As the Crow Flies

by Craig Johnson

  So far, no ’71 GMC either.

  The further we went up the hill, the older the cars and trucks got, and we finally parked somewhere around 1939. It was hot, but there was a trickle of smoke whispering from the tiny cabin lodged into the hillside just like there was when I had visited the winter before last.

  That time, I had remained in Henry’s truck as he’d asked the old woman about her son, but this time I was there officially. I hoisted myself out of the Yukon and looked at the place, especially the windows, since Artie was known to be in possession of ballistic oddities like FAL .308s, MAC-10s, and even an M-50—I knew because I’d been through his closet or the dental hygienist’s at least. “Hold up.”

  Lolo Long, who was already winding her way toward the cabin, looked back and immediately placed a hand on her colossal sidearm.

  I pointed up—the smoke was actually coming more from the back—so I took the route around the corner of the house toward the hillside. Chief Long followed as I carefully picked my way around a rotting roll of mustard-yellow carpeting and the wire remnant of a bedspring. “Do you know his mother?”

  Once again, her tone was defensive. “No.”

  I studied the nearest window and could see the rags stuffed around the casing, as much for insulation against the heat as the cold. “Just for the record, I don’t expect you to know everybody on the Rez.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Now, do you mind if I do the talking?”

  She gestured an after-you-my-dear-Alphonse and brought up the rear.

  There was quite an operation going on out back, where an elderly woman was scooping preburned charcoal with a number two shovel and spreading it evenly in a pit lined with heavy stones and tinfoil. Tipped to the side was a rack made from sheep wire and rebar, which held a good-sized doe elk that had been butterflied and then stretched onto the contraption.

  She froze when she saw me but then rose and rested her chin on the back of her gnarled hands, her cataract-impaired eyes staying right with mine.

  “Mrs. Small Song?”

  She didn’t answer, but the milky eyes clicked to my right like the buttons on a rattlesnake’s tail as she took in Chief Long’s uniform.

  I walked closer and pointed toward the complicated arrangement. “Open-pit elk cooking; I haven’t seen that in quite a while. My mother used to do it.” I extended a hand. “My name is—”

  “I know your name, lawman.” She turned her head and shot a prodigious stream of tobacco onto one of the forty-pound rocks, where it sizzled. The old woman then glanced past as Long joined me, but then her eyes clicked back the way they had before. “Looking for my son?”

  I conceded the fact. “Say, does he still have that ’71 GMC?”

  She kept her gaze on me, and I was just as glad the cataracts were there to guard me against what was most certainly the evil eye. “You wanna buy a truck, lawman?”

  I smiled. “Never can tell.”

  She took her time before answering and poked at the coals with the wood-handled shovel, its point worn down so that it looked indented. “Got plenty out front.”

  “I need one that runs.” I looked through the window as if Artie might be inside. “Is he around?”

  “No.”

  I nodded and kneeled down by the rocks to stick a finger into her gallon water jug of marinade, pausing to look up at her. “May I?” She nodded with a curt jutting of her chin. It tasted pretty wonderful. “Pineapple?”

  “Commodity juice; all they had this month.”

  I ran my tongue around my mouth as I looked at the door, propped open with a kitchen chair, and the windows, which were curtained with all different calicos. I looked back at the elk’s body, where I could see where the death shot had pierced one side and then continued on through the other, taking a lot of meat with it. I went ahead talking about the marinade. “Sage, garlic…”

  She interrupted, impatient with my novice tongue. “Cider vinegar and beer—lots of beer.”

  I stood and looked down at all four-foot-ten of her, wrapped in a shawl and dressed in a full-length, layered skirt despite the 90-degree weather and the fire. She looked as if she should’ve been beside a sheep wagon telling fortunes and finding pentagrams in people’s hands. “Maybe that’s why I like it.”

  She cocked her head, regarding me. “You are the lawman from the Ahsanta mountains.”

  “I am.”

  “They say you’re a good man, Ahsanta.” She shifted her weight. “You know I had three sons?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “One was killed in the Vietnam. My second son, the one you hunt, never showed no interest in the white man’s army—he’s the smart one. My grandson, Nate, the one that works at the talking box, the boy of my son up in Deer Lodge.”

  I smiled. “The radio station?”

  “Yes. He was going to fight in this war they have now; I don’t know which one.” She shifted the handle in her hands and rested it beside her face. “I told him no, that he couldn’t join the white man’s army, that they would only get him killed.” She studied me. “You in the white man’s army, Ahsanta?”

  “I was.”

  She nodded, mostly to herself. “Only the white man survives the white man’s army.”

  I glanced at Lolo. “Chief Long here was in the white man’s army.”

  “Se-senovoto ema’etao’o.”

  I saw Long stiffen, but she said nothing, and it was possible she was learning.

  “Why you hunt my boy?”

  I figured I’d just level with her. “Last night, he tried to run me over with his truck.”

  She stared at me through the clouds in her eyes, then her jaw dropped and she began breathing a convulsive laugh that pulsed her tiny back like a bicycle pump. “Maybe he doesn’t like you, Ahsanta.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe, but I’ve never really met him, so I can’t imagine what it is he’s got against me.”

  “He doesn’t like the ones make him sleep inside.” She continued to study me, but she was making up her mind about something. Finally, she spoke. “Was here last night.”

  “Your son?”

  “Who we talking about?”

  She had a point. “What time?”

  “Night time.”

  “Could you be a little more specific?”

  She adjusted something in her mouth, and I thought she was going to spit again, but instead, she swallowed. “Don’t own a clock.”

  I slipped a hand over my mouth to pull down the corners and keep myself from smiling. “Did he stay the night?”

  “Nope, can’t sleep inside no more. Told you—you people did that to him.”

  I glanced back at the holes in the deer and could see where someone had slit the butts and shoulders and removed the membrane from the rib cage. It was a professional job—Artie most certainly had been there last night. “Mrs. Small Song, I’m not here to arrest your son for anything; I’d just like to talk to him.”

  She motioned with the shovel handle, rocking it toward Chief Long. “What does Se-senovoto ema’etao’o want?”

  I glanced over my shoulder as if I’d just remembered the young woman who was peering into the scrub pine and juniper bushes on the ridge above us. “She just wants to talk to Artie, too.”

  She nodded her head but continued watching the coals, glowing red around the edges, and it was impossible to tell what she might’ve been thinking. For a moment, I thought she’d forgotten we were still there, but then she spat on the rocks again. “I tell him you was here, whenever he come back.”

  “We’d appreciate that, Mrs. Small Song.” I turned and started toward the corner of the house with Lolo in tow.

  We were halfway down the path when she grabbed my arm and tried to yank me around. I kept walking, but when we got to the level, she stepped in front of me. “That’s it?”

  “Keep your voice down and get in the truck.”

  She looked a little startled and then followed me to the Yukon, where we opened the doors a
nd slid in. “He’s there?”

  “I don’t know, and that’s the part I don’t like.” I gestured toward the ignition switch. “He’s been there, and he’s going to be there again, and I’m thinking it would be nice if we weren’t quite so conspicuous on the next visit.”

  “Okay, Great-White-Detective, so how did you know he had been there?”

  “Well, the elk, for one—that old woman didn’t break up that five-hundred-pound animal and rack it herself; besides, I pride myself on knowing what an M-50 can do to living tissue.”

  “The very-out-of-season elk?”

  “Yep, so all we have to do is wait for the prodigal and well-armed son to return.”

  She started the SUV and pulled it into gear. “What are we going to do, go sit up on a hill and wait till he decides to come back?”

  I pulled my pocket watch from my jeans and looked at the dial. “That elk should be done in about seven hours.” I tossed a forefinger down the red dirt road. “Let’s go talk to Herbert His Good Horse, and we’ll wander back around here come dark.” I put on my seat belt. “So, what does Se-senovoto ema’etao’o mean?”

  She roared the Yukon down the hill. “Red snake.”

  The tribal office buildings are a sprawling compound of warrens representing the different factions of tribal government, and there were a lot of them. The original building had burned down in the sixties and then again in the eighties. I remembered the controversy when it had been announced just what the new building was going to cost. Now it was just a question of when it was going to burn down again.

  Long parked next to the concrete steps, and we climbed up and then through the double glass doors. Human Services was immediately to the right, but Chief Long continued walking down the polished surface of the hallway toward the center of the building.

  I stood there for a second, looking at the sign above the vestibule that read HUMAN SERVICES, and then shrugged and followed after her.

  I noticed a young Cheyenne, tall and lean in a black T-shirt, who was seated at a metal desk across from a stairwell at the midpoint of the building. He looked to be around seventeen and stood as we approached. “Hey, Chief.”

  She ignored him and signed the register, then handed the pen, attached to the desk with a piece of cotton twine, to me. “Sign in.”

  The young man stood, and I thought he looked slightly familiar. His voice was overly obsequious. “Can I help you, Chief?”

  Without looking at him, she spoke in a low voice. “What is your desk doing in the middle of the hallway instead of down by the entrance?”

  He gave me a look of animated incredulity and then glanced down both directions of the main hall. “You know, Chief, I did a reconnoiter and discovered that there are eight entrances to the building. I thought maybe I’d split the difference.” He glanced at me again, and his eyes were playful. “It also gives me a clear view of the girls in accounting, right across from here.”

  Without answering him, she turned and started back down the hall.

  He looked at the sign-in book and then at me. I stood there with the pen, glanced down the hall at Lolo Long, and then back to the young man with the smiling, jasper eyes.

  “Hey, Sheriff. Nice to meet you.”

  I nodded and started after her, coming to a complete stop only two strides away.

  There was a glass case like the kind that usually holds photographs and trophies in high schools. There on the third shelf was an 8×10 photograph of Lolo Long in her battle fatigues, steely-eyed, disciplined, and without the scar. There was also a photo of Clarence Last Bull being awarded the armed forces prize for his culinary skills, and a large silver trophy. It was almost as if it was a program for the current investigation.

  My eyes came back to Lolo Long.

  The young man joined me at the wall case and pointed at a toy vehicle complete with little machine guns alongside a very real Bronze Star Medal with Valor. “They gave her that one for hauling all the bodies out of the Humvee—even the dead ones.” He shot a look down the hall to make sure the coast was clear. “When she got home she was so loaded up with antidepressant, antianxiety, and antipanic medicine that everybody started calling her ‘Anti.’ Have you driven with her?”

  “Yep.”

  “Jesus, wear your seat belt and a helmet if you’ve got one.” He leaned in. “I swear to God she still thinks she’s in Iraq and that there are bombs and RPGs all along the roads. That’s why she drives so fast, trying to outrun ’em.”

  “Are you coming?” We both glanced up to find the top half of the chief hanging out from the vestibule. “Or have the girls in accounting caught your attention, too, Sheriff?”

  He yelled down the hall to her. “Hey, can I have a gun?”

  She yelled back, “No,” and then disappeared.

  “You’ve got one, and so does he!” He stuck out his hand. “Barrett Long.”

  I shook it. “Little brother?”

  “Yeah.”

  Human Services was a three-office complex with a communal area and a reception desk that barred the way to the inner sanctum, along with the sign in bold print that Lolo had mentioned. When I got there, Chief Long was staring at the photographs on the desk, from the kind of photo packages taken at discount stores. There was one of Audrey holding Adrian, another of Clarence with a chef’s hat and white coat holding a casserole. There were a few more of Ado, smiling at the camera in confusion, and a piece of paper with tiny multicolored handprints.

  “You guys know why the chicken crossed the road?”

  We turned, and there was KRZZ’s morning drive man, still wearing his top hat with the feather, and beside him in a wheelchair a younger man with two of the most powerful looking arms I’d ever seen. “For the indigenous Indian—because it is the chicken’s inherent right.”

  “Herb?”

  “For the old Indian—the chicken was escaping from residential school.”

  “Herb.”

  “Rez Indian—what’s a chicken?”

  She gave up and just stood there.

  “BIA Indian—the chicken crossed the road because CFR 133, section 242, gives them the authority to do so under Department of the Interior regulations; they wrote a grant and we funded it. We are very proud of that chicken.”

  The young man in the wheelchair turned and looked at us. “You’ll have to excuse my uncle—he’s retarded.”

  Herbert glanced down at his nephew and smiled. “That’s not politically correct.” He turned back to us with a sigh. “Sorry, I was attempting to lighten the mood. I guess it’s official, then.” He looked at us. “We heard that Audrey met with an accident.”

  Lolo gestured toward me. “This is Sheriff Longmire; he’s helping me with the investigation.”

  “We’ve met.” He gestured toward the young man with no legs. “The one who doesn’t think I’m funny is my nephew, Karl Red Fox.”

  I extended a hand and thought for a moment that he was going to pinch it off. “Hi’ya.”

  Herbert looked back at Lolo. “Investigation?”

  I nodded and noticed a few more people in the adjoining offices, including Loraine Two Two, quickly dodging back into their own rooms. I threw a hand toward Herbert’s doorway. “We’d like to have a few words with you if we could?”

  “Sure.”

  He glanced at Karl, who nodded. “I’ll roll out and talk with Barrett about the girls in accounting.” He popped a wheelie and rode it into the hallway.

  Herbert led us inside, carefully closing the door of the windowless room behind him. We chose a few straight chairs, and he rounded his desk. His face and his expression were flat with the exhaustion that goes along with public service, but there was also a deep-seated concern. It was an expression I saw in the mirror every morning. “So, it wasn’t an accident.”

  “We’re thinking not.”

  He sat and shared his sadness with us. “So, how can I help you?”

  I waited as Lolo asked the inevitable. “We were wondering if
you knew of anybody who might wish Audrey ill or might want to do her harm.”

  “You mean to the point of…?”

  He seemed dismissive of the idea, so I softened the angle of the conversation. “We’re not absolutely sure that that’s the case, but we’re going to follow up on all the possibilities.”

  I glanced at the framed photos Herbert had on his desk—there was one of Audrey, one of the Two Two mother and daughter, and of course, one of Karl—I was beginning to get worried that the entire tribal government was related. There was also a poster of Karl in the wheelchair with his arms raised in triumph as he crossed a finish line with a ribbon stretched across his chest.

  I nodded toward the poster. “Where was that taken?”

  He smiled as he took a cigar from his shirt pocket along with the clipper and lighter. “At the Oita International Wheelchair Marathon in Japan.” He turned to look at us. “Lolo knows, but he lost his legs in a car crash; he was drinking. We’ve got a problem in the family. You really think somebody killed Audrey?”

  Lolo answered. “Can you think of anybody?”

  He shook his head and then clipped the end of his cigar, gesturing toward us. “Would either of you care for one? It’s the only vice I allow myself anymore.”

  We looked at each other and then back to him. “No, thanks.”

  He leaned forward and lit the cigar with the cut-down Zippo I’d noticed yesterday, then switched on a fan mounted in the wall above his head. “No windows, but I’ve got my own exhaust fan, so nobody complains.” He studied me. “You were in Nam?”

  I nodded. “Yep.”

  He turned to Lolo. “Hey, Chief, how many Vietnam vets does it take to screw in a lightbulb?”

  She stared at him. “I don’t know.”

  He pointed his cigar at her in an agitated fashion. “That’s right, because you weren’t there, man!”

  We shared a smile as he slumped back in his chair and tossed the lighter onto the desk toward me. “Got that from a friend who was in Saigon in ’67.”

  I picked up the tarnished, encrusted lighter. Across the front was SAIGON, 67–68, 101ST AIRBORNE, and on the back, WHEN THE POWER OF LOVE OVERCOMES THE LOVE OF POWER, THE WORLD SHALL KNOW PEACE.