by Ron Levitsky
“Thank God the boy is safe,” his mother had said, her warm hand caressing his face.
“Yes, but is that an excuse to forget his lesson?”
Eyes arched in disappointment, so cold. Colder than the storm outside. So damn cold. He shivered, snapping his eyes open, hoping the cold was just part of the nightmare. Instead, looking into the darkness, he realized the nightmare was part of the cold. He couldn’t die like this, not so alone.
Fumbling with the zipper of his parka, he finally edged it halfway down, reached into his jacket, and found the fluorescent key chain, in the shape of a quarter note, that Sarah had given him last summer. It glowed like an amulet and, through the glove, he felt it warm as the touch of his mother’s hand. Sarah.
He was losing the feeling in his legs and, while shifting his body, knocked over his briefcase. He decided to open it and prop it sideways, giving it twice the surface to block the wind. Clicking it open, he saw the courting flute.
Cross Dog handed the flute to True Sky. “Play something. The way sound carries in this cold, somebody might hear us. Hell, at least it’s doing something.”
True Sky held the flute in both his gloved hands, then flexed his fingers. He lifted the instrument to his lips.
“Don’t get any saliva on it,” the policeman said. “It’ll stick to your skin like they been welded.”
The old Indian blew gently into the flute. Through his heavy, aching eyes, Rosen saw the music thread its way into the sky like a thin blue vein. More notes led to more veins crisscrossing a horizon solid as marble. He thought of his own veins in the arms and legs he could no longer feel. He was no longer cold, just tired, the sweet music making him want to fall asleep. Let it be Sarah at the piano playing Thelonius Monk, the way she did just for him. He wanted to fall asleep and dream of her playing something just for him. If it weren’t for that damn light boring through the marble that encased him.
That and the rumbling wouldn’t let him sleep. The light grew brighter each moment, then suddenly overwhelmed his eyes. He blinked hard, forcing his eyes to open, and saw an angel outlined in the glorious luminescence. It was unlike any angel the Torah had ever described—skinny and moving goat-footed toward him, Lifting Rosen into a warm, dark cloud.
He thought perhaps this was Heaven, but then why was he in such pain? His body ached; each movement forced tears down his leathery cheeks. The angel knelt over him, touching his body, and at each touch Rosen’s toes, knees, the tips of his fingers burned. Were the angel’s hands made of fire? Could this be Michael? The figure bent nearer, breaking into a smile and stroking his pointed chin. Blinking again, Rosen stared hard through the shadows and finally recognized the angel. It was Ike.
“You take it easy, lawyer,” the old Indian said, clicking on a small overhead light. “Just rest up and get warm.” After a moment he added, “Feel this?”
Rosen’s toes tingled, as a dull throbbing snaked up his leg. “Oww.”
“Feeling’s coming back—that’s good. Don’t think there’s any permanent damage. You were all bundled up real good. Saul, I’d have the doc check your nose and cheeks. You shoulda covered your face more like Mr. Lawyer here, but I guess you’ll be all right. Just don’t go rubbing anything. You gotta defrost real slowly, like a nice piece of prime rib.”
Pushing up on his elbows, Rosen found himself facing backward, wedged between an old sink and the side door of Ike’s van. The motor was running, and heat seeped over the front seat, collecting around the two men. He felt it tingle against his skin. Near the back of the van, beside a long toolbox, Saul sat cross-legged, the courting flute poised between his hands.
Adjusting his weight, Rosen scraped the knuckles of his right hand on the floor. His hand was clenched; slowly opening it, he saw Sarah’s key chain. Its glow had faded under the overhead light but it still felt warm. He stared at the amulet a long time before returning it to his pocket.
He asked Ike, “How’d you find us?”
“I heard the music. It was from a courting flute. Can you believe I got to feeling horny just from hearing it?”
“You couldn’t have heard it from the house.”
“No. I was down the road about a half mile. I’d about decided to turn around, when I heard the music. Knew it was Saul.”
“You were following us?”
“Keeshin really, which turned out to be the same thing. Saul and I didn’t trust him with Gracie. In them old movies, he’d be the slick saloon owner with the black mustache.”
“That’s the reason you followed him?”
“He lied twice tonight. First, said he was gonna stay with Gracie, but he left just after you did. Told Gracie he was heading back into Bear Coat—his second lie. He started out that way, but when I left the house, I saw him cut his lights and loop back over the ridge, heading toward the highway that would take him north into Deadwood, same place you was going. Why head north on a night like this? I didn’t have anything better to do, so I followed him. I would’ve been here a lot sooner if I hadn’t run off the road twice. Second time I almost couldn’t get back up. Had to jimmy some old planks of wood under the tires to get enough traction. From what Tom told me a few minutes ago, guess we was right not to trust Keeshin.”
Rosen had forgotten about Cross Dog; now, turning his head, he saw the policeman in the driver’s seat.
Cross Dog gripped the wheel. “I knew Keeshin was dirty. All along, I knew the son of a bitch was dirty. Just couldn’t prove it. Last summer, when the town council started hassling Saul over his land, I kept following Keeshin. Every night on patrol I’d follow him but never could connect him to anything wrong. For awhile, I even thought he might’ve killed Gates.”
Ike shook his head. “What he just did is bad enough—trying to save Will by killing three men. For Gracie, he told you? That’s a strange kind of love.”
“If it is love,” Rosen said.
He felt the van moving forward.
Cross Dog said, “We’ve wasted enough time.”
Stepping past Rosen, Ike climbed into the passenger seat. “Ain’t you turning around? I think all three of you should get checked out at the medical center. I don’t like the looks of Saul. His cheeks and—”
“We’ll stop by the hospital after I catch up with Keeshin.” More softly, “And I still need to bring in Will.”
Craning his neck, Rosen saw snowflakes drift against the windshield. He couldn’t help wondering what might happen if they were stranded again; Ike’s van didn’t seem any more reliable than Andi’s old Mercury. It didn’t matter, because nothing would change Cross Dog’s mind, not even the fact that he was unarmed, while Keeshin carried at least two guns.
“Here.” True Sky handed Rosen the courting flute.
“I never learned how to play.”
“It takes time. You’ll find your own tune.”
Rosen dragged the briefcase onto his lap. The metal clasps were still almost too cold to touch, and he had to pry one of them from the lock. He lay the flute on the stacks of paper that no longer had any meaning. The case against Saul True Sky was over.
“Snow’s getting thicker,” Ike said. “You can barely make out Keeshin’s tire tracks. Will’s are already covered.”
“Don’t need no tire tracks,” Cross Dog replied. “We know where they’re goin’.”
Rosen thought of Sarah playing Thelonius Monk for him back home, improvising on the great improvisor, the notes toddling down the piano and across the room. He would see her again, after all. His fingers moved stiffly, itching to embrace her. He almost smiled but stopped, seeing True Sky sitting a few feet away. He remembered the first time he’d seen Stevie, the boy sitting still as a rock on the crest of the ridge.
“Last summer you told me about Stone Boy, but you never finished the story. What happened to him, after he saved his mother and uncles?”
The Indian shifted forward. “Stone Boy had everything, but still he wanted more. He became greedy, hunting only for the pleasure of killi
ng, taking only the ears and claws—not even bothering with the meat. He bragged about what he’d done and wouldn’t listen to his mother and uncles, who begged him to stop needlessly killing the animals held sacred by our people. Finally, the buffalo and other creatures could stand it no more. They revolted and attacked Stone Boy’s lodge. Stone Boy and his uncles fought back bravely and killed animals by the thousands.”
“Then he survived.”
“In the end the Thunder Birds let loose the rain, which flooded his lodge and killed his mother and uncles. Still he fought until the animals defeated him. His magic was too strong for death, but they left him half-buried in the earth, where he still lies today.”
Ike turned his head. “It’s a good story, a real shoot ’em up. Made for the movies with somebody like Kirk Douglas, with his big dimple and smile, playing Stone Boy.”
“It’s a good story,” True Sky agreed. “It teaches everything a man needs to know to be a man. Not only to be brave—that’s easy, but to respect our grandfathers and the lives of all our brothers, like the buffalo. It tells what happens when one becomes greedy and forgets the right way. Even someone as mighty as Stone Boy could not escape.”
It was different from any of the stories Rosen had heard as a boy, yet also talmudic in the making of its moral point. He thought at first of Noah, of the flood and the animals, but Noah was obedient, and this was about a man who fell from the righteous path. An Adam or Saul or Ahab . . . or Rosen himself. As far as his father was concerned, he might as well have been made of stone.
Closing his briefcase and putting it aside, Rosen stretched broadly. Despite his awkward position, the motor’s hum and the heater’s soft hissing made him drowsy. Shifting to one side, he was about to close his eyes when the van slowed.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
Ike said, “Take a look up ahead.”
Kneeling, he looked over Ike’s shoulder. Through snow fluttering like dander upon the windshield, he saw something dark and solid ahead, just off the road. As they drove closer, he recognized Cross Dog’s Blazer, its front end smashed against an old fence post and the driver’s door ajar.
“Keeshin,” he half-whispered.
Cross Dog parked on the road a few yards from the collision. He kept the van running.
“You three can stay inside. If you do come out, keep away from the Blazer until I say it’s okay. And don’t touch anything.”
Ike said, “Keeshin’s got a couple guns.”
“I’d like him to try it. You got a flashlight, Ike?”
“In the glove compartment. Here.”
Cross Dog stepped from the van, crossed the headlights, and walked slowly in a wide arc toward the wreck. He swept the flashlight along the ground to his right.
Ike said, “I don’t feel good about him going out there alone.”
The last thing Rosen wanted to do was go back into the cold, but there was no choice. Putting his gloves over his tingling hands, he slid open the side door and stepped outside. Ike followed a half step behind, as Rosen blinked away a snowflake and followed the arc Cross Dog had made toward the Blazer. The truck had struck something much larger than a fence post—a thick wooden pole that once might’ve supported a gate.
Cross Dog leaned inside the vehicle.
Ike said, “Tom, you want us to—”
The policeman waved them back. After a minute, he stepped from the doorway and leaned heavily against the hood. When he finally looked up, it wasn’t at them but the way they’d come, toward Bear Coat.
Ike asked, “He dead?”
For a long moment the policeman didn’t answer. Finally his shoulders shrugged, and the word caught in his throat. “Ye . . . ah.” Pushing past them, he added, “Don’t touch anything,” then lumbered along that same curving path back to the van.
With a shudder, Rosen stepped forward and opened the Blazer’s door. A body slumped over the wheel, and it took a few seconds to realize that the dead man wasn’t Jack Keeshin.
It was Will.
His forehead was covered with blood, which in the cold had thickened like taffy. Except for the blood, he might’ve been asleep, his face relaxed and arms resting casually on his lap. He wasn’t wearing a seat belt, but the handle of Cross Dog’s pistol stuck out from his coat pocket. Blood also smeared the windshield where his head had shivered the glass into a spider web.
Despite the cold, Rosen broke into a sweat, as his knees buckled and his hands clawed for the door frame. Over the years he’d seen many dead men. He’d heard policemen say they’d gotten used to it after awhile, but he never had. It didn’t matter if men died old, like Albert Gates, or young, like Will. It didn’t matter that Will had been a murderer, and that God’s justice called for an eye for an eye. That’s what Rosen’s father would’ve said, and what Rosen had been fighting most of his life. God made man in his image, and life, any man’s life, was holy. Would Grace and her father understand that or, like Job, bow their heads to the whirlwind?
“No,” Rosen heard himself say aloud, even before realizing why. Keeshin had driven away in the Blazer; if he’d been accidentally killed, that would’ve been God’s hand. But Will, who should’ve been inside a Jeep on his way to Deadwood, had died instead. God had nothing to do with that. Why was Will dead?
He turned to ask Ike, but found Saul staring at his son. The Indian’s hand stretched to touch Will’s shoulder, as if about to shake him gently awake. The snow stung Rosen’s eyes; wiping them, he hurried away.
“Hey!” Cross Dog shouted, motioning with a flashlight for him to follow the same arcing path. Rosen did as instructed, joining the other two men just off the road, in a direct line with the Blazer and fence post.
The policeman squatted near the ground, looking at some footprints in the snow. Walking up to the road, he studied a set of tire tracks. He went back and forth several times between the two areas.
Rosen huddled with Ike near the van.
Ike said, “Between the snow and wind, in another half hour all these tracks’ll be gone.”
“What’ve you found?”
“Beats me. Don’t believe all that stuff about us Indians being good trackers. Half the time I get lost on my way to the bathroom. ’Course, Tom here knows what he’s doing. Did lots of hunting as a boy. Maybe that’s why he’s a cop.”
They could have waited inside the heated van, but neither man suggested it. Perhaps they would have felt guilty leaving Cross Dog alone, or perhaps their suffering in the bitter cold let them, in some small way, share Saul’s mourning for his dead son.
Finally Cross Dog clicked off the flashlight. “Can’t see nothing more here. Might as well go inside.”
“What about Saul?” Rosen asked.
“He’ll come when he’s ready.”
They returned to the van. Rosen sat on an old water heater just behind the front seat.
“What did you find out?” When Cross Dog didn’t reply, he added, “You know what happened to Will was no accident.”
The policeman nodded. “I seen a lot of car accidents. If there’d been enough force to smash his head that hard into the windshield, the impact would’ve knocked him off his seat. He didn’t have no seat belt on. Besides, what’re the odds, with all this vacant field, of him hitting that old post? Somebody placed him there to look like an accident. The motor was still running when I got there, but the door was open. Guess whoever did it figured if the crack on the head didn’t finish off Will, the cold would. Just as it woulda finished us off, if Ike hadn’t come along.”
“You said ‘whoever did it.’ Don’t you mean Keeshin?”
Cross Dog frowned. “Yeah, I guess. Think of the way it’d look come tomorrow, if everything had gone like Keeshin planned. With all the snow and wind, there wouldn’t be any tracks left. Tomorrow or the next day somebody’d come by and find the three of us froze to death along the side of the road. Then he’d find Will in my Blazer, my gun in his pocket.”
“Sure,” Rosen said, “and ev
erybody in town would assume that Will had murdered not only Albert Gates, but his own father. The son of a bitch.”
Rosen knew the policeman wasn’t referring to Will. Keeshin had to have done this. “But how did they change trucks? How did Keeshin catch up to Will?”
Ike said, “Maybe Will did have an accident, then Keeshin came along, finished the boy, switched trucks, and kept going?”
Cross Dog shook his head. “There’d be more of a mess in the snow. No, only one truck went off the road and into the post. Somehow, up here on the road, Will not only got himself killed but was taken from the Jeep and put into my Blazer.”
How could Keeshin have done it? Rosen whispered, “Another one of his games.”
“There’s one more thing,” the policeman said. “Just ahead on the road, there’re two sets—”
He stopped suddenly, as the side door opened and Saul climbed inside. The old Indian sat in the same cross-legged position as before, but his shoulders hunched lower and his face, usually smooth and untroubled, was tight as a fist.
For a long time no one spoke. Cross Dog finally said, “I’m sorry we have to leave Will here, but the forensics team will have to come out and look everything over. I’ll see they respect the body.”
Saul barely nodded. “You know, it’s not so much the death, but the way he died. My mother told me stories of her grandfather, Two Knives. He was a great warrior. He died in a raid against the Cheyenne. After he’d killed three of their braves, the others chased after him and shot him off his horse, breaking his arm in the fall. He took his knife and, pinning himself to the ground, sung his death chant, then took one more Cheyenne with him. That was the way to die. You faced your enemy and had time to sing your death chant. Not like this.”
Cross Dog nodded. “It’s not over. I’ll face the enemy.” He slowly turned the van around.
“We’re going back to Bear Coat?” Rosen asked.
“Keeshin thinks we’re all dead. He’ll want to get back as quick as can be, to give himself an alibi. I could see his Jeep tracks going on toward Deadwood, but there’s a turnoff not far ahead that circles back to town. With his four-wheel drive, he should be able to make it without much trouble. He’s probably at the station right now, his arm around her.”