She bent herself forward and dropped her face into her palms. “I knew that didn’t happen when I read the articles in the newspaper about the skeleton in the Gas Hills and saw the flyers.”
“Jake found her,” Vicky said. A dead murderer, she was thinking. But someone else had also been looking for her, someone who had stayed in the truck.
“You ask me, Jake Tallfeathers couldn’t’ve found his head if it wasn’t stuck on his neck. He was stupid, stupid and drunk. You ask me, the other guy was calling the shots, giving the orders. He’s the one that would’ve figured that Liz got as far away from the rez as she could and went to a safe house in Denver. There were other AIM members that hid out in Denver.”
“Where was the house?”
Mary shook her head. “Could’ve been anywhere. I heard AIM had more than one.”
Vicky drained the mug of coffee and took another bite of the cookie. Her stomach was starting to feel queasy—the combination of hazelnut and chocolate and the image of Liz Plenty Horses clutching her baby, running for her life.
“Why didn’t you call—”
Ardyth started shaking her head, as if she were anticipating the question. “…the sheriff with this information? I don’t want to talk to the cops.” Her head was shaking in quick spasms. “I saw the flyer. It had Diana Morningstar’s number. I decided that might be safe. They killed Liz because they thought she talked to the cops. They’re still out there.”
“Where? Help me find the men who did this. Robert Running Wolf sent her to a safe house, but somebody made the decision that she should die. Who was it? Who gave the order?”
Mary scooted her thin frame to the front of the cushion and, leaning forward, got out of the chair. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I really don’t know. I’ve told you everything. You’d better go now.”
“But you might take a guess.” Vicky got to her feet. She could feel the woman backing away. It was like watching a door closing.
“They’re everywhere, the so-called AIM big shots. Maybe they took different names, got on with their lives. But they don’t want the past dragged up. They don’t want to face their crimes, what they did to people. They’ll do anything to keep it hidden.” She threw a scattered look around the room, like a wild animal looking for a way out of a trap. “I probably shouldn’t have gotten involved in this. It’s really not my business. My husband’s been dead for three years. I’m alone here, you see.”
Vicky tried for a little smile, half sympathy and half the reassurance that she wished she felt. They were everywhere, the woman had said. The leaders and the killers. And one—or maybe more? How many might there be?—had shot out her window last night and left threatening messages on Diana’s phone.
“Thank you,” she said, reaching for the woman’s hand, but Mary kept her arms folded close to her sides and crossed over her waist. Her face had gone as blank as a sheet of paper, her lips a tight line, as if she’d already regretted what she’d said and were mentally pulling it back.
Vicky stepped past the sofa and let herself into the corridor. Outside in the Jeep, she dialed Father John’s number. When he answered, she told him all of it: How she’d found Ardyth LeConte who was now Mary Hennings; how Liz had fled to Ardyth’s house; how Jake Tallfeathers and another man had come looking for her; and how she’d finally left for a safe house in Denver that one of the leaders, Robert Running Wolf, had sent her to. How Jake Tallfeathers must have found her in Denver and killed her. How Jake was probably taking orders from somebody else.
He’d taken it all in without interrupting, and she realized she’d been running on, hardly taking a breath. When she’d finished, he told her that he intended to go to the park in Riverton later and have another talk with the man called Joe. He’d let her know if Joe remembered anything else, he said, and she’d pressed the end key and tossed the cell onto the top of her bag on the passenger seat.
The drive back to Lander seemed shorter, the open spaces rolling past as everything that Mary Hennings said rolled through her mind. She let the thoughts rewind and start again. Liz had fled to a house in Denver, but where? AIM had more than one. Jake Tallfeathers and another man had come to Lander looking for Liz. But Robert Running Wolf was the one who organized things, and Liz had trusted him. Jake. Robert. Jimmie Iron. Brave Bird. They all had something in common—it looked like they were all Lakota.
Vicky kept one hand on the wheel as the Jeep plunged down the empty highway, the rear of a semi shimmering in the distance ahead, and picked up the cell. She tapped the key for Adam’s number and pressed the cool plastic against her ear. For a long moment, there was silence. He was probably in a dead space in South Dakota, or maybe she’d driven into a dead space. She felt a jolt of surprise when the buzzing started.
Two rings, then the sound of Adam’s voice floating inside the car, disembodied yet close. “Hi, there,” he said.
“Listen, Adam,” Vicky began. “I need your help.”
“I’m on my way to my uncle’s wake, Vicky,” he said. “I’ll call you later.”
“Wait, Adam,” she said, but she was speaking into a void. She glanced at the screen: Disconnected.
She pushed down on the accelerator, the wild grasses and stalks of the plains sweeping past, and drove for the back of the semi ahead.
23
KENNY LITTLE OWL was a natural, the kind of hitter every coach dreamed about, the guy in the lineup who, with one swing, could change the game. Everybody in the league knew it. Father John rubbed the ball and tried to locate the pitch’s spot, the way he used to focus when he was pitching for Boston College twenty-five years ago. Odd, the way the diamond he’d marked off behind the residence took him back to that time, the way in which, for a few moments, there was no one but him and the batter and nothing other than a little spot marked by the catcher’s mitt. He watched Kenny settle into his stance, weight back, staring intently at him and where his release might be.
The kid was like a pro. Seeing the ball come at him, he shifted his weight through his hips. Head back, hands out, he connected and drove through. The ball arced overhead toward the yard behind the residence, the kids in the field chasing under it. Kenny and the kids waiting a turn to bat were jumping up and down and shouting, all of them exchanging high fives.
What he had to do for a win over Riverton on Saturday was put Kenny in the lineup after a couple of other hitters good enough to get on base. Kenny would bat them in; he could be counted on to clear the bases. Problem was, Riverton had a hotshot pitcher with an overpowering fastball that could strike out the other hitters before Kenny got to bat, which was why, this afternoon, they’d been concentrating on using the back of the batter’s box, quick hands, and making contact. He’d been delivering some hard pitches to keep them focused on just making contact. Let’s get on base, he’d told them, and they understood. Brown faces and big grins with white teeth too big for the rest of them, the kids wanted to win and prove to the other teams they were somebody, maybe prove to themselves.
He pitched more balls until every kid had another chance to bat, wondering if baseball might save them the way it had saved him, given him something to hold on to, something outside of himself and the second-story flat over Commonwealth Avenue and the ever-present reek of whiskey that floated up from his uncle’s bar on the street level and joined the whiskey smells in the kitchen where his father spent the evenings slumped at the table, bottle at hand, the level of whiskey dropping.
By the time he and the kids had hauled the bags of equipment across Circle Drive and down the alley to the storage shed behind the administration building, a line of pickups and sedans was pulling into the mission. He waited until the parents and aunties and grandmothers had collected the kids and the line of vehicles began snaking around the drive and out toward Seventeen-Mile Road before he headed for his office.
There were no messages waiting, no urgent calls to return, no emergencies. He could hear Ian on the phone in the back office. Whoever had called while he
was at practice, Ian had handled it. A good man, he thought. The mission would be in good hands.
He grabbed his cowboy hat from the rack and retraced his steps outdoors. Ten minutes later he parked the pickup on a side street next to the Riverton park and walked across the grass toward a group of Indians clustered around a picnic table, black braids and ponytails drooping across the stooped backs of ragged shirts, blue jeans hanging around thin hips. A hot breeze rustled the branches of trees scattered about. Patches of shade hung suspended in the air. The Indians had turned halfway around and were looking at him out of rheumy, alcohol-bleared eyes. Stashed in the bushes beyond the table was an assortment of empty foam cups and brown paper bags and cardboard boxes with shirtsleeves hanging over the tops. The hum of conversation came to an abrupt halt as he approached.
“Anybody know where I can find Joe?” he said.
A collective sense of relief ran through the group almost like an electrical jolt. One of the men sank onto the bench and ran a palm across his mouth, as if the relief that the Indian priest hadn’t brought bad news for him had drained whatever energy he still had. The others were shaking their heads, except for the Indian at the end of the table. He cleared his throat—a succession of raspy, monotone notes that caused heads to swing in his direction, braids and ponytails swishing across the bony backs. He had a red, swollen nose and little red veins that popped in his cheeks, the alcoholic look, Father John thought. He felt a stab of pain for all of them. He might have had the look, he might have been in the park…
“Alley,” the Indian said, giving a half nod toward the row of stores on the other side of the street.
Father John thanked the Indian and was about to head back across the park when one of the Indians said, “Joe got trouble?”
“I just want to talk to him,” Father John said, the stab of pain still burning inside him.
He retraced his steps toward the pickup, crossed the street and started down the alley. Cardboard boxes were piled on both sides of a Dumpster next to a brick wall, and that was where he found the Indian, sleeping in the shade under a box. He could hear the sharp, intermittent snorts as if the man were trying to clear his throat and catch his breath at the same time. The smell of whiskey filled his nostrils when he reached down and shook the Indian’s shoulder. His bones felt as thin as twigs. “Joe,” he said.
On the other side of the Indian, the glass lip of a whiskey bottle poked out of a brown paper bag, the odor rising like smoke. He had to look away.
“Yeah, yeah,” Joe said. He rubbed at his eyes and pulled up his knees to get his feet under him. “I’m movin’, I’m movin’.”
“Take it easy.” He kept one hand on the man’s shoulder. “It’s Father John.”
The Indian opened his eyes wide, blinked a couple of times, and hauled himself up until his head and shoulders were level with the cardboard box. He tilted his head, bracing it against the brick wall, and held very still in the deliberate way of a man trying to bring things into focus. “What you doin’ here?” he said, the words slurred, cotton mouthed.
Father John got down on his haunches. “The girl’s name was Liz Plenty Horses.”
The Indian gave a series of blinks, as if this were some cloudy image out in the alley that he couldn’t quite make out. “Liz, the dead girl,” he said finally, reaching for the paper bag with the bottle. He took a long drink and, still gripping the bag, ran the edge of his hand over his lips. “They was mad at her.”
“Look,” Father John said, “I’ve found out that Liz went to see Ruth Yellow Bull that night after she left the meeting. She was looking for someplace to hide. Ruth didn’t let her stay, so she drove to Lander and spent the night at Ardyth LeConte’s place. She finally got ahold of Robert Running Wolf. He sent her to a safe house in Denver. Did you know any of them?”
Joe didn’t move for a moment, then he began nodding, his head knocking the brick wall. “The one lady you’re talking about, Ruth, I seen her and some other girls with some of the big shots.”
“What about Liz? Did you see her with any of the big shots?”
“Tol’ you. Only seen her that one time. She come to the meeting, scared like a deer.” He stopped for another slug of whiskey. “I’m thinkin’, you better haul your ass outta here, girl.”
“Who were they, the big shots?”
Joe was shaking his head. The paper bag crackled in his hand. “Don’t know. Didn’t wanna know ’em. They was mean, that’s what I heard. Didn’t need to be mixed up with ’em. Got enough troubles of my own back then.”
“What about Robert Running Wolf?”
Joe was still shaking his head, eyes closed against the question. “Tol’ you…”
“Think, Joe. You might have heard something about him, knew somebody who knew him. I need to find him. He might know what happened to Liz.”
“Never got mixed up with none of ’em. They left the rez, got outta here. I don’t know what happened to ’em. Maybe they’re all dead, how do I know?” The Indian tilted his head back and took a long drink. Lines of whiskey ran out the corners of his mouth and along his chin.
Father John held his breath a moment against the smell and the yearning. Then he said, “She wasn’t the one who gave up Brave Bird. A man called in an anonymous tip.”
“That’s a good one.” The Indian set an elbow on the edge of the cardboard box. He cradled the bottle in the paper bag to his chest and started to get to his feet. Father John took hold of his arm, steadying him as the box collapsed. He half lifted him up, holding on while the Indian planted his feet under him, swaying from side to side.
“What are you saying?”
“Brave Bird was one of ’em, a big shot. One of the other big shots might’ve wanted him dead. The girl got blamed.” Joe steadied himself against the wall and tipped back the bottle. The last of the whiskey trickled onto his tongue. A couple of seconds passed before he listed sideways and sited the line between the bottle and the top of the Dumpster—locating the pitch’s spot, Father John thought. He lifted his arm and threw. The bottle hit the edge of the Dumpster and crashed onto the alley, little pieces of brown glass jutting through the paper bag.
“Think, Joe,” Father John said. “Who were the other big shots?”
“Look there.” The Indian was staring at the bag and broken glass with so much sadness in his face that Father John had to glance away. “It’s all gone,” he said.
“I can get you help.”
The Indian didn’t take his eyes from the paper bag. “You got cash?”
“We can go to rehab right now. I’ll take you.”
“Five, six bucks? You got that on you?”
Father John waited a moment, giving the man a chance to change his mind. Then he dug the folded bills out of his jeans pocket and handed them to the Indian. Seven dollars. It was all he had.
“Jack,” the Indian said, pushing the bills into his shirt pocket. “Somethin’ like Jack or Jake. I heard of him. Mean sonofabitch. Got hit by a truck, I heard. Wasn’t no accident, you ask me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Heard he’d killed one of ’em…”
“Killed who?”
“Big shot back in D.C. when they was all on their big trail to get Indian rights. Heard he beat up some member in an alley and everybody thought the guy got mugged. I heard about Jake getting hit by that truck and I thought, payback time.”
“How do you know he’d killed someone?” Jimmie Iron had been mugged in an alley, Father John was thinking.
Joe shrugged. He kept his arms at his sides, palms splayed against the brick wall, balancing himself. His gaze shifted back and forth from the broken bottle. “Just gossip,” he said. “Made me start thinkin’, they wanna kill each other—all them leaders fighting over nothin’—that’s their business. I don’t want no part of it. I figured she got herself mixed up in the fightin’, so she snitched on Brave Bird. You’re tellin’ me it wasn’t her that snitched?”
Father John glanced
down the alley a moment, past the Dumpster and the pile of boxes to the long expanse of redbrick wall broken by rectangles of black doorways and the truck lumbering along the street. It was perfect, the way the pieces had started to fall into place, each one neatly fitting against the next. Jake Tallfeathers had killed Liz’s boyfriend. Then he’d set up Brave Bird to be killed and put the blame on Liz. Two rivals for whatever place he wanted in AIM eliminated, along with the girl who must have also heard that Jake was responsible for her boyfriend’s death. A girl who couldn’t be trusted.
He pulled out the small notepad and pen from his shirt pocket, scribbled the number at the mission and handed it to the Indian. “When you’re ready, call me,” he said, nodding at the paper caught between Joe’s fingers. Then he walked back down the alley, in and out of the slats of shade and sun, the Indian shouting behind him: “Hey, thanks, Father.”
The Girl with Braided Hair (A Wind River Reservation Myste) Page 22
