“How ya doin’, Sheriff?”
“I’m okay. Thank you, Michael.”
She was watching me, but they had her trussed up pretty good, so I felt confident in going the rest of the way into the room. I looked at her father and brothers, then back to Vic, who smiled and raised her hand to me. “Where the fuck have you been?”
* * *
By the time Asa and I got outside, Henry was valet parking a dark green, one-ton duelie, fortified with grille guards and an extensive roll bar and fifth wheel. He took the keys back from the valet guy when he saw us.
I gestured toward the giant vehicle. “What is this?”
“We needed a rental car.”
I looked at the behemoth. “Why didn’t you just get a Bluebird bus?”
“If you are going to drive like Patton, then we need a tank.” He waved at Katz and then walked around as I went to the passenger-side door. “Besides, I am thinking that we may have to haul something.”
“Where did you rent this?”
He smiled across the broad scoop that straddled the hood. “I did not rent it, your insurance did.”
Great.
I stopped and invited Katz along, but he said he’d check in with Gowder at the inquest and meet us at the Valley Green Inn at the Wissahickon ravine in Fairmount Park at six. He handed me back the book.
I climbed in and shut the door; it sounded like a vault closing. I reached back and scratched behind Dog’s ear, then turned and fastened my seat belt. Henry studied me; I knew I’d fooled everybody up to now, but he knew me too well, perhaps better than I knew myself, and was unlikely to let my mood go without comment. “Uh-oh.”
“Drive.”
The uh-oh was all I got. He hit the starter, and the truck clattered to life. “I have been in touch with the Delaware Indian Association, and they…”
“The what?”
He turned and looked at me, better than matching my stone face. “The Delaware Indian Association.”
“What the hell is that?”
“It is a rural institute for the advancement of Indian resources in an urban environment. I spoke with a nice young woman there, a Felicia Sparrowhawk, who said that the last contact they had with William White Eyes was when they arranged for a part-time job for him at the Chamounix Stables in…”
“Fairmount Park.”
“Yes.” He navigated the on-ramp for the Schuylkill Expressway alongside 30th Street Station and joined the traffic headed west. “It was a probation program between prison stints.”
“That would fit for numerous reasons.”
“Yes.” I watched as he glided the big, more-than-utility vehicle through traffic like a tiger shark swimming lazily through a school of smaller fish. “There is a contact at the stables, but Ms. Sparrowhawk didn’t have her name. She thought, by the sound of things, that there might have been something more there than an employer/employee relationship.”
I nodded and watched the traffic skitter out of his way; Henry drove smoothly, if slowly, navigating to the exit at the right. I thought of a Gladwyne cowgirl, and how it was all too convenient. “I already know who it is.”
He glanced at me and then nodded. “As do I, but there is more.” He slipped a hand in the inside pocket of his black leather blazer and handed me another note, identical to the ones we had received before. “I returned to the Medicine Man, in hopes that with Toy Diaz even momentarily inconvenienced, William White Eyes may have returned with a note.”
I opened the tiny envelope and read BIG CHIEF.
“You know where this is?” I opened the book in my lap so that he could see the illustration at the upper lefthand corner. He glanced down and nodded. “Close?”
“Very.”
“Tonight?”
“Yep.”
“How is Vic?”
“Good.” I had done pretty well up until now, but I could feel the numbness returning to my face and the stillness to my hands. I slowly unwrapped the bandages from my left, bent the aluminum protector back from my index finger, and dropped it on the floor of the big truck.
He glanced over. “What are you doing?”
“Trigger finger.”
“You are righthanded.”
I watched the trees. “I want both.”
* * *
He took the exit, and we drove the same ravines that we had earlier. “The woman teaches horseback riding to urban underprivileged children on Saturday afternoons.”
I nodded. “The Saint of Fairmount Park.”
He shook his head and studied me, his eyes pleading with me to behave. “Maybe it would be best if you were to wait in the truck, since you are angry with the world?”
I folded my arms and looked out the side window at all of the trees. In Wyoming, the silver-green aspens would be in leaf, quivering in the breeze like pinwheels. “I’m not mad at the world. I’m angry with William White Eyes for taking us on this wild goose chase, but the distiller’s choice, single-cask, limited edition, pissed-off I am holding in reserve is for Toy Diaz.”
“Let us try and remember that, shall we?” He pulled into the Chamounix Stables, and we both looked at the sign I had knocked over earlier, still lying in the barrow ditch.
When we got out of the truck, Dog followed, and Henry and I put the sign back against the pristine and manicured garden that led alongside the path to the stables a short walk away.
We each propped a boot on the first rung of the corral, leaned our folded arms across the top of the fence like bookends, and watched as a girl in pigtails who looked like she was in grade school made a strained and determined attempt at keeping her tiny bottom on a Western saddle. A young woman in her early thirties held the lead and twitched the bay’s flanks, keeping the fat mare moving at a regulated pace. The horsewoman looked as though she would have been more at home in Wyoming, and just looking at her brought a longing in my chest. She wore a battered, black quarter horse 60 hat, and a thick brunette braid uncoiled down the back of her sand-colored Carhartt barn coat. When she turned I could see a jacquard silk scarf at her neck, the denim, snap-front shirt, Western belt, and shotgun chaps.
Jo Fitzpatrick.
I felt a little of the preparatory anger fade with the blue of her eyes as she glanced at Henry and me. On the next go-round, she tilted her head and nodded toward the stables. “I’ll be done in just a minute.”
We returned to the main path and entered the barn through a large opening pointed toward the road. It was a pretty good-sized place, with two dozen stalls running the length of the slate flooring. There were about a dozen horse heads that turned and looked at us as we entered, one nickering loudly from only a few stalls down.
Dog and I tagged along behind the Bear as he went straight to the animal that had spoken to him, a large paint, patch-worked like clouds of cream in iced coffee. I pulled up short and looked at the animal, Dog stopping alongside. The big girl swung her head from Henry and looked directly at me, letting loose with a lung-vibrating whinny. Henry followed the horse’s gaze and smiled. “She knows you.”
“Uh huh.”
“Come say hello.”
I walked toward her; the small, brass nameplate read “Creampuff.” She looked exactly like the paint in my dreams. She stuck a prehensile and exploratory nose toward me, and I could see her powerful withers as the large brown eyes blinked. I reached a hand out, palm down, and let her sniff me, rubbing her lips on my knuckles. I pushed a forelock from her face, and Dog nudged my pant leg: jealous.
Henry had walked to the center of the stables to another opening at the side that led toward the corral where we had first seen Jo. There was a large tack shed adjacent to the passageway and next door, a makeshift office. I stopped petting the mare and walked to the doorway as Henry and Dog continued toward the corral. Dog stopped to look back at me when he realized that I was not following. The paint whinnied again, and I looked at her.
Henry spoke. “What?”
“Wait a minute.” I entered the o
ffice and pulled the latest note from William White Eyes out of my pocket, extracted it from the envelope, and threaded it into the mechanical typewriter that squatted on the plywood desk.
I struck the O key; it had the dropout.
I stood there, until I could hear a horse approaching at a relaxed pace on the stables’ slate floor. I slowly stuffed the card and envelope back in my pocket and followed after Henry and Dog. Jo Fitzpatrick was leading the little girl in from the corral. She nodded at Henry as he looked up at the smiling child, riding tall in the saddle; she and Henry were eye to eye.
“I hope we did not cut your ride short?”
“You did.” The little girl nodded, and her pigtails bounced up and down.
“She’d stay out there all day if I let her.” Jo glanced at the aspiring equestrian. “She likes the riding part, but not the work afterward part.”
Henry rumbled back. “Who does?”
Joanne led the horse past Henry around a corner and to the left. We followed them to the last stall, and I watched as Henry lifted the little girl from the saddle and placed her on the ground as Jo unhooked the cinch and removed the saddle, placing it on a stand in the walkway. The Bear put his hands on his knees and looked at the child as she spoke to him.
“Are you an Indian?”
He raised a palm to her and spoke with all the seriousness of a Senate subcommittee. “How.”
She giggled and pointed toward me. “Is he a cowboy?”
The Bear regarded me. “Sort of.”
The little girl motioned toward the horse. “This is Thunderbolt.”
Henry nodded and glanced at the overweight mare with an appraising eye. “Looks fast.”
She nodded enthusiastically. “He is.”
“She.” Jo removed the bridle and the blanket and dragged a set of steps beside the horse, now munching noisily on a feeder full of alfalfa cubes. She handed a couple of brushes to the girl. “Get to work, Juanita.”
She led us toward the tack room/office but changed her mind and took us out toward the corral. “It’s so nice; I hate to be inside on a day like today.”
“I agree.”
I glanced back into the stables. “Is she going to be all right in there alone?”
Jo snorted a short laugh, the first sign of humor I’d seen in her today. “Unless Thunderbolt eats her.”
We pulled up at the fence, and she hooked a boot heel in the lowest rung, trailed her arms across the top, and looked at the two of us. She seemed more relaxed than in the firm’s offices or in Cady’s hospital room, our presence notwithstanding, so I decided just to ask what I had suspected. “Osgood is the father of your child?”
She stayed looking at me. “Was.” I nodded, but it took her a while to get going. “He wasn’t a bad guy, not in the beginning.” I nodded some more and looked at my boots. “Needless to say, it didn’t work out. He provided monetary support, but that was about it.” She pushed her hat back and pulled at a wayward lock behind her ear. “Oz found out about Devon’s drug problem and, when he left our firm, he got him the position with Hunt and Driscoll, essentially blackmailing Devon into money laundering. Devon was always delicate but, with the escalated drug use, he was threatening to cave on the whole deal. I’m sure that Oz didn’t kill Devon himself, but I’m just as sure that he had it done.”
I looked at the beautiful young woman and thought of her beautiful young child, and I made the mental note that the damage would stop here, but I needed information. “William White Eyes. I don’t have time for any more fictions; if you care about keeping him alive, you need to tell me everything you know. Now.” I fished the note from my pocket and held it up.
She looked at it and looked away, the tears collecting at the corners of her eyes. “Jesus…”
“He’s staying here?”
She finally spoke again. “Off and on. There’s a gardener’s shed on the trail.”
I stuffed the note back in my pocket. “Is he there now?”
“No.”
I let it settle for a moment. “That was a pretty quick answer.”
She shrugged and looked resigned. “You’re welcome to look, but there’s nothing up there. He borrowed a horse this morning and said that he wouldn’t be back.” She turned away again.
I looked at Henry. “A horse?”
“Yes.”
That was a twist I hadn’t counted on, William White Eyes riding off into the Fairmount Park sunset. “He didn’t say where he was going?”
“No.”
I stood there and watched as the tumblers fell into place. “You’re both from Gladwyne.”
She exhaled a soft breath of amusement. “We grew up across the street from each other.”
* * *
Katz and Gowder were seated at a table on the Valley Green Inn’s porch, which was located in yet another part of Fairmount Park, and were sipping iced tea as Henry and I walked up the steps and sat in the two empty seats next to the detectives. “How’d the inquest go?”
Gowder smiled and raised his glass. “Exonerated.” He pulled back his suit jacket, revealing both the badge at his belt and the .40 at his armpit.
“Congratulations. I would’ve hated for you to lose your job by saving my life”
Katz had a large map of Fairmount Park laid out on the table, and I had my book with the photograph. Gowder leaned in and looked at the red spot where Katz now pointed. “This is our boy, huh?”
“Just below Rex Avenue.”
I looked at the map. “The next road north?”
“Yes, but it’s not as easy as that. There are access points here at Valley Green, Rex, Thomas Mill Road, and Wises Mill Road on the other side.”
I studied the light green section of the map where Wissahickon Creek curled its way north and west. “What’s this dotted line along the creek?”
Katz adjusted his glasses and placed his chin on his fist. “That’s Forbidden Drive.”
I examined the relatively innocent-looking road. “Why Forbidden Drive?”
Gowder and he both looked at me like I was an idiot. Katz spoke slowly, just to make sure I got it. “Because you’re Forbidden to Drive on it.”
“Oh.”
Henry and I looked at each other; we were thinking the same thing.
16
The Indian chief Tedyuscung was neither a chief nor an Indian, but he sat as a memorial to the Lenape who first occupied the area anyway. This particular rendition of Chief Tedyuscung was actually the third to occupy the rock overlooking Wissahickon Creek. He was over fifteen feet tall, with a hand at his brow to shield the sun so that he could watch the departure of his people who had seen the white man’s writing on the wall and had moved to Pennsylvania’s Wyoming Valley, of all places. His nose was broken and his peace pipe was missing, but the nobility of royalty was still there. Lesser beings had made their pathetic bids for immortality by scratching their initials in his sides, but he forever looks west and does not move. I took a tip from his book, and neither did I.
I had picked a small outcropping of rocks to the west of the chief and was huddled at the base of a black oak with the rain dripping off my hat and into my lap. The showers had started around ten-thirty and continued to drench the place for the next hour and a half. I had confiscated a hunting poncho from Cady’s place, one that I had given her years ago, and it was doing a pretty good job of keeping me dry except for my boots, which were beginning to squeak whenever I moved my toes.
It was dark, but I could still make out the profile of the big chief, and it wasn’t hard to see Henry in him, just as I’d seen my friend in the Indian statue at Logan Circle. The giant Indian was looking toward me but beyond to a place where I hoped to return. I watched as the sheets of rain fell between us, and I allowed my eyes to adjust for the thousandth time to the momentary blindness caused by the brief flashes of lightning and my ears to recover yet again from the thunder.
The outcropping provided a clear view of the area, of the trail leading up from bel
ow, the cut-off to the statue, and Tedyuscung himself. Other than the leaves, which blustered with the periodic wind, the only movement had been when I had stretched my legs from underneath the poncho more than an hour earlier, an event I had now convinced myself had blown my concealed observation.
I had been here for four hours, but William White Eyes or, more importantly, Toy Diaz, may have been here for five.
I thought about the course of events that had led me to wait for an informant and a killer in this small, tree-shrouded ravine in Fairmount Park as it crept up on midnight. Other than the obvious obligations of the law and its enforcement, I was here because I was attempting to save William White Eyes’ life in repayment for his saving Cady. I was here because of Jo Fitzpatrick and Riley, and because of the two men sitting in a Fairmount Park Services truck parked at the barricade near Valley Green Avenue, one of whom had saved my life in a bus station only two nights before. And, I was here because of Toy Diaz and what he had done to Cady, Vic, Osgood, and Devon.
Somewhere in the distance, the synchronic circles of our pasts had tripped a domino, and the steady whirr had grown till it now drowned with the roar of contingency. I knew he would show as surely as the dark rain was falling around me, just as my aching legs knew they would receive no quick relief.
* * *
I listened as the unsteady clop of horse’s hooves made their way up the broken trail behind me. At first I thought it must be Henry, who had grown tired of waiting, but the Bear’s patience could rival that of the marble chief, so I assumed it was finally William White Eyes. The sound was faint at first but slowly grew with each step until the horse stopped on the trail to my left, only a dozen feet away.
I listened as his mount situated a hoof forward for an even plant and expulsed a deep exhale into the moist, cool air. The vapor from its breath clouded for a moment in my peripheral vision and then misted in long trails with the prevailing eastward wind.
The Walt Longmire Mystery Series Boxed Set Volume 1-4 Page 90