Notches

by Peter Bowen

  “I got to talk to Benetsee,” said Du Pré.

  “Look,” said the young man, “I am telling you what he told me to tell you, I don’t know about nothin’ else.”

  “Shit,” said Du Pré.

  “I am here to take care of his place and do … some things,” the young man said. “I don’t be telling Benetsee what he may do.”

  “Who,” said Du Pré, “the fuck are you?”

  “I don’t got a name yet,” the young man said. “I had one but Benetsee said it wasn’t my name so I …”

  “Christ,” said Du Pré.

  “Well,” said the young man, “he said you’d help me I needed it.”

  “Yah,” said Du Pré, “look, I am sorry. I am wanting to talk to that old bastard and it made me mad he was not here.”

  “He is not coming till you catch those guys,” said the young man.

  “You told me that,” said Du Pré.

  “I am sorry,” said the young man.

  “It is all right,” said Du Pré. “Maybe I just kick that old fucker’s ass I see him.”

  The young man said nothing.

  “You got food,” said Du Pré.

  “No,” said the young man, “I been fasting and praying, and Benetsee …”

  “Come on then,” said Du Pré. “My Madelaine always likes feed people. When you eat, last time?”

  “Long time ago,” said the young man.

  Du Pré got up from the stump. He picked up the wine and whiskey and the cigarette he had rolled for Benetsee. He stopped.

  “You smoke?” he said.

  “Sure,” said the young man.

  Du Pré lit the cigarette and gave it to him. They walked to his old cruiser and got in and they sat there a moment and then Du Pré started the engine and he drove to Toussaint and up to Madelaine’s. The lights were all off.

  Du Pré opened the door and went in. The young man followed him to the kitchen. Du Pré set down his whiskey bottle and he opened the refrigerator and he got out some cheese and a pot of venison stew and some green beans.

  Jug of milk.

  Du Pré put the stew on the stove to heat and the green beans he dumped in a pan and turned the gas on under them.

  “Hey,” said Madelaine from the doorway. “You are back late. Who is your friend, here?”

  “Guy at Benetsee’s,” said Du Pré. “Hasn’t eaten in days. He is very hungry.”

  Madelaine came out into the kitchen wearing her robe. She was rubbing her eyes against the light.

  “What is your name, I am Madelaine,” she said.

  “I don’t got a name,” said the young man. “Benetsee say the name I had is no good, he will help me find another when I am ready.”

  “You don’t got a name,” said Madelaine.

  “That damn Benetsee he is some joker, you know,” said Du Pré.

  The young man nodded.

  “He learn from them coyotes,” said the young man. “They are jokers, them God’s dogs.”

  “Where is Benetsee?” said Madelaine.

  “He say he is not coming back till I catch those guys,” said Du Pré.

  “Guys?” said Madelaine.

  “There are two of them,” said Du Pré.

  “Three,” said the young man.

  “Christ,” said Du Pré, “I could have asked you.”

  “You say you want to talk, Benetsee,” said the young man. “I got to learn to listen pretty good.”

  “Benetsee say you help me?”

  The young man nodded.

  “He tell you to tell me things?”

  More nods.

  The stew was bubbling. Du Pré took it off the stove. He stuck a ladle in it and handed the young man a bowl.

  “Eat,” he said.

  Du Pré and Madelaine watched while the young man ate all of the stew and all of the green beans. A pound of cheese. A pint of ice cream. Drank a bunch of coffee.

  Du Pré rolled him a cigarette.

  They smoked.

  “There are three killers?” said Du Pré.

  The young man shook his head.

  “Two,” said the young man. “Third guy, he is … it is over, when they are all together.”

  “OK,” said Du Pré.

  “Good food,” said the young man. “I thank you.”

  “You eat here plenty,” said Madelaine, looking at him carefully.

  “Who is there, Mama?” said Lourdes from the dark little hall that led to the bedrooms in the back of the house.

  “You come here,” said Madelaine. “You meet this young man got no name.”

  Lourdes came out of the dark.

  She looked at the floor.

  The young man folded his hands in his lap and his face closed up.

  CHAPTER 18

  “AGAIN?” SAID DU PRÉ. He was in the Toussaint bar. Agent Pidgeon was on the other end of the line. She was yelling.

  “Again? Again?” she yelled. “You sexist pig asshole! What do you mean, again? Just because I’m a woman the fucking cheap-ass government surrey they give me blew up again? Fuck you, Du Pré.”

  “Um,” said Du Pré. “I am just wondering, you know, that it blew up again.”

  “Fucking did,” said Agent Pidgeon.

  “So where are you this blown-up thing?”

  “Maybe forty miles south of Toussaint.”

  “You calling from a ranch?”

  “No,” said Agent Pidgeon. “This guy stopped, he’s got a phone in his van. So I am using that.”

  “What guy?” said Du Pré.

  “He does something with the combine crews. Mechanic, I guess. Lot of fucking tools here.”

  “OK,” said Du Pré. “I be there. You are on the highway.”

  “Yup,” said Agent Pidgeon. “Left side of it, way you’re coming.”

  “I be there, half an hour,” said Du Pré.

  “It’s forty fucking miles,” said Agent Pidgeon.

  “Maybe less,” said Du Pré.

  He kept the cruiser flat out, the speed close to 120 where he could see far enough ahead.

  Hope no fucking deer decides to jump out of them bushes, Du Pré thought. A magpie splattered on the windshield.

  Agent Pidgeon was looking at her watch and nodding grimly when Du Pré roared up.

  “Twenty-one minutes,” she said. “What an asshole.”

  She was sitting on her suitcases. No aluminum trunks this time.

  “Where is your friend?” said Du Pré.

  “Simpson?” said Agent Pidgeon. “He had to go on, said he had a down rig somewhere south of here.”

  Du Pré shrugged. Leave a defenseless woman alone out here. Agent Pidgeon was naked but for her Sig Sauer 9mm. and God Knows What unarmed combat training she had in and out of the FBI.

  Du Pré piled her luggage in the backseat. He got in and Pidgeon opened the passenger door and she slid in, and pushed her skirt back up her long thighs. Her foot clunked against a bottle.

  Du Pré reached over and picked up the bottle of whiskey. He had a nice long swallow. He rolled a cigarette.

  Three minutes later they were shooting along at 120 miles an hour. Agent Pidgeon was moving her mouth a lot but Du Pré couldn’t hear what she was saying because of the wind rushing through the open windows and the screaming engine.

  Du Pré didn’t need to hear what she was saying.

  He slowed down a couple miles from Toussaint and he drove on in to the bar and he got out and walked inside and left Agent Pidgeon sitting in the car calling him all of the names she could think of, which was quite a few names.

  By the time that Agent Pidgeon had run down enough to get out of the car Du Pré was halfway through his second whiskey.

  “I need to rent the little trailer,” said Agent Pidgeon to Susan Klein. Susan had two small trailers that she rented by the day or week.

  “Both rented, honey,” said Susan. “Harvest time.” “Shit,” said Agent Pidgeon.

  “You can stay at Bart’s,” said Du Pré.
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  “I haven’t got a car,” wailed Pidgeon.

  “You would you didn’t keep blowing them up,” said Du Pré.

  “OK,” said Pidgeon. “The damsel-in-distress don’t mean shit to you.”

  “Stay out at Bart’s,” said Susan. “He’s a nice guy and he has a bunch of cars.”

  “It’s against regulations,” said Pidgeon.

  “Oh, fuck you,” said Susan.

  And they all laughed.

  Du Pré turned away and then he looked back at Susan, whose face had gone troubled.

  Pidgeon was still laughing but it was not laughter. She began to scream.

  Susan raced around the bar and she grabbed Pidgeon and held her, and the FBI agent broke down to gasping sobs and floods of tears.

  Du Pré went to the phone and he called Madelaine.

  Du Pré came back and Susan Klein looked at him and she jerked her head toward the row of liquor bottles ranked below the big mirror behind the bar. Du Pré went back and he pulled a fifth of brandy out and he put some in a snifter and he slid it across.

  Pidgeon took the snifter in both hands. She was shaking so badly that Susan Klein was holding her on the barstool. Pidgeon lifted the glass and she took a sip. Another.

  She snuffled.

  Du Pré fished out his handkerchief and thought better of it and he took the box of tissues from the cupboard by the cash register and he handed it over.

  Pidgeon sipped.

  She slumped so deep she seemed boneless.

  Madelaine came bustling through the door.

  She glanced at Du Pré and then she went to Pidgeon and she hugged her and said something very low.

  Pidgeon nodded.

  “We take her to my place,” Madelaine said. “Me and Susan, you maybe watch the bar.”

  Du Pré nodded. “I bring her luggage.”

  Madelaine and Susan led Pidgeon out the front door. In a minute, Du Pré heard them drive off.

  Du Pré whistled. He washed some coffee cups and a couple of beer glasses that had tomato juice stuck to the sides.

  The bar was empty.

  Du Pré flicked on the television.

  He poured himself a whiskey and water and he rolled a cigarette and he watched a dumb commercial for snowmobiles. In … July? No, July was maybe two days away.

  The news came on.

  The announcer, a woman with bright red hair, said that the body of a missing schoolteacher, lost since the Sunday before, had been found near Sheridan, Wyoming. The woman had been abducted, police thought, in Billings, and there was no comment to reporters’ questions.

  Was this the work of the Hi-Line Killer?

  Oh, thought Du Pré, now they got a name for the bastard, next they have a TV movie.

  Hi-Line Killer.

  I find that fucker.

  Yes.

  “Du Pré?” said a soft voice at Du Pré s elbow. Du Pré started.

  The young man who lived at Benetsee’s was standing there.

  Du Pré hadn’t heard him come in.

  He never heard Benetsee, either.

  “Yah,” said Du Pré. He was pissed. He heard everything.

  “Your friend, the lady who is upset?” said the young man. His face was earnest and he was eager to say what he had to say.

  “Yah,” said Du Pré.

  “Would she have some pictures of the bodies where they were found?” said the young man. “I maybe look at them, I could maybe help.”

  Du Pré looked at him.

  Fucking little joker, I want Benetsee, not your sorry ass.

  But he come from Benetsee.

  Who is not coming.

  “OK,” said Du Pré. “I don’t know when she feel well enough to see you, though.”

  “She is fine now,” said the young man. “Look, I just walk up there.”

  “OK,” said Du Pré. “That Madelaine, she fix you something to eat.”

  “I maybe take some brandy for that Pidgeon,” said the young man.

  Du Pré handed him the bottle.

  He watched him go to the door, walking soft as a cat, his feet on a line, balanced, coiled. He slipped out, barely opening the heavy plank door.

  Slipped into the light, Du Pré thought, he is here, he is not here.

  I just give away Susan’s brandy.

  Du Pré stuffed a twenty in the till.

  A couple ranchers from the benchlands came in, red and sweaty. They had several cold glasses of beer each. They went out again, arguing about the tractor being broken down and why it was.

  Du Pré watched the television. He hoped to hell no one ordered a hamburger. He’d never cooked one here.

  Susan Klein came in. She bustled up to the bar and around behind it.

  “Pidgeon’s much better,” she said.

  Du Pré nodded.

  “She sort of lost it thinking about all the women this bastard has killed, and just before you picked her up she heard about another body found down by Sheridan. A young schoolteacher, she was only twenty-two.”

  Probably looked about sixteen, Du Pré thought. My age, they look sixteen until they are maybe thirty-five. Kids.

  “You go on up there,” said Susan. “That young Indian guy is there. He brought up some brandy.”

  Du Pré nodded.

  “He wants to look at some pictures,” said Susan Klein. “The pictures are in her stuff, there.”

  Du Pré took a go-cup of whiskey and a fresh bag of Bull Durham and some fried pork rinds.

  Du Pré drove up to Madelaine’s.

  Pictures.

  Young-Man-Who-Has-No-Name wanted to look at them.

  I would like that, too, Du Pré thought.

  CHAPTER 19

  THE YOUNG MAN SAT at the kitchen table. He had three large black-and-white photographs on the white enamel top.

  There was a big clear glass of iced water in his hand.

  The young man bent his head and he looked through the glass at the photographs. He cocked his head this way and that, like a bird, using one eye and then the other.

  Du Pré and Madelaine and Pidgeon leaned against the kitchen counters. Du Pré and Pidgeon were smoking.

  The young man moved to another photograph.

  He stared down through the ice, water, and glass. He moved the glass in little bits of motion.

  Pidgeon was red-eyed but calm. Her strong jaw was set.

  They waited.

  The young man kept on looking, photograph to photograph, intent and out of time.

  Pidgeon jerked her head toward the door and looked at Du Pré.

  He followed her out to the back porch, past the boots and coats waiting on another winter. Pidgeon opened the screen door and she went down the three steps to the yard and over to some chairs under a willow tree.

  She sat down and lit a cigarette. She sucked the smoke deep into her lungs and blew out a long blue stream, eyes closed.

  Du Pré took another chair and he rolled a smoke.

  “Thanks,” said Pidgeon.

  “Yah,” said Du Pré.

  “I haven’t lost it like that for a while. Not supposed to let this stuff get to you. It gets to you. Those poor women. They come to me in my dreams. I was raised by kind and loving parents. Ozzie ‘n’ Harriet kinda family, you know. I think of those poor runaway girls screaming while this bastard rapes and tortures and kills them. I hate him. I am not supposed to. Not professional.”

  “It don’t seem very professional not give a shit,” said Du Pré.

  “Harvey really likes you,” said Pidgeon. “Said you’re one of them Montana cowboys that’s more’n half-Indian. Crazy fuckers, what Harvey says, but you can trust them. He told me about … the Martins, and that guy Lucky … and how you and Bart came to be such good friends.”

  Du Pré shrugged.

  “Tell me about Benetsee,” she said.

  “Him,” said Du Pré, “he is an old man, been around here long as anybody. Good friend to my grandfather, my father, me. Old drunk, he is, sometim
es. Dreamer. Medicine Person, holy person. Funny man, though some time he make jokes on me I want to kill him.”

  “He’s Métis?”

  “Dunno,” said Du Pré. “We are all over, you know, some of us act real white, live whiteside. Some of us been doing that generations, don’t even know we are Métis anymore. Some of us live on the reservations, are more Indian. Lots of us around. Whites call us Indian. Indians call us white. Catch shit, everywhere. Been like that for three hundred years. More. Some say we were here before Columbus.”

  “How?” said Pidgeon.

  “Seapeoples,” said Du Pré. “Celts, you know, Breton French, Irish, Scots, maybe sail here, their little fishing smacks, long time. Catch the cod, dry it, take it to Portugal, sell it for bacãlao. We are the voyageurs, most of the Mountain Men, they were Métis. Got French names, Scottish names, look Indian.”

  “What’s the name of the guy with the ice water, in there?” said Agent Pidgeon.

  “He don’t got one,” said Du Pré. “I guess he had one but Benetsee say it is the wrong one. So he is. waiting for a name.”

  “I see,” said Pidgeon. “Is he an apprentice?”

  “Dunno,” said Du Pré. “That Benetsee, when I say he joke, it is true. Be like that Benetsee, hide in the bushes, watch us listen to some guy don’t know shit.”

  Pidgeon looked at him startled.

  “I am being pissy,” said Du Pré. “Benetsee not do that, this guy is maybe some relation of his, wants to learn from Benetsee. You can’t decide to be a Medicine Person. It just happens. Happen to anybody. Happens to whites, once in a while. They see things maybe.”

  “Anything that will help,” said Pidgeon, “will help.”

  Madelaine came out, carrying a little tray with three cups of coffee on it. She set it on a low-cut cottonwood stump and she took a chair that Du Pré pulled up for her.

  “Him something,” said Madelaine. “I don’t know what he is seeing, but he is seeing something.”

  “He was telling me about Benetsee,” said Pidgeon. “I wish that I could meet him.”

  “Oh.” Madelaine laughed. “He will be here sometime.”

  Du Pré pulled out the map of the West with all the marks on it where the bodies had been found, dozens and dozens.

  He unfolded it. The paper was getting beaten and soft. He carried it in his hip pocket, always. There were two more like it at Bart’s.