HYBRID: A Thriller

by James Marshall Smith

  After the Judge had reminded her, she did recall the hubbub when a reporter for Helena’s Independent Record portrayed the Loudermilks as some kind of religious cult. That’s the family’s own business, the Judge said at the time, and the newspaper deserved to be sued.

  “Now, you pay no never mind to those posted signs, my dear,” Katherine Belle had said on the phone. “Joseph Vincent put them up just to keep busybodies away. I’ll have the gate unlocked for you.”

  The only problem Molly faced at that moment was she’d forgotten whether Katherine Belle mentioned the morning or the afternoon. She was going to have to start taking notes whenever she made plans. Must be age, she thought, as she gripped the top of the fence and threw her rear end up on the rail to rest.

  Buzzing grasshoppers soared among the tall weeds and overhead a red-tailed hawk circled against the clouds, searching for a meal. Maybe Katherine Belle meant for her to come in the afternoon. Or maybe she forgot to unlock the gate. Plenty of possibilities loomed. Maybe it was best just to walk up to the house and knock.

  Brakes from a vehicle squealed behind her. A postman stuffed what looked like a catalog into the mailbox.

  “Is this gate always chained?” she called out.

  “I’ve never seen it open, lady,” he replied before pulling away.

  Katherine Belle wouldn’t know what time she might arrive and probably wouldn’t want to keep the gate open all day. Molly hopped down onto the private property. Under a glaring noonday sun and with her underarms feeling clammy like molasses, she ambled down the graveled road toward a distant farmhouse. More doubt seeped in as she walked, an uneasy feeling, one of sneaking up on the family. She might be pushing the situation a little too far. No damned doubt what the Judge would say if he was there.

  A gabled roof rose above the trees. She stopped, uncertain what to do next. Twisting her head about, she spotted the pillars of the front porch. She meandered toward it and waved her arm high, hoping to see the door open and someone wave back.

  A muffled noise arose from a clump of trees on the other side of the road. She turned to her left to locate the source. There was no sign of life from the house and a strange noise had erupted from among the trees. What else did she need to tell her that she wasn’t supposed to be there? It was time to turn back. She had to keep her wits about her, had to use her better judgment at times like this.

  Her old cousin curiosity shoved her into moving closer toward the source of the noise. She moved off the gravel and into the field grass so that her steps would be softer. A small shed appeared among the trees. The sound became more distinct.

  An animal in distress?

  She stopped to listen. Someone was weeping. She moseyed toward the weathered structure when there came the voices of a woman whimpering and a man grunting with labored breathing. Every few seconds there was the sound of a . . . whip? Something thrashing against a wall?

  Creeping closer, she sneaked up to the shed and stooped to squeeze between two scrub bushes, wiggling into a twisted position to press her ear against the wooden siding.

  A woman was humming a lullaby beneath the slashing sound of a whip, delivered in a haunting rhythm. The crack of a whip, the muffled cry of a girl, the grunt of a man, a woman chanting a lullaby.

  What in the name of . . . ?

  She cautiously rose up to the window. Through a thin layer of dirt and haze, a girl stripped of every stitch of clothing was bent over, clutching the back of a wooden chair. Her frail legs were spread-eagled, and her head and hair sagged down between her arms.

  Straddling her from behind, with his coveralls and underwear dropped down to his ankles, was a tall man with a straw hat. He was shoving his member into the girl with a throbbing cadence, his eyes closed and his head tossed back in a trance, groaning with clenched teeth and saliva dribbling from a corner of his lips.

  None other than Joseph Vincent Loudermilk grappled with one hand under the naked girl’s belly, jerking her into his crotch as he pumped. In the other hand he brandished a willow branch that he used to strike the girl across her cream white back, now covered with welts and crimson streaks of blood that trickled down her rib cage. The girl cried out only meekly, sobbing between thrashes.

  Katherine Belle sat on a chair beside her, humming a sweet lullaby that Molly vaguely remembered from her youth. A shallow ceramic bowl of rust-colored water rested in Katherine Belle’s lap. She rubbed a coarse sponge over the young girl’s back to soak up blood between pauses in the whacking of the willow branch.

  The repulsive contradiction of humming and grunting and weeping and whacking were more than Molly could bear. She turned from the window and braced herself against the shed. Sliding down the side of it, she ignored the rotting planks scraping against her neck and the sting of a splinter embedded in the back of her scalp. Not until she looked up did she see the barrel of a shotgun aimed at her face.

  Trying hard to make out the person behind the weapon, Molly shifted her head and squinted through the shrubbery. Whoever it was had every right to shoot an intruder.

  “What you doing here, lady?” an angry voice shouted.

  The shotgun that reached out for Molly’s face didn’t budge. Neither did Molly. She crouched, staring into the rays of sun reflecting off the steel barrel and desperately wanting to rub the back of her head where the splinter had lodged.

  “Hey, lady! I’m talkin’ to you.”

  Molly recognized one of Katherine Belle’s daughters from the encounter in the general store. “I . . . I had an appointment with your mother.”

  “My mother?”

  “With Katherine Belle. I assumed—”

  “She don’t make appointments, and she ain’t my mother.”

  Molly dropped her hands and placed them on the ground, carefully pushing her weight upward. The long barrel of the shotgun tracked her like a coiled rattler. She rolled up onto her knees. “I was confused. I—”

  “Why, Miss Schoonover! I didn’t expect you this early.” Carrying a towel and drying her hands, Katherine Belle rounded the corner. “Now put that gun away, Marilee!”

  “Sorry, ma’am,” Marilee said, her voice trailing off. She gingerly lowered the weapon to her side.

  Katherine Belle turned to Molly. “Please come with me to the house.” We can look at a fine batch of fabric samples I’ve collected for you. I was planning to spend some time with you this afternoon.”

  Molly wrapped her arms around her chest. “I apologize for coming over early. It was rude of me. I’ll just go back home now.”

  Katherine Belle reached out to take her by the arm. “Don’t be silly.”

  Molly recoiled. “No!”

  Her shout startled the women.

  “I should be going,” Molly said.

  Peering from around the corner, Joseph Vincent Loudermilk leaned against the shed. “I’d advise you, Miss, to pay closer mind to trespassing signs.” He straightened up and walked toward Marilee, grabbed the shotgun and nestled it across his midriff.

  Molly backed away without taking her eyes off the weapon.

  “Be careful!” Katherine Belle yelled.

  Molly tripped over a tree branch and fell hard to the ground. Unnerved, she jumped up and turned, then jogged down the graveled driveway without looking back.

  NINETEEN

  Dieter palmed a cold beer while he chatted about the miserably hot weather. He stood on the deck of the sprawling lake home as Mr. Little Bear prepared a barbeque of pork and glazed duck on the grill. Each side of the log home offered a grand view of either the water or the forest.

  Amy often spoke of her Dad and family, who moved off the Blackfeet Reservation from upstate not long after she was born. Her dad was a guide and outfitter in the wilderness surrounding the lake, a lucrative job. An increasing number of outdoor sportsmen were coming to Montana from around the world to fish for wild trout or hunt for trophy elk, bear, bighorn sheep, and deer.

  Mr. Little Bear’s bronzed face had features chisel
ed by the harsh Montana seasons. While he tended the grill, a single-engine prop flew out over the lake and gave him reason to talk about the Cessna he proudly owned. Dieter was surprised when he mentioned Amy’s talent as a pilot. She not only had a license to fly—Mr. Little Bear had given her lessons at age fifteen—even before she had a learner’s permit for driving.

  “So, it was you who found the body down on the Madison?” Mr. Little Bear casually asked.

  Dieter walked to the corner of the deck to toss his empty bottle into the trash. Had Amy gotten to her dad so damned quickly? After promising him she’d keep it to herself? “You heard about it?”

  “It’s a small town. Entertainment is limited,” Little Bear said. He brushed more sauce onto the meat. “Lots of crazies out in the wilderness. I can tell you that from my years of guiding. But I don’t worry about those things too much whenever I’m out there.” He leaned down and tugged on a trouser leg above his boot, revealing a pearl-handled pistol no bigger than a pack of cigarettes.

  A steady afternoon breeze triggered a light chop on the lake’s surface. Dieter’s glance followed Michael and Megan as they scampered down to the edge of the water with Amy. The tails of her blouse dangled outside her jeans and her long sleeves rose above her elbows. She radiated youth and vitality. It was the first time he saw his kids laughing together since he and Fran played with them in their Bucks County backyard.

  When he noticed Dieter’s stare, Little Bear asked, “You know that Amy won’t be with you much longer, don’t you?”

  “Our agreement was until the kids got settled in school,” Dieter replied.

  “Her heart is set on California. The Pacific coast has always enticed her, for some reason I can’t figure out. That’s where she’s headed.” He paused to turn the meat over with his spatula. “Unless of course she ends up marrying.”

  Dieter had to scramble. “She hasn’t told me much about her interests.”

  “You have to give her a chance to talk. Lead into it gradually. Like her mother, she doesn’t do much talking about herself. Prefers to listen and learn. She’s a teacher when you come right down to it. Loves kids.” His eyes beamed as he spoke. “I’ve tried to talk her into returning upstate to Browning where our people are. Living on land provided so . . . generously. The reservation needs teachers as skilled as she is.”

  Michael and Megan ran up the steps of the deck. Rusty followed on their heels and Amy tagged behind.

  “I had a great time yesterday,” Megan announced, trying to catch her breath as she spoke. “We gotta ride a lot. I got to gallop once!”

  “Gallop?” Dieter asked, surprised.

  “Now, I don’t think you were galloping on Belzer,” Mr. Little Bear said.

  “Daddy, did you know that Indians can ride horses without a saddle?”

  “I suppose Amy showed you how that’s done?”

  “Amy’s not a real Indian, you know. But her daddy is!” She shoved a peppermint into her mouth and then spoke out of the side of her teeth. “I think her mom is, too.” She ran down the steps and back into the yard, chasing Rusty.

  Dieter grinned and turned to Mr. Little Bear. “That’s a beautiful herd of horses you’ve collected out back.”

  “We love those animals. The Blackfeet early on took up horses as a way of life. It all began the day the Shoshone surprised them by riding on horseback into battle. Shooting as they rode!”

  “I remember a few movies along those lines,” Dieter quipped.

  “Ahhh, those were the days,” he said with a smile. “Everyone feared the Blackfeet—the Shoshone, the Sioux, the Nez Perce.”

  “I would guess that the government eventually put a stop to all of the rivalries?”

  “Luckily, they didn’t take away our horses, but they did put an end to our culture. Our real problems started with the Baker massacre on Two Medicine River. The government’s never even acknowledged that happened, if you can believe that.”

  Dieter quickly sensed an extended story coming on, one that could wait for another time but one he felt he’d better learn about. He switched the subject to the powwow taking place on the outskirts of town. Thanks to Amy, both kids had been looking forward to it for days.

  ***

  While Dieter strolled that evening amid the hubbub of the powwow he picked up the sweet scent of fry bread. The thumping of drums intensified above a background of singing that seemed like a chant. The annual powwow brought in Indians from the nations and tribes in the tri-state region. Everywhere signs of the original inhabitants of the land popped up—teepees painted with images of bison, bear, wolf, deer, lightning bolts, and symbols depicting the circle of life and death.

  Amy placed an arm on Michael’s shoulder. “Listen carefully to the rhythm of the drum. That beating comes from the heart of the people. It has magical powers.”

  Michael’s eyes opened wide with the thrill of youth encountering the bizarre. When they reached the drummers sitting in a tight circle, other Indians in full regalia were dancing about as they pounded the earth and spun about in their beaded buckskin moccasins, singing as if in a trance. Bustles and breastplates flashed in the sunlight, each dancing warrior wearing a headdress of feathers that distinguished him apart from the others.

  Amy led the way as they weaved through the crowd. Vendors were scattered about selling buckskin jackets with a rainbow of loom beadwork or funnel cakes sprinkled with powdered sugar. Michael’s eyes flitted among the curious sites, then stopped and pointed. “Dad, look!” A group of Boy Scouts surrounded one of the long tables. Michael tugged on Dieter’s hand and pulled him toward it.

  Boys and adults stood chatting in khaki uniforms. Golden scarves decorated their necks and shoulders and patches and badges adorned their chests. The babbling paused as their collective eyes caught sight of Amy.

  Dieter recognized the scoutmaster from Colter. In his fifties, Leonard Farmington sported a salt and pepper beard on a round plump face. “Hello there, Michael!” Farmington cheered. “Fancy running into you all the way out here. Will we see you next Monday at our troop meeting?” He shot a big grin toward Dieter and Amy.

  “Yes, sir,” Michael replied.

  “And you haven’t forgotten about the tri-state Camporee next weekend, have you? It’s in Yellowstone, you know.”

  Michael glanced up at his dad.

  “We have more information packets,” Farmington said. “They’re here on the table if you need one.” He reached over and grabbed a large manila envelope, then turned around and handed it to Amy as he looked at Michael. “Here’s some info for your mother.”

  “Oh, no, I’m not his mother, Mr. Farmington. Just his nanny.”

  “Sorry, my mistake, Miss.”

  “Will there be archery and hiking?” Michael asked.

  “You bet. We’re having an overnight hike and a canoeing adventure, too. Permission slips for both are in the packet. Your timing was perfect in moving to Colter, young man!”

  No doubt that was coming, but Dieter knew better than to allow a boy of ten to go canoeing on high country lakes or hiking the wilderness no matter how well chaperoned. When they left the booth, he bent down to Michael. “You’ll have to wait at least until next year before taking part in big events like those.”

  Michael’s head immediately drooped.

  “You know, Dad,” Amy tossed in, “there’ll be boys around Michael’s age attending. The Yellowstone Camporee every year is a rite of passage for all the boys in Colter.”

  Thanks a lot, Dieter thought. Once again Amy had butted in where she should’ve stayed away. He understood what she was saying. He also wanted his son to meet other boys and learn about the outdoors. He was a boy once, for God’s sake. There would be plenty of opportunities for all of that when Michael started school on Monday and attended his first Scout meeting after school. He’d meet boys his own age with a slew of interests.

  Fran had wanted Michael to go to science camp that summer. She’d already put down a deposit to hold
a place for him at Cold Springs Harbor. They couldn’t afford it, but Fran thought it a terrific investment for the boy’s future. She hauled around both kids to movies, children’s concerts, museums; Megan to ballet and tap-dance lessons; Michael to karate and gymnastic classes. On the other hand, what Dieter wanted for his children wasn’t found indoors but in the open air, the fields and mountains and streams. What he wanted for them surrounded him outside the walls of the school at the moment. That was the main reason for the decision to move to Big Sky country. But he wasn’t about to have his kids dive head-on into the vast opportunities available. At least not yet.

  Doing his best to smile, Dieter looked down at his son. “Let’s get this straight now, Michael. Overnight hiking and canoeing will have to wait until you’re a little older. But of course you can go to the Camporee.” The thought popped out in words before Dieter had a chance to weigh them, the words saying one thing, his gut screaming another.

  TWENTY

  The following morning Dieter parked his pickup at the curb in front of Campanula Creek Elementary, twenty minutes before school was scheduled to start. When he strolled with Michael and Megan up the concrete steps to the entrance, he glanced over his shoulder. A patrol car had pulled in behind his truck. A lone lawman sat behind the wheel with his engine off. It was good to know that the guy was there to keep a watchful eye, especially the first day. After entering, they began the long walk down the hallway lined with army-green lockers on either side. Dieter felt inadequate and out of place. Fran had always taken Michael to school on the first day.

  The principal made her way through the shuffling throng of kids and greeted them with an obligatory smile but displayed an extra dose of warmth on learning they hailed all the way from Pennsylvania. By Michael’s request, Dieter didn’t follow him to his class. It was humiliation enough to be seen in the hallway with Dad and little sister. Fran had often confided in him her fears that shy Michael might be bullied by older boys.