The Walt Longmire Mystery Series Boxed Set Volume 1-4

by Johnson, Craig

  It was only a three-block walk the rest of the way to the hospital, and I watched Vic as she soaked up her hometown. “No, I can see that you’re going to be a great help.” She looked different in the city, as if she were home. She didn’t blend in Wyoming, but here it was as if all the pieces fell into place. I had never seen the clothes she was wearing—the black leather jacket, black T-shirt, black slacks, and black Doc Martins. “Does your family know you’re here?”

  “Only Alphonse. I went in after you guys left.”

  “How come you didn’t come in before?”

  She pursed her lips and glanced toward the river. “I like to time my entrances.”

  The security guards at HUP looked up as we passed by but looked back down as we went up the escalator to the elevators on the mezzanine. Vic stopped and was looking at the note. “It could only mean Henry.”

  “That’s what I thought, but I don’t get it.”

  “Maybe the Indian will.” She threw an arm up to hold the automatic doors of the elevator. “You got a key to Cady’s place?”

  I stood there, unsure. “You’re not coming?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t do this kind of thing well, so I just don’t do it.”

  “Don’t you want to say hello to Henry?”

  “I’ll see him soon enough.” It was an awkward moment, but then she smiled and gestured behind me with her chin. “Normally, I’d say let’s go get the asshole who did this, but I think somebody beat us to it.”

  * * *

  I had to blink to adjust my eyes to the artificial light in the ICU. I could smell burning cedar and sage. The night nurse started to stand but noticed it was me and sat back down. She looked at the helmet in my hand and just smiled. Evidently, Henry had already worked some magic just by getting the clearance that would allow us to perform the ceremony.

  He turned and looked at me, registering no surprise when I told him that Vic had arrived. I looked at the intricate arrangement of items in the room. “It is already working.”

  I handed the Bear the football helmet. “Good thing you didn’t need a tomahawk or I would’ve had to go to Atlanta.”

  He studied the helmet and the wings with trailing feathers. “This will do.”

  There was a buffalo skull at Cady’s feet with the nose pointed toward her. There were two black stones by her right side on the bed, two red ones on her left, and a red one and black one on the pillow above her head. There was a ceramic bowl that was filled with dirt on one of the carts. Evidently, as a stranger in a strange land, the Bear had great gathering skills.

  He put the helmet on one of the monitors, and I watched as he laid sticks on the bed in two parallel lines with each pair of ends joined by a V-shaped connection; it was a Hetanihya, or Hetan, a man figure. It looked as if the Bear was performing a Cheyenne sweat lodge ceremony but without the sweat or the lodge.

  His beaded medicine bag was also draped over the cart; he took his ceremonial pipe, the bowl of which was carved from catlinite into the shape of a buffalo, from it. He fit the buffalo into the stem, filled the pipe, lit it, and then drew a circle around the Hetan with the stem. He puffed on the pipe for a while, then motioned me to the opposite side of the bed and handed it to me. I smoked for what I thought was a commensurate amount of time, then handed it back to him. We went through four bowls of tobacco, and then the Bear scattered sweetgrass and juniper on the stones surrounding Cady. He picked the pipe up and pointed it to the cardinal directions and rested it against the buffalo skull, the stem between the horns. Then Henry took a medicine bundle out of the green velvet bag that he always carried with him—and which, according to him, had saved him from dying of a gut-shot wound deep in a Bighorn Mountain blizzard. He placed the bundle on the pillow by Cady’s head and handed me an old turtle rattle that was decorated with teeth and hair and deer toes. I wasn’t told to shake the rattle, so I remained still. Henry spoke in a quiet but authoritative voice.

  “Spirits, hear me; think especially of me, a miserable man. Those that enter my sweat lodge for safety, going out may they leave behind all that is bad. Take thought of them; that good may come to them, take thought.”

  He stopped and took a deep breath, and the next part was spoken as if it had just occurred to him. “Let horses of different colors come to them.” He nodded toward the west-facing windows and gestured toward the buffalo skull. “Your pipe is filled; come and smoke. When they go out of my sweat lodge, may some good go with them. To the places whence they came, may they all take good luck. May all their relatives receive good; their children let them embrace with joy. Let their way lie along the good road.”

  The emotion was creeping into his voice. “That our patients may arise with ease, take thought of them; let them once more walk about with joy.” His voice caught in his throat, and it was only then that I realized he was speaking English.

  “Who are ye that taught this custom? I do not claim to know anything; I am poor; I am far from knowing anything. Old men taught me this way, and if I make a mistake, turn it to good. Everything I ask of you, grant me. Henahi!”

  I shook the rattle four times, as instructed, and then listened as Henry sang eight songs in Cheyenne. When he finished, he slumped into the chair beside me with his hands trailing to the floor.

  I reached out and squeezed his shoulder. “Thank you.”

  He nodded and smiled knowingly. “It worked.”

  I looked at him, then at Cady, and back at him. Nothing seemed to have changed. I got up and took a closer look, knowing that Henry didn’t make statements like that lightly. I turned back and looked at him. “How can you tell?”

  He raised his face, and he continued to smile. “I had a vision.”

  “Just now?” He shook his head, but the smile remained. He was making me nervous.

  “Earlier.”

  I watched him. “Why are you smiling?”

  He laughed. “The vision, you are not going to like it.”

  I quickly convinced myself that if it were really bad, he wouldn’t be smiling. “What?”

  “Horses, you will be assisted by horses; powerful horses, paints.”

  I laughed with him. “I’ll take any help I can get.”

  His face grew serious. “You know the power of this medicine.” He stretched his back muscles and looked at me again. “You will be assisted by horses; powerful horses, paints.”

  “Okay.” He seemed satisfied, so I pulled the note from my breast pocket.

  He took it and studied it without opening the envelope. “Again?”

  I nodded. “At the crime scene on the Benjamin Franklin Bridge, taped to the railing.”

  He opened the envelope and read the note. “Do you know any other Indians in Philadelphia?”

  “No.”

  He looked at the card again. “Then I do not know…Perhaps something to do with the reception?”

  “Possibly.”

  Henry placed the card back and handed it to me. “It will be revealed to you.”

  I stuffed the tiny envelope in my breast pocket. “Let me guess, by horses.”

  He shrugged. “That, or by another note.”

  * * *

  I decided to sleep in the chair for the rest of the night, sending the Cheyenne Nation to his guest-artist bed. I wished I had my cowboy hat to pull over my eyes, but it was at Cady’s. I thought about using the football helmet, but I didn’t want to upset the mojo. I borrowed a towel from the night nurse and folded it. I remained like that for a while, staring at the underside of the towel and thinking: GO BACK TO THE INDIAN. Who was involved with all of this who would be sympathetic toward us? Who did we know here? GO BACK TO THE INDIAN; I had, and I didn’t know anything more than I had before. Some detective.

  I took the towel off and rubbed my eyes. Henry had left a partial bottle of water on the other chair, so I picked it up, screwed off the top, and chugged what was left. There was a slick portfolio underneath it with a water ring on the cover where the bottle had been
. I picked it up and studied the beautifully lit main hall gallery of the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts. It was the brochure for the Mennonite photo exhibit.

  The photograph on the inside cover was of a horse haltered to a broken-down Studebaker pickup. The paint was looking at the camera, and the water bottle that Henry had left on the brochure had wept a perfect circle around its eye. I laughed, remembering Henry’s vision, and looked at the text. It was one of the poems that Dena Many Camps had been gracious enough to bestow on the project, and it was elegant and powerful.

  …Walks the quiet rushes of the Mni Shoshe, then moves north, to higher ground. He motions toward the ponies as they rise up

  and release their tears, large drops the size of ripe apples. They dance then, as my mother and father shift in sleep, dreaming to the rhythm of horses’ hooves.

  The horse that had been dead for seventy years looked at me, and I wondered if Dena would be at the reception; probably not, as Henry hadn’t mentioned that she would be. I could be wrong, but he seemed to talk of her less. I had asked him about the pool tournament in Las Vegas, which she had won, but Henry said she had been seen in the company of a tall, handsome Assiniboine about half his age. The conversation had dwindled from there.

  I set the brochure back on the seat, refolded the towel, and replaced it over my eyes, staring at the five words in my head, the warning, the clue, the note passed between the aisles.

  I guess I was getting used to the sounds and rhythms of the ICU. I struggled for a while but then tossed myself into a fidgety, ungrateful sleep.

  * * *

  I was still looking at my boots, which floated above the buffalo grass and sage of northern Wyoming. I kicked my feet back and forth and could feel the looseness of my boots on my feet, the air between my socks and the innersoles. I snuck a glance to my right; the same medicine man was there, and the wind still suspended us above the bluffs at Cat Creek.

  We weren’t moving but were being held aloft by the current, with our arms outstretched toward the Bighorn Mountains. I could feel the gusts whip my hat away, and I laughed. The medicine man laughed along with me, and I turned my head with the tears streaming from my face, lids clenched with a flattened image of the elderly man who floated beside me. I had to yell over the howling of the wind, but you grow used to such things on the high plains. His head turned toward mine, and I watched as the fringe of his leggings swirled behind him like trailing eddies in the air stream.

  He nodded at my one-word question and pointed with his nearest hand, the leathery finger aimed at the canyon below, and they were there: an entire remuda of wild ones, the wind buffeting their manes and tails as they threw the gusts against their broad withers, using the coming storm to their own advantage. The sound of clattering hooves overtook the aching cry of the wind and joined it with a resonance that rose from the stone walls of the canyon. The orange and white pattern of their bodies was like the pattern of the thunderheads that ascended as if they were time-lapse photography, cumulus explosions stronger than technology.

  The horses were large and potent, the muscles of their limbs reaching out like the flexing of fingers, gobbling up the distance and reaching out for more. The aged Indian beside me laughed when I glanced back at him, chuckling at their approach.

  As they reached the end of the canyon, they climbed the walls with powerful, striking hooves that drove into the rock with sparks of electricity that arched upward, shooting past us and into the clouds. The air was cool with the promise of water, and I could feel my hair standing on end.

  They thundered their way up at the same speed that they had entered the canyon, seemingly on a crash course with us. I veered from them and threw myself off balance. I closed one eye like a kid at a Saturday matinee and waited for the impact. The lead mare kicked as though she was ridding herself of an unwanted rider, and the cloud-pattern body twisted. The earth fell away like a flanking strap, and the impact of our collision threw my shoulder down and against her neck as her head stretched upward and the long mane covered my face.

  I scrambled to get my fingers into her hair, wrapped an arm around her neck, and dug my legs against her sides. The pressure of her rising body forced the air from my lungs, and it was all I could do to hold on as the backing of the metal star pinned to my jacket drove itself into my chest.

  Her hair still covered my face but parted at the rim of the canyon, just enough for me to see that the old man was now astride the broad back of his own cloud pony, his one hand wrapped in the mane of his horse, the other reaching into the billowing expansion above us.

  I looked up at the detonation of clouds that seemed like a saturated watercolor. Compacted flares fired deep in the towers of umber, white, and disappearing blue and reflected in the flanks of my paint. Her rhythm was steady and sure and her eyes watched carefully, as if a misplaced hoof would send us plummeting into the distant earth below.

  The medicine man’s lips moved, and even though his voice was barely a whisper, the sound of his words echoed within the clouds like drums. “This is better, yes?” I stared at him, and it was clear to me he was insane. He laughed. “How can you know the earth if you never see it?”

  I looked past his outstretched arm at the glow of the clouds and at one that looked like an eye with a circle around it.

  * * *

  “Mr. Longmire…Sheriff?” I opened my eyes, moved the towel, and looked at the hand on my shoulder. It was a man’s hand of pretty good size and had a graduation ring on it from the Philadelphia Police Academy. “How ya doin’?”

  “Howdy, Michael.” He smiled and watched me some more.

  “You were snoring.”

  “Sorry.” I looked up at the windows, but they were still black. “What time is it?”

  “Little after four. I told Mom I’d take an extra shift, seeing as how I’ve got time on my hands.”

  I took a deep breath and looked at the handsome young man with so much of his life ahead of him. “Michael, have you ever heard of a guy by the name of Shankar DuVall?”

  He thought about it. “Doesn’t ring any bells…” He shrugged. “I can ask around.”

  I nodded. “He might be one of the guys we arrested out on Lancaster Avenue.”

  “I’ll check.” He looked at Cady, at the arrangement of the ceremonial pipe, the buffalo skull, and the stones. “Looks like you guys’ve been busy.”

  I stood, stretched my arms above my head, and approached the bed with hope ready to curdle at the slightest notice. “I decided to refer to a higher authority.”

  There was no change, and I could feel my heart cannon-balling into my bowels, taking my lungs along for the ride. I took a deep breath and listened to it clatter in my throat like a rattler in shedding season when it is blind, pissed, and strikes out at everything. I heard Michael say something. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “You should go home.”

  I turned and looked at him. “You’re right.” I then thought about whether I would be giving up Moretti family secrets, finally deciding that I wouldn’t. “Your sister’s in town.”

  He looked blank. “Victoria?” His smile returned; he couldn’t hold the joke. “I know; I’m the one that called her. I called her day before yesterday.” He studied me for a moment. “I didn’t think you’d mind, and I thought she’d be a help.” I didn’t say anything. He continued to smile and shuffled his purple-and-orange-clad feet, still not sure of my response. “She’s a good cop.”

  I finally nodded. “I’m in a position to know that.” The kid was a prince.

  * * *

  I started off with a taxi, but my restlessness drove me to abandon it at 20th and Market. I kind of knew where I was and figured if I headed north by northeast, I’d eventually hit Race and take a right. If I got to the river, I’d have gone too far. I watched as a black Expedition stopped at the light and then started up the street. I saw a sign for the Franklin Institute about a block up and decided to continue north for a while.

  It must
’ve rained while I was asleep, sometime during my vision, as Henry would have called it. The streets were wet, but it was still the cool of the morning before sunrise, and the halos of the streetlights looked like chain links drifting up the dark city streets. I listened to my boot steps echoing off the tall buildings and gathered wool on the directions our lives take, on the intersections that allowed no U-turn and committed you to your fate. I thought about how I wished there was somewhere I could go and just pay the fine and take my daughter home.

  At the corner of Arch, I stopped and looked around. My eye caught some movement behind me, and I turned my head just a little; it was the same black Expedition that I had seen on Market. It sat there at the red light, the reflection of the street lamps making it impossible to see inside. I put my hands in my pockets and acted as though I was deep in thought. It passed me, and I watched the taillights of the vehicle slow and then recede, listening to the radial tires growl as they turned down the deserted street. I took my hands out of my pockets and laughed out loud. What was I thinking? That I was important enough to be followed around the streets of Philadelphia? I shook my head and continued on.

  The sun wouldn’t be up for a while, so maybe I could grab a couple more hours of sleep before calling Katz and Gowder for a meet. It would be interesting to hear their take on the Vince Osgood Parade of Stars but even more interesting to see their response to Vic. I wondered what Lena’s response to Vic would be and wondered if Alphonse had gotten anywhere with Lena’s hunch about a different connection between Osgood and Devon.

  I was in the middle of all this wondering when I saw the black Expedition again, crossing the street a block ahead. There was a narrow alley to my right, and I ducked in there. I wedged myself in a doorway between a power pole and a utility box alongside the back of a building. I stood there feeling foolish for a few minutes, until I saw the black SUV slowly go up 20th. It looked like a government vehicle, but who would be trailing me in something like that? Osgood? Katz and Gowder? It just didn’t make sense, unless they’d come to the conclusion that the notes had made me a viable candidate for being thrown off a bridge next.