Winter Counts(76)
I pulled up to the gray metal trailer. No cars that I could see. The front door that I’d kicked in before was still broken, but it had been propped up to keep out the wind and the animals. I pushed it open, no longer caring about being quiet or stealthy. The same piles of trash that I’d seen so many weeks ago were still there, the same devastation. I poked around the place, looking for anything that might give me a clue. I looked in drawers, cabinets, closets. Nothing. I pulled up the mattress and looked under there. The box of ammo that had been stashed there was gone. So someone had been here, most likely Rick himself.
I tore apart the dirty bedroom and the living room, taking care not to fall through the rotted floor. Then I sorted through a mound of food wrappers and garbage in the tiny kitchen. Used rags, discarded matchbooks, old pizza boxes. A Runza wrapper. That couldn’t have come from Rick. Midwest chain Runza, with their signature loose meat sandwiches, called “loose bowels” by locals. Then I spotted a scrap of paper on the counter, a receipt, with the words “Cropper Cabin” on it.
What was Cropper Cabin? A vague flash of recognition. I wasn’t sure, but it might be one of the crappy motels down in Valentine, the kind that catered to the less wealthy in northern Nebraska. I called Marie and had her look it up on her phone.
Sure enough, it was listed as a “modest roadside motel” in her search results, located on the outskirts of town. Marie wanted to know more, but I cut her off, told her I’d call later. It was unlikely that Nathan was there, but it couldn’t hurt to see for myself.
I started walking out to my car, but stopped. Should I call Dennis and tell him what I’d found? He’d said there was an aggressive search ongoing for Nathan and the dealers, so it made sense to contact him, let the professionals investigate.
Fuck that.
It was time for me to step up and do what I could to find Nathan. Not to mention, I wasn’t bound by legal rules and procedures, like probable cause and search warrants. Time to take some action.
CROPPER CABIN WAS a run-down, shoddy, piece-of-shit motel; that was clear at first glance. The kind of place that rented by the week—at inflated prices—to families down on their luck, itinerant workers, and gang members, six to a room. Peeling paint, and a large dilapidated sign that advertised FREE CABLE and WEEKLY RATES. Below that, VACANCY and AMERICAN OWNED & OPERATED. An assortment of older cars was parked in front of the rooms. I cruised around the parking lot slowly, looking for a red Dodge Charger or any car with Colorado plates.
No luck. There was a light on in the office, but I didn’t see anyone inside.
I opened the door and did a double take. It was like someone had vomited American flags all over the room. There was a framed flag, a flag made out of painted wooden panels, two smaller flags on miniature flagpoles on the front desk, some American-flag pillows, and red, white, and blue curtains. The lone non-flag item was a Nebraska football sign that read HUSKER POWER. Not surprising, as Nebraska football fandom approached religious fervor levels in the state, even this close to the border.
I rang the bell on the front desk and waited. After a minute a middle-aged white guy came out wearing a T-shirt that proclaimed GOD, GUNS, AND GLORY. He looked me over, up and down, and I could tell he didn’t like what he saw. It wasn’t hard to figure out that this guy probably hated Indians, thought we were all a bunch of welfare-cheating, food-stamp-loving drunks that had interfered with his God-given right to possess our land. That was okay with me; I didn’t plan on having a long discussion about Native property rights with this dude.
“Help you?” There was no hint of a smile on his face, not even a facade of shopkeeper friendliness.
“Yeah. I’m looking for a few guys that might be staying here. One Indian, some Hispanics, maybe a teenager—Native boy. Anybody like that here?”
“You a cop?” He had the flat Kansas-Nebraska accent, which told me he was a local shit-kicker.
“No, just looking. Important I find them.”
“We don’t give out information about our guests. Company policy.”
“I understand. Not looking to cause any trouble, but the kid with them needs help. Just need to know if they’re here, or if they’ve been here, and I’ll be on my way.”
The guy puffed out his chest. “Maybe you didn’t hear me. We don’t provide personal information on our residents. No exceptions. Now why don’t you get the hell out?”
I took a step closer. “I don’t need personal information. Just tell me if they’re here. Otherwise, I’m gonna have to go open up every goddamn door in this shithole. Don’t want to do that, so why don’t you spare me the hassle?”
“You bother anyone here, you’ll answer to me. And I’m a veteran. Of the armed forces. The Merchant Marine. Not that you’d know anything about serving your country—you people are too cowardly to fight.” He turned his back to me, and I heard him say, “Fucking prairie nigger.”
I reached over the counter and wrapped my arm around his throat, choking him. He gasped and coughed as he used his arms to try and free himself. I increased the pressure around his throat, cutting off his air almost completely. I held him tight as he flailed and flapped his arms.
All of a sudden I heard a sound. The front door opened, and an older man and woman dressed like bikers walked in. The woman screamed, and I lost my focus for a second. The shithole manager broke free, gasping for air. The couple, dressed in their Harley Davidson gear, quickly ran out of the building, and I saw the guy move to a drawer behind the counter. He was fumbling with it, trying to get it open.