by Peter Bowen
Madelaine shrugged and she picked up one of the little air rifles and she aimed it at a target swinging on a stand. She pulled the trigger and the pellet rang on the target. The center red circle fell out of the thing and on to a bell.
“Top shelf,” said the young man. “Anything you want.”
Madelaine regarded the large stuffed bunnies and monkeys and bears.
“That one,” she said, pointing to a big brown rabbit.
She handed her prize to Du Pré.
“Look good on you,” she said, standing back.
Du Pré looked at the big rabbit.
“I put it in the car,” he said.
I am not, me, walking around this thing.
“I look around,” said Madelaine.
Du Pré heard a mob of happy little voices coming.
“They are here,” he said, looking toward the front door.
Jacqueline’s herd of children burst out of the sunlight, laughing and shoving each other. Raymond and Jacqueline came along behind, each carrying a toddler who was too slow to keep up.
Du Pré put the rabbit up to his face, and he walked past the kids who were looking around in wonder. He went to the cruiser and opened the back door and put the huge rabbit on top of the cooler. He fished his flask from under the seat and he had some whiskey and rolled a smoke. He lit it and shut the car door.
“Mr. Du Pré?” said a woman’s voice, behind him.
Du Pré turned around.
It was the young woman who had brought the poster to the saloon a few days before.
“If you aren’t busy,” she said, “someone would like to meet you and speak to you for a moment.”
Du Pré nodded.
The woman turned and walked away, and Du Pré followed. She came to a door in the end of one of the prefab houses and opened it. Du Pré dropped his cigarette on the ground and snuffed it with his bootheel. He went in and the woman followed him, shutting the door.
There were two men in the room, both dressed in Host costume. One was the blond man Du Pré had seen here the night the ranch buildings burned.
The other man had brown hair. It was hard to make out his face, because he had a wide white bandage crossing the bridge of his nose and his eyes were bruised.
“Hello again,” said the bandaged man.
“You haven’t met Roger,” said the blond man, “at least not to shake hands. I am Tate.”
Du Pré nodded.
“We were told that the wild horses were pests and we could shoot them without anyone caring,” said Roger. “Since we are fencing off their pasture and water, and they would then have to leave, where another rancher would shoot them, and, by the bye, be angry with us for sending vermin his way, we thought to kill them. You object.”
Du Pré nodded.
Roger looked at Tate.
“This is our land,” said Tate, “and we will obey the laws. But we can hardly leave that end of the ranch unfenced. Buffalo aren’t cattle.”
Du Pré looked at Roger.
“Fence it off,” he said. “That is fair. Them horses, been there a long time. There are grullas in that bunch.”
Tate and Roger looked at him.
“Old horses,” said Du Pré. “Maybe close to what the wild horses were, people caught, thousands of years ago.”
“Very well,” said Tate.
“People hunt them for pet food,” said Roger.
Du Pré shook his head.
“Not here,” he said.
Roger stood up. He put out his hand.
“Apologies,” he said.
“Things rightly solved?” said a rich deep voice behind Du Pré.
Du Pré turned.
A man stood there, in a long white robe. The rope around his waist was white. There was a crucifix and beads on the rope, all white. He had a single ring on the middle finger of his right hand, a white stone in a white setting.
“I am the White Priest,” said the man.
Du Pré nodded.
“We assumed when we came here that we would offend,” said the White Priest. “We are odd, and keep to ourselves. We do that because we are all at risk, Mr. Du Pré, for all of us, myself included, had other lives which nearly killed us. Drugs, booze, whatever. So we stay close to one another. Now we have come to a remote place. We wish to live in peace and harmony with our neighbors. We will not proselytize. We will not attempt to take over the school board, or the County Commission. But however well-intentioned we may be, we will offend. Could we perhaps hire you as a consultant? We would pay any reasonable fee.”
Du Pré looked at the three men.
“Who said, shoot the horses?” he said.
“I did,” said Tate. “We have the damned brumbies in Nevada, and they are a pain in the ass. I am a ranch kid, Mr. Du Pré. Different country but pretty much the same.”
“You don’t got to pay me,” said Du Pré, “and it don’t matter, you call me, someone else. Call somebody. You are fencing your land off, no problem, you are not in a place it is wrong to do that. There are some. Fence off them badlands, OK, them horses go round the Wolfs, the Trapper Springs. They do that anyway.”
“My apologies,” said Tate.
“Your nose there, I am sorry,” said Du Pré, looking at Roger.
Roger shrugged.
“I ain’t that pretty to begin with,” he said.
“Great,” said the White Priest. “Now, I suppose that everyone thinks we killed the seven former members who were shot, at precisely eight P.M. on the same day. We did not. The FBI is welcome to look at all of our records, interview whomever they wish.”
Du Pré nodded.
“Anyone may leave here any time they wish to,” said the White Priest. “It would hardly work if we had to chain people, now would it? We are a collective. But one takes no oath when they join, and suffers no consequences when leaving. I am telling you the simple truth, Mr. Du Pré.”
Du Pré nodded.
“I go, my family,” he said. He turned and went past the White Priest and out the door into the sunlight.
The huge carcasses were turning on spits over low fires and a pair of cooks were slathering on barbecue sauce with brooms.
It smelled very good.
CHAPTER 15
THE BAND DID A fair imitation of Irish folk music. Guitar, fiddle, hand drum, flute, and close harmonies. The musicians were young and fresh-faced and earnest.
“Them, want to be liked,” said Madelaine. She put another piece of barbecued buffalo in her mouth and chewed.
Du Pré grunted.
“Working at it very hard,” said Madelaine. “You see, that woman there with the cold drinks?”
Du Pré looked toward where Madelaine had nodded. The woman was dressed in the long gray dress and bonnet and plain wire-rim glasses that were the uniform of Host women.
“Yah,” said Du Pré.
“She limp a little. She is the one maybe the skunk bit, Benetsee’s?”
Du Pré looked at her. She didn’t look familiar, but then she had been against the light of the sun if it was the woman that the skunk had bitten that day at the old man’s cabin.
“Maybe,” said Du Pré. “I don’t see her so good.”
Some Host children ran past, dressed in miniature outfits that echoed the grownups’. They were laughing and chaffing like any other kids.
“You are thinking, Du Pré,” said Madelaine, “that is a good thing but maybe you don’t think in one place too long, eh?”
Du Pré laughed.
“Yah,” he said.
“If this is fake,” said Madelaine, “there will be something don’t fit. Lies got to be made up and the truth just happens.”
Du Pré laughed. They walked outside and looked at the Wolf Mountains to the west. They had clouds hanging right over the highest peaks.
“Early for the circle rains,” said Madelaine.
“Yah,” said Du Pré.
Clouds formed above the peaks by day as the sun evaporated moistu
re, and then at night the clouds fell as dew. In the early morning the sky would be clear, and then clouds would build and gather as the day went on. It meant there was no wind. No rain coming, either.
A tan government sedan pulled into the lot where the cars and vans and pickup trucks of the guests were parked.
A man and a woman in gray suits got out. They looked round for a moment, and then Tate came out of the building where Du Pré had spoken with him, the man with the broken nose, and the White Priest. Tate trotted up to the two agents and led them back to the building and through the door Du Pré had gone in a couple of hours before.
“That Ripper and Pidgeon they are undercover,” said Madelaine. “Them two look like bugs on a bedsheet.”
Du Pré laughed.
“This White Priest,” said Du Pré, “him say they don’t want no trouble, they don’t got anything to do with the murders.”
“You believe him?” said Madelaine.
“No,” said Du Pré, “don’t not believe him, either. They say they will call me, they are going to do something.”
“Like shoot the horses?” said Madelaine.
Du Pré nodded.
“They know a lot,” said Madelaine, “’bout raising buffalo, which is not like cattle. Where they find that all out?”
“Books,” said Du Pré.
Madelaine laughed.
“Dessert,” she said. “Me, I want some.”
They went back in the big metal barn and found a booth that served ice cream. Madelaine had two scoops of strawberry. Du Pré had some whiskey from his pocket flask.
Raymond and Jacqueline and their herd were gathering at the far end of the building. Jacqueline said something forcefully. The children cast their eyes down and then the family began to walk out toward the parked van that they had come in. When they got close Pallas scooted out from the tangle and she ran up to Du Pré and Madelaine.
“You maybe take me back. I want to stay,” she said. She narrowed her eyes.
“Non,” said Madelaine. “You go on with your people.”
Pallas knew better than to argue with a non.
“Good time,” said Raymond, when he got close. He was carrying a small child and a large stuffed monkey.
“We got tired kids getting cranky,” said Madelaine.
“I am not tired,” said Pallas.
“You,” said Jacqueline, “you maybe take a nap when we get home, you want to or not.”
Pallas dug her toe in the dirt.
“Shit,” she said.
“You are being spoiled,” said Raymond. “You stop now. Eh?”
Pallas nodded.
“We see you later maybe,” said Jacqueline. They took their tired herd off to the big dark green van and everybody got in and Raymond started it and they drove off.
Du Pré and Madelaine watched them go. Du Pré rolled a cigarette and lit it and Madelaine took her long drag. He smoked the rest of it and then he put it out on the ground and they wandered back into the big metal building.
Pidgeon was shooting at the targets in the little gallery booth. Du Pré and Madelaine walked up to her. She was aiming very deliberately and taking her time and missing.
She took the little air rifle down from her shoulder.
“There’s a trick to this,” she said, looking at them.
“Sights are set off,” said Du Pré. “Use the barrel.”
“Oh,” said Pidgeon.
The young man in the booth was staring at her and trying hard not to seem to be staring at her.
Pidgeon stuck the rifle to her shoulder and she pulled the trigger and the bull’s-eye fell out. It went pank on the metal pan,
“Top shelf,” said the young man. His voice was a croak. Pidgeon was making his mouth dry.
“I’ll take the bear,” said Pidgeon. “The big pink one there.”
The young man handed her prize to her.
Pidgeon held the fat fluffy thing out at arm’s length.
“A thing of beauty is a joy forever,” she said.
“Amen,” said the man in the booth, and then he flushed red.
Pidgeon ignored him. She tucked the big pink bear under her arm and sauntered toward the door that led out to the parked cars.
Du Pré and Madelaine followed after her. She walked slowly and gracefully, head down, lost in thought.
She got to the cruiser and opened the back door, shoved the big pink bear in and shut the door.
“Could I have a smoke?” she said.
Du Pré rolled one and he held it out. Pidgeon stuck it in her lips and she held out her hand. Du Pré gave her his shepherd’s lighter.
Pidgeon lit the cigarette and she inhaled deep.
“Ahhhhh,” she said. “It’s unhealthy and I like it.”
Du Pré shrugged. He had never seen her smoke before.
“Charming,” said Pidgeon. She nodded toward the carnival in the barn.
“They want to be liked,” said Madelaine.
“Bunch of crap,” said Pidgeon.
Madelaine shrugged.
“They hauled you off,” said Pidgeon, looking at Du Pré.
Du Pré nodded.
“Nice barbecue,” said Pidgeon, “nice booths, free shit, and about five percent of the county came.”
“Most people are suspicious,” said Madelaine.
“Dunno why,” said Pidgeon. “Me, I am, too, even though I did get a nice big pink bear. I will send it to Harvey. With a note, says, well I am working hard and how are you?”
Du Pré saw two men walking toward the building that he had gone into hours before.
One of them was Ripper.
“You get the pitch,” said Pidgeon. ‘You get the ad, Du Pré?”
“Guy with a busted nose tell me they will not shoot the wild horses,” said Du Pré, “said they call me they don’t know what to do.”
Pidgeon nodded.
“Yeah,” she said. “And you met the White Priest?”
“Yah,” said Du Pré, “long hair, beard, sandals, all white, white robe and crucifix.”
“What color hair?” said Pidgeon.
Du Pré shrugged.
“Brown,” he said. “Little gray in it.”
“Real nice voice the White Priest has,” said Pidgeon.
Du Pré nodded.
Pidgeon dropped her cigarette.
“Wasn’t him,” she said.
CHAPTER 16
PIDGEON WAS LISTENING INTENTLY to her cell phone.
“Screw you, Harvey,” she said. “I quit. There isn’t a thing for me to do here I cannot do at home. Go ahead, fire me. Have a good time. I will be in on the late plane from Cincinnati.”
Pidgeon listened intently to her cell phone.
“Piss up a rope, Harvey,” she said, “and then stand under it while it dries.” She shut her cell phone.
“Harvey sends his love,” said Pidgeon.
Du Pré nodded. He slowed down to eighty-five. There was a crossroads up ahead and the left was blind. A low hill hid the road.
“Poor Harvey,” said Madelaine, “he tries so hard.”
“What he’s trying to do,” said Pidgeon, “is get me to stay here so he doesn’t have to come.”
Du Pré snorted.
“I leave you the excellent Ripper,” said Pidgeon. “That little monster might even get himself killed this time. Luck happens, you know.”
Pidgeon was in the backseat of the cruiser with her big pink stuffed bear and her gear was piled under it and in the trunk. She was dressed in a tan twill suit, good to travel in.
“You be back,” said Madelaine, “you be back.” It wasn’t a question.
“Du Pré,” said Pidgeon, “you be real careful around these people. They are good. Man, are they good.”
“Who is this White Priest?” said Du Pré.
“Gary Carl Smith,” said Pidgeon. “Problem is, we don’t know which one or if that is his name. Nobody we know knows what he looks like. Always in a costume, got his head wrapped in
a scarf. Like Peter O’Toole in Lawrence of Arabia. Got some stand-ins. You met one of ’em.”
They were past the crossroads so Du Pré got up to cruising speed.
“Ya know,” said Pidgeon, “when I fly, I sorta like having wings on what I’m flyin’ in. A quirk, but I got it. You goddamn halfbreed son of a bitch, slow this motherfucker down!”
Du Pré slowed to ninety.
“More,” said Pidgeon.
Du Pré slowed to seventy.
“So,” said Du Pré, “we don’t know the White Priest is here even.”
“Nope,” said Pidgeon.
“Him kill those people, though.”
“Well,” said Pidgeon, “it seems damned likely, as there isn’t another thread that connects. But there’s always a possibility it could be somebody else who wanted to set them up. Could be the Russians, all we know. Osama Bin Laden. Aliens.”
Du Pré sighed. He reached under the seat for his flask.
“Du Pré,” said Madelaine, “that mean blond Highway Patrol lady is up here some and she want, toss you in the can, weld it shut, you know.”
Du Pré put the flask back.
“Which lady?” said Pidgeon.
“Officer Parker,” said Madelaine. “She about bust Du Pré there but McPhie he come along, he say, you behave now, Du Pré. You get a license and you quit drinkin’ so much, driving a hundred twenty.”
“They have actual police out here?” said Pidgeon.
“Yah,” said Du Pré, “give you ticket bad breath, goin’ too fast, just like that Washington, D.C.”
“Du Pré,” said Pidgeon, “it is the law, you know. How fast are we going?” Pidgeon leaned over the seat.
Seventy.
They passed a Montana Highway Patrol car hiding in a cut a ranch road took off from.
Pidgeon looked back through the window.
“Ah-haaaaahhhhh,” she said. “Here they come, lights a-blazin’.”
Du Pré looked in the rearview mirror.
“What the fuck,” he said. “I am obeying the speed limit.”
He slowed and pulled off on the shoulder.
The Highway Patrol car stopped, lights flashing. The door of the car opened and Officer Parker got out. She was about five feet tall and blond. She wore big black mirrored glasses.
Du Pré rolled down his window.
Parker came up to it. She bent over and put her head in.
