White Wolf McLeod Read online

  Grandfather sang to himself softly, offering up his final prayers. Then, he spoke his last word of advice to White Wolf: “Evil always wears clothes that will appear wonderful. The path it will want you to take will look easy, and it will be abundant with the types of treasures you might cherish in this world. But the good and right will oftentimes come to you as a beggar, and the road it asks you to trod will never be an easy one. And there may be no visible reward after you have made the journey, except that you will know in your own heart that you have done well. The Great Spirit will be pleased with your successes. The path of evil will always be clear and straight; its pitfalls are cleverly hidden to ensnare the unwary and the weak. But the path of righteousness will often be foggy and crooked; rest assured, however, that the ground will always be solid and true.

  “I believe that you will be tested many times by the evil, Grandson. It will come in many forms and with many enticements. But you have the gift of the Great Spirit flowing through your spirit to recognize the shallowness of the White Man’s ways. When I have passed on from this world and have rejoined your Grandmother Bird, I will look on you from time to time to see how you are doing. If I can assist you or guide you in those moments of temptation, I will pray to the Great Spirit that He allow me to come to you.

  “Now, hold the ladder steady, Grandson.”

  White Wolf visualized the spirit ladder that his Grandfather had constructed and willed his mind to grasp the lower rungs to hold it in place on the teepee floor, its topmost end pointing to and through the top of the teepee and reaching high into the sky. He watched his Grandfather’s spirit sit up from the body made of flesh as if he were merely shedding an unwanted coat. His Grandfather then took hold of the spirits of his peace pipe and tomahawk and stood before the ladder that ascended into heaven. White Wolf noted that his Grandfather looked about the same age as in life, but there was a youthful vitality about him, a regeneration of all the essences that had comprised his true being. His Grandfather leaped onto the ladder and climbed with alacrity until he reached the top, which White Wolf could not see.

  “Thank you, my Grandson,” he heard his Grandfather call back to him joyfully.

  “Live well, my Grandfather,” White Wolf called back. Then he allowed the spirit ladder he had formed in his mind to slowly dissipate. A tear flowed down his cheek as he looked upon the clay likeness of his Grandfather. He was happy that his Grandfather had successfully crossed the barrier that separated this physical world from the spiritual world. Yet, feeling a little selfish in this matter, he would never again be able to sit and smoke and eat with the man he considered to be his true father, seeking his counsel, sharing life’s mysteries, or just pondering silently in each other’s company the will of the Great Spirit.

  White Wolf looked again upon the face of what had been his Grandfather. He had seen dead men before, but here there was a difference. The spirits of other men, some of whom had died violently in Korea, had not willingly discarded their mortal frames. They lingered close by, refusing to accept the finality of their lives, still linked to the body. These spirits were doomed to walk the twilight between worlds until they found the right path or were assisted by adept mortals to the light. But with Grandfather, he was completely gone and at peace with Grandmother Bird in the Happy Hunting Ground. Only the discarded robe of flesh he had worn for ninety-six years lay on the blanket.

  THE PLANE LURCHED and bounced as it met turbulence, jostling McLeod to full consciousness. He wondered why he had dreamed about his Grandfather’s last moments on this Earth. Then his Grandfather’s last words to him seem to hit home for the first time. He had forgotten about them, or, at least, he had pushed them back into the recesses of his memory. Evil did seem to stretch its multi-armed hands out towards him, tempting him with worldly pleasures and ease of life. His Uncle Luigi still hoped he would join his family and be accepted into the fold. David Welsh wanted him to be pliant and conciliatory, possibly molding him into a potential protégé with a bright and prosperous political future. And then there was the chance to just drop this case, declare it solved to the best of the evidence already gathered and move on to the next assignment. McLeod, however, was now convinced that his time in the firing oven had just begun. He wondered what other sweetmeats would be offered him before he concluded that he was through with this case.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen,” the pilot broke through the ambient noise of the engines, “this is Captain James again. I am afraid that I have some terrible news to pass on to you.” McLeod immediately picked up on the unsuccessful attempt on the part of the pilot to choke back tears of grief. “At 12:30 pm. Dallas time, President Kennedy was shot by unknown assailants while traveling in his motorcade. At 1:00 pm., he was officially declared dead. The President is dead.”

  McLeod blocked out the rest of the pilot’s message, his mind a tangle of thoughts. So much for Welsh’s friend Prescott, he thought with a sense of satisfaction, which meant that the man had just lost his protective umbrella. He wondered how much latitude he now had in investigating Prescott. It really did not matter to him: he was moving ahead anyway.

  Then, as an irreverent thought entered his head: he wondered who was going to be willing to help Kennedy with his spirit ladder.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  MARY IN LAKE TAHOE

  TIM WAS THE only member of the team in the office when Welsh came storming into the office area.

  “Where the hell is McLeod?” he bellowed loudly to no one in particular, but he seemed to be making a beeline for Tim’s desk.

  The Deputy Marshal looked up in surprise from behind a perpetually propagating mountain of paperwork on his desk and tried to put on his best dumbfounded look, which was not difficult given the unusual circumstances. The Director very seldom graced these lower offices with his presence, and when he did deign to visit, he was normally all smiles, beaming with cordiality and graciousness, just like the oily, slippery politician he was. He seemed to take great delight in the presentation of meaningless trinkets, such as a letter of appreciation to one or more of his “loyal” employees, as he liked to praise them, in an effort to keep them motivated. He took these opportunities to fluff up his peacock feathers and vainly announce to the entire staff just how wonderful a person he was and how lucky they were to work for a man like him.

  Today, however, Tim witnessed secretaries desperately scrambling for cover to remove themselves from the Chief’s path. Tim could not remember the last time he had seen Welsh show his temper outside his own office. But then again, he could not remember the last time a President had been assassinated, either.

  “You!” Welsh thrust his finger at him.

  Tim turned around and looked over each shoulder, as if the Director had been looking at someone else.Then he looked at the man and deadpanned a finger back at himself and mouthed, “You mean, me?” He rose to his feet uncertainly, playing a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, hoping the “cute act” would minimize the severity of the punishment that was sure to follow.

  “Where’s McLeod,” Welsh demanded again, his face red and showing a good deal of tension.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I just don’t know,” he lied in a higher voice than normal.

  “What do you mean, you don’t know? You work for the man, don’t you?”

  “No sir; I mean, yes sir.” He feigned confusion, shrugged his shoulder, and held his arms out wide. “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Are you trying to pull my leg, Mr. Robbins?” Welsh glared at him.

  “Why would I be doing that, sir?”

  Welsh looked around the office and noted three empty desks. “Where’s the rest of your team?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” Tim shrugged again. He was beginning to relish this play-acting.

  Welsh leaned closer, resting his hands on Tim’s desk, and pushed his face close to Tim’s in an attempt to intimidate the man. “Just what do you know, Mr. Robbins?” he demanded.

  Tim rolled his eyes, sho
wing a lot of white. “Depends on what you want to know, sir. But so far, I just haven’t been able to follow you. Some things I know; some things I don’t.” He grinned a sheepish smile.

  “Where’s Gonty?”

  “Well,” he started, scratching the back of his head in pretended thought. “Lessee. I guess the last time I’d seen him, I think he was on his way to New York.”

  “Why?” Welsh was positively screaming now.

  Tim shook his head in a sorrowful way, his countenance maintaining that bewildered look. “I don’t know, sir. He didn’t tell me.”

  “And Mary?”

  “Ah, yes. Mary. To the best of my knowledge, I think she said something about going to the library. Or, was it that she had an appointment with some clerk at the Justice Department. Golly, sir; I just can’t remember.”

  “And what was she working on?” Welsh then thought better of it and held up his hand as if to say that Tim did not need to answer the question. “I know. I know,” he said resignedly. “You don’t know why.

  “How about Chino?”

  “Well, now, that is a most curious thing, sir. I believe he asked for some vacation time. But like I said before, no one around here tells me nothing! I just work here.”

  “So, what are you working on?”

  Tim rubbed the back of his wide neck and stared down at the mess on his desk. “Well, I’m just trying to catch up on some backlog, sir.” He smirked and added in a belated tone, “It just never seems to end. Other than that, sir, nothing very exciting.”

  Welsh straightened up and started talking to himself. “Now why in the hell would McLeod be away from his desk at the most momentous time in history? Doesn’t he know that President Kennedy has been murdered?” He turned back to Tim. “My God, man! We could be at war with the Russians any minute now!”

  “Well, if we do, I hope we win, sir.”

  “Mr. Robbins, you are either the dumbest asshole working for me, or the greatest liar,” Welsh blurted out in frustration. “I hope for your sake as well as your continued employment that the former is true.”

  “Well,” Tim grinned broadly, “you know what they say about us people. We do try our best.”

  Welsh turned sharply on his heel and started to march off. Without breaking stride, he yelled over his shoulder, “Find McLeod. I want him in my office ASAP.”

  “Whatever you say, sir,” Tim breathed to no one in particular, pronouncing the “sir” to mean anything but a term of respect. He watched the Chief exit the office spaces and sat down to work, dismissing the man and his questions like a little nightmare quickly forgotten after waking from sleep. Although, he admitted to himself, it had been fun. Just the thing to create a little excitement in the morning. He observed the shaken secretaries slowly returning to their desks, trying to recover from the devastating wake of the Director’s departure.

  Welsh liked to play by his own rules, but he was completely out of his league when it came to understanding his people, especially McLeod. The Marshal had only one rule when it came to passing information up the chain, regardless of who was asking: unless he authorized it, no information was to be forwarded without his say-so. He agreed with his boss that the best way of jeopardizing an operation was to let too many people know about it. “Loose lips sink ships,” he believed the World War Two adage went. Only in this business, the Department did not lose ships: it lost good people. Tim included the whereabouts of the team and their current activities in that category. He turned his thoughts to McLeod and wondered where his boss was at the moment. He had a general idea, of course, but at least he did not have to lie a lot in that regard. He did not know exactly where McLeod was at that very moment.

  “Hope he’s having a good time,” he declared as he reluctantly pulled a file off the mountain.

  *

  MARY PICKED UP her one suitcase at Lake Tahoe and strolled out to the curb. She was dressed in the garb of a wanna-be rich tourist, the type that brings their life’s savings to the casinos with dreams of breaking the bank. Her tight fitting lavender, knee-hugging dress was decked with a mink stole, and she wore a pillbox hat that Jackie Kennedy had introduced to American women as the new fashion. On her fingers, gaudy costume jewelry gave the casual glance an impression of wealth. Her dark glasses hid her eyes as she looked around with an air of curiosity while her real target of interest was McLeod. She was his back-up, protecting him from any unexpected bushwhack as he met with representatives of the Seriglio family. Before they had departed on this trip, he reminded her not to fall into the trap of thinking that he could handle himself in any given situation and be less vigilant in the execution of her duties. At the same time, he did not want her to be too proactive either and blow both of their covers. It was a fine line to walk.

  Two men dressed in slacks and long-sleeved shirts with heavy jackets zipped halfway closed met McLeod outside on the terminal sidewalk and took his bag. They treated him cordially and escorted him to a waiting black limousine. Mary watched him climb into the backseat and the vehicle pull away from the curb. Then she hailed a taxi and instructed the driver to take her to the Sands Hotel.

  After checking in, she exchanged her confining clothes for loose ones and appropriate winter apparel, rented a car from a nearby agency, and paid a visit to the local precinct where she identified herself as a U.S. Deputy Marshal. A Detective (Sergeant) Claude Renkins welcomed her apprehensively.

  “What can we do for you, Marshal?” he greeted her politely with his voice but his body posture spoke volumes, indicating that he did not appreciate her presence and what she represented in his precinct.

  “I’m here checking out a couple of leads my boss asked me to run down,” she answered with girlish charm.

  “And, what would they be, little lady?” Renkins queried, taken in by her subterfuge.

  “My boss would like to know a little about the Seriglio family.”

  “Why?” Renkins was immediately suspicious. “They haven’t done anything that has come to our attention. They appear to be upright and outstanding citizens. In fact, they’re one of our fair city’s largest supporters.”

  “As to why he wants to know, I’m not sure,” she continued in her act as a rookie in the Department. “But, he thinks that a fugitive we are looking for might be hiding among them out here. Now, we’re not suggesting that the Seriglio family is hiding this fugitive, just that they might not know who they have employed.”

  “A fugitive, huh? He must have done something heinous for you guys to be involved and hot on his trail.”

  “Well, my boss thinks so,” she said apologetically, flashing the Detective a winsome smile.

  “Who’s your boss?”

  “Superintendent David Welsh.” She wrote down Tim Robbins’ extension number back in Washington, D.C.

  “You got a picture or a photo of this perp?”

  Mary opened her large handbag, fumbled around for a few minutes, found the object she was looking for, and handed him McLeod’s photo taken as a police file mug shot.

  “Ugly and mean-looking, isn’t he?” Renkins commented.

  “He is, and he can be,” she rejoined. “He’s been known to take down a squad of officers by himself.”

  “Armed and dangerous, huh?”

  Mary shook her head. “Our records show that he rarely packs a weapon. As to dangerous, he’s quite experienced in martial arts. One of the best.”

  “Okay. I’ll put out an APB on him.”

  Mary hedged. “Right now, we’d just like to keep him under observation, if you don’t mind. See what he’s up to. Who he contacts. That sort of thing.”

  “Okay. And what do you want us to do? We’re kind of short-handed right now, what with Kennedy’s assassination and all.”

  “Yeah,” she agreed, her eyes suddenly sad and her voice thick with emotion. “Shocking isn’t it? Who would have believed it could happen in America?”

  “But the criminals don’t stop for holidays, do they?” Renkins comment
ed wryly. Even if it was the President who was the one who was whacked.”

  “I just want to go out and observe the Seriglio place,” Mary brought the subject back on track. “Is that possible?”

  Renkins thought a moment, fingering McLeod’s photo. “I believe I can have O’Reilly and Sandinista ride out with you and at least show you where the mansion is. Beyond that, I’m afraid we can’t do much.”

  “That will be just fine, Detective. I appreciate the help.” She flashed her pretty smile at him again.

  “No problem,” he smiled back. “I’ll have them meet you at the Sergeant’s desk.” He watched her leave then dialed the telephone number she had given him.

  MCLEOD’S SECRETARY ANSWERED the ring. Tim, noting the time, hovered near her desk and heard her say, “David Welsh? I’m sorry, but you have—”

  Tim quickly grabbed the receiver out of her hands and put his hand over the transmission diaphragm. “It’s okay,” he told the secretary. “McLeod’s idea.” Then speaking into the telephone, he said in a deep baritone voice, “This is David Welsh. Sorry about that. I just got in. What can I do for you?”

  “Mr. Welsh, this is Detective Claude Renkins with the Lake Tahoe police. I am just checking up on a Deputy Marshal Mary Gonzalez.”

  “Ah, good. She made it. I would appreciate any help you can give her.”

  “Uh, we’ll do our best, Mr. Welsh.” The Detective sounded nonplussed.

  Half an hour later, Mary was following an unmarked Nevada State police car towards the outskirts of Lake Tahoe. They drove through the strip where the great casinos sat side-by-side, gaudy even in the daylight without the neon extravaganza that turned night into artificial day, making it a city that never slept but played twenty-four hours a day. The death of America’s beloved President had considerably dampened the gaming enthusiasm except for the most die-hard gamblers, who cared for nothing except that next winning streak. America had weathered two crises under President Kennedy: the Cuban Blockade and the Berlin Airlift. And it seemed that the future was going to be all right. Kennedy had bearded the Red Bear in his own den and sent him packing to a long hibernation to lick his wounds. But his death was a blow to the myth of Camelot’s resurrection, and the American people’s faith in a prosperous future had been badly shaken.