.” While that might be acceptable in some circumstances, it never made a sound foundation for good governing. One never knew when a consequence would reach up and bite the collective Government’s ass.

  He moved onto the current discord between the New York families. The fact that several underground families were at each other’s throats came as no surprise to him. But at the same time, there was no meat in the facts to warrant a valid investigation into their activities. Still, something in the back of his mind said that where there was smoke, there was fire. And McLeod never liked to leave a fire unattended. He could only hope that this trip—albeit taken on the advice of his Uncle—would answer perhaps just a few of the many questions that nagged his mind.

  He began to doze and soon fell into a light sleep, a self-induced trance, actually. He found himself thinking of his Grandfather who often spoke to him through the medium of dreams. The last time, however, Grandfather had called White Wolf back to the reservation with the news that it was his time to leave this world and that he wanted his grandson’s assistance. Taking an emergency leave of absence, he had rushed to be at his Grandfather’s side.

  No doctor or nurse in the White Man’s world would or could admit the possibility that a person could know the hour of his or her death. It was an anathema to the medical profession’s philosophy that life was to be savored and enjoyed, that there was a constant struggle to remain in the world, despite the hardships, the ailments, and the injustices that were inflicted upon the mind and body of the individual. Any concept counter to this philosophy was treated as incorrect thinking or as a mental sickness. If a person talked about dying soon yet exhibited no signs otherwise than being healthy was considered by the medical community to be a cry for mental or spiritual help. But this Indian knew that his days were numbered because he had not divorced himself from the land and the spiritual essence that filled it. He also knew when the Great Spirit was ready to call him home. And White Wolf never doubted that when his Grandfather told him to help him prepare for the final journey that the elder man’s time had come to fruition. He could never explain this fact or hope to convince a non-Indian of this reality, and therefore, he never made the effort.

  Arriving at the reservation and entering his Grandfather’s teepee—he had never accepted living in a White Man’s dwelling, of which several had begun to sprout up on the reservation—he found his Grandfather dressed in his finest regalia and sitting alone in his teepee, smoking his favorite cigarettes. Some of the women of the village had thoughtfully brought him food and water and had placed them near his reach, but he had barely touched them. His mind was focused on the journey ahead.

  “I came as quickly as I could, Grandfather,” White Wolf greeted him.

  “I watched you come, Grandson, and so I was comforted and waited for your arrival.”

  “Are you ready, Grandfather?”

  “Of course. I have lived my whole life in anticipation of this moment.” He snuffed out his last cigarette and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “It will be good to see your Grandmother Bird again. I know that she was very happy when she died. I know also that she misses me. Even now, I can smell one of her wonderful stews on the fire as she awaits my returning home.

  “What is it that you wish me to do?”

  “I require your assistance to build my spirit ladder,” Grandfather told him.

  White Wolf understood the meaning of his Grandfather’s words. He also knew what was required to perform this final ceremony and began to inspect the teepee. The vent at the top was open and unobstructed. He could see the clear blue sky above with just a wisp of cloud passing overhead. Then he looked for the three physical elements required to ensure success of the parting ceremony for his Grandfather: an eagle’s feather, a horned owl’s feather, and water drawn from a source deemed sacred, usually because a Medicine Man had beheld a strong vision nearby. The eagle’s feather represented the strength and ability to reach heaven, which was considered to be the Happy Hunting Ground where good souls were allowed to enter. Among the People, it was commonly thought that the eagle could touch the invisible barrier between this world and the next, sometimes crossing the barrier to receive an important message from the kin spirit of all the birds to be passed along to the People for their benefit. The owl’s feather meant having the wisdom to know how to approach the entrance of the Happy Hunting Ground, for not all who sought its eternal bliss were fortunate to enter. The owl was also thought to be the opposite of or the counterpart to the eagle, representing the world of the de
ad; and having knowledge of the other world, it was believed that it would open the entrance gates for worthy souls to cross over. The water sustained and purified the spirit of a person as he or she made the long journey into the afterlife.

  The fourth required element was metaphysical in nature. Grandfather would need two limbs still attached to a dead tree to complete his ladder. He did not physically pick up or carry these limbs; rather, he absorbed their images along with their essences into his mind and heart, using a request prayer to both the tree’s spirit and to the Great Spirit that each limb would assist him by giving their spiritual strength to the construction of the ladder to help him reach the shores of the afterlife.

  “I see that all is prepared,” White Wolf declared.

  “The limbs are very sturdy. They will do well to support me.”

  White Wolf looked into his Grandfather’s eyes and allowed his mind to merge with the elder’s thoughts. “I can see them, Grandfather. You chose very wisely.”

  Grandfather nodded his concurrence and lay down on a blanket. “It begins,” he declared. White Wolf picked up his Grandfather’s peace pipe and laid it next to the man’s left side. Then he placed the tomahawk on his right side. Each of these prized possessions would be buried with him after his spirit had departed his body. Now his Grandfather was ready for transitioning to the Happy Hunting Ground. He had his peace pipe, with which he could not only commune with the spirits that might intercept him on his journey, but also share with all of his kin that had departed before him. He had his favorite weapon lest he be confronted by some evil that would attempt to bar him from his goal and defend his right to enter the afterlife.

  Not every Indian is qualified to assist in the construction of the spirit ladder. There were several prerequisites needed. One was that the assistant had to be extremely close to the individual making the journey. Another was that the helper had to have the right kind of mind that accepted and believed wholeheartedly in the spiritual world and all its constructs. He must also have a strong will and an unshakeable faith to stand outside of and before the spiritual world, lest he himself be pulled unprepared into the spirit world along with the departing spirit. The other world surely exists, and only a foolish man would think of meddling with things he did not understand nor respected.