Page 92 of The Cabinet of Dr. Leng

“Let’s hear about it.”

D’Agosta just shook his head. “Just some personal shit in my life. Tell me instead about this plan of yours to nail that bastard Armendariz. When you feds suddenly clam up, that means you’re making progress.”

Coldmoon couldn’t help but grin: this was often the case. “You’re right. As I told you, Ecuador won’t extradite one of their own…even one who bought his citizenship. So I’m going down there to dangle something he won’t be able to resist.”

“And just what is this article you’ll be dangling? Sitting Bull’s condom?”

Coldmoon looked at D’Agosta askance. “We know the guy collects only the best. So the plan is to tease him with an artifact so valuable, so unique, he’ll be like a harpooned fish, and we’ll just pull him in.” Coldmoon reached into his jacket pocket, took out a laminated color photograph, and laid it on the table. It showed the tanned hide of a buffalo, leather side up. Painted on the leather were over a hundred pictures and pictographs in a spiral pattern, starting from the center and traveling round and round outward to the edges.

“What is it?”

“It’s called a Winter Count. Shortly before you white devils wiped out most of our cultural heritage, this is how we Lakota recorded our history. We painted it on buffalo skins like this one. Each picture represents the most important event of the year—one per year. The Winter Count buffalo hide belonged to a visionary medicine man who also served as the tribe’s historian, and he used the pictures as a kind of mnemonic device. It was his responsibility to memorize the tribal history and recite bits and pieces of it to anyone who asked. It was called a Winter Count because we considered the year to run from first snow to first snow.”

“That’s impressive.”

“It sure is.” He pointed to the first drawing, in the center of the buffalo hide: a dramatic streak of red and yellow, with sparks coming off. “That evidently represents a big fireball in the sky—an asteroid. And the last picture, all those horses crowded together with men in blue lying on the ground, records the Battle of Greasy Grass—aka the Little Bighorn. That happened in 1876. Counting back from that known date, the first drawing was made in 1775, before the Lakota even knew the Wasichus existed. Incredible, isn’t it? One hundred and one years of Lakota history. The reason it stops in 1876 is because the owner of this Winter Count was killed—bayoneted by a soldier.”

“Whowasthe owner?”

At this, Coldmoon smiled. “Crazy Horse.”

“Crazy Horse…wow. Can’t say I know much about him.”

“Unlike most Lakota, Crazy Horse rejected every single thing related to the whites. Even when he was dying, he refused to be put into a white man’s bed and died on the floor. Crazy Horse was never defeated in battle and never captured. He surrendered of his own free will. He never allowed himself to be photographed, so we don’t even know what he looked like.”

“Whatever he looked like, it sounds like he had a real pair on him.”

Coldmoon smiled. “Oh, yeah.” He tapped the photo. “Crazy Horse inherited the Winter Count from his father, also called Crazy Horse, but it had been started by his great-grandfather. The agent of the Red Cloud Agency in Nebraska, who befriended him after he came in, saw it and described it as a buffalo pelt that must have come from a massive bull. He also described many of the pictures. Crazy Horse kept it rolled up in the corner of his tipi but he would unroll it on request and tell stories of the tribe’s history. After he was killed, the Winter Count disappeared—taken probably by his agent friend. That’s when it vanished. Today it’s like the Holy Grail: lost to history, never found but believed by many to still exist.”

“And you found it?”

“Waslolyesni!Nobody’s found it. An artist in the FBI lab back in Quantico ginned this up, based on historical descriptions.” He put the picture back, patted his pocket. “It’s a very clever fake.”

“Pretty juicy bait, I’d say.”

“This is the true rara avis of Native American artifacts. I’m going down there right away—tonight.”

“What?”

“Yeah. It seems Armendariz is really hot to trot, so I’m taking a red-eye.”

“Jesus.”

“I’ll be undercover, posing as the descendant of Crazy Horse. That Winter Count was secretly passed down through the generations to me, and I’m going to sell it—and be a traitor to my people. I’ve got a lot of photos to show him. Problem is, I’ll tell him, the original weighs two hundred pounds and is eight feet long, rolled up. If he wants it—and he will—he’ll have to come back to the States in person. With a shitload of money.”

D’Agosta shook his head. “And just when were you planning to tell me all this?”

“Hey, I’ve been cooling my heels for almost two days. I didn’t want to say anything until the operation was approved. I can’t take much credit for it, actually, besides coming up with the bait that would lure him back to the States. Our International Operations Division took care of the rest—deepfaking these photos, making contact with Armendariz on the down low, in a way that wouldn’t spook him. I just got the green light two hours ago—and now, suddenly, things have gone from station-keeping to general quarters.” He paused to sip his beer. “I’m glad we got a chance to talk face-to-face. Sorry to leave you here while I’m down in South America having all the fun.”

“Don’t be sorry. Something unexpected has come up. I’m tapping a lieutenant commander in the homicide division downtown, a guy named Wybrand, to take over the case. He’s a pro at that kind of stuff.”

Coldmoon frowned. “Yeah? And just when wereyouplanning to tellmethis?”

“Right now. That’s why I asked you here.”

Coldmoon watched as D’Agosta toyed with his half-empty glass. He couldn’t claim to know the man well, but he’d seen enough to know he was a stand-up cop. He put in the time and, most importantly, hecared. Coldmoon knew D’Agosta was catching the ass end of this assignment, but he was still a professional—so why was he transferring the case?

“What’s this unexpected thing?” he asked.

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