“Hello.”
“Slow day at the safe-deposit boxes?” I leaned a little farther and took her all in. Dog didn’t move, and I didn’t blame him.
Her hand paused on his head, and she looked down; she was also holding one of the plastic wine glasses. “What’s your dog’s name?”
I felt just a little ashamed. “He doesn’t really have one. I’ve been calling him Dog.” I looked back at her. “I’ve only had him for a couple of weeks now.”
She did a slow nod. “I hope you don’t mind. I thought I’d stop by and deliver a gift of gratitude for last night.” She raised the glass in a slight toast and then used it to gesture toward the pack. “They said it was okay.”
I looked at the assembly. “I bet they did.” I made a great show of pulling out my pocket watch. “Whose got the watch tonight?” Both Ruby and Vic finally looked at something other than Maggie Watson. I looked over at Saizarbitoria, too. “You pulling double duty?”
He shrugged. “I don’t mind. I used to do it in Rawlins all the time.”
I turned to Ruby. “You give him the beeper?”
She didn’t look at me. “I gave him the beeper.”
I needed a quick neutralizer to change the point of interest, so I walked over and poured myself a glass. “Great.” I smiled and turned to Vic. “How’d he do?”
She held the synthetic glass at her temple. “He’s really polite.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
She took a sip and glanced over to Ms. Watson. “We all choose where to expend our energies.”
I was pretty sure that that arched eyebrow could pierce steel, but Maggie Watson saved herself and me. “I was wondering if you were free for dinner?”
All their eyes swiveled back to her.
“Dinner?”
All their eyes swiveled back to me.
“Yes.”
I was feeling a little dizzy with all the attention. “I just have a bit of work to do, and then I’ll swing by and pick you up.” I looked down at the exposed and very lovely legs. “Dress warm, okay?”
“Okay.” It was easier on everybody’s eyes since we were now standing beside each other.
I helped her with her coat and opened the door as she turned and looked at the assembly. “Nice meeting everyone. Bye.” I closed the door as she stepped into the darkness and onto the stoop, and I turned back to face the afternoon of the long knives.
“Her car was stuck.”
“Really?”
I took a sip of my wine. “Really. Look, don’t think that you’re so big that I can’t put you over my knee and spank your little Italian butt.”
She looked up at me with a carnivorous smile. “Watch it, big man, it might work with the locals, but I’ve been to the rodeo.” She walked past me toward her office. “Anyway, I’m not into that stuff, and it sounds like you better save it for tonight.”
At least she hadn’t said fuck fourteen times. Maybe she really was on her best behavior. I turned back to Ruby. “Charlie Nurburn?”
She turned back to her computer, and I noticed there wasn’t anything on it except a blank blue screen. I also noticed that her coat was in her lap, even if she still had her half-glass of wine. “Go read your Post-its.”
I leaned over and kissed the top of her head, sighed, and trudged off to my office. I glanced back at Saizarbitoria. “You got anything to say?”
“No, sir.”
I guess that’s when I hired him. He sat in the chair opposite my desk as I tossed the Post-its on the blotter and carefully placed the mostly full goblet on top of them. People always took precedence over Post-its, so I asked him what was on his mind.
“I’m having a good time.” The silence hung in the room for a moment.
“Good.” I wondered if he’d feel the same way standing in front of the IGA accosting the citizenry. “You can have wine some other time.”
He laughed, and I looked at the bright young man sitting in front of me and felt like Monsieur de Treville with the young Gascon in attendance. It was hard not to with the Vandyke and the mischievous glint. I wondered if, like D’Artagnan, he was going to be an inordinate pain. He seemed to be waiting for more, so I reached into my coat pocket and produced the bookmark I had taken from Mari Baroja’s room. “You’ve got quite a facility with languages. Maybe you can help me out with something.” I flipped the piece of paper on the desk, careful to avoid the wine. He leaned over and turned the scrap so that he could read it. He was smiling. “What?”
“How did you know?”
“Know what?”
“That I’m Basque?”
I kept looking at him and, in a flash, it all fit. “Just a lucky guess.”
“I’m French Basque.” I contemplated that one as he looked back at the piece of paper and the scribbled hand. “It says ‘We can no longer say.’ ” He waited, and it was an old world wait, the kind that doesn’t concern itself with giving you a fast answer. The Cheyenne and Crow were masters of such things, but the kid was pretty good. “I’m not sure if it means anything, but it’s also a line from a poem by Jean Diharce about Guernica.” It didn’t take him long to remember the translation. “Guernica. This name inflames and saddens my heart; centuries will know its misfortunes… We can no longer say the names Numancia and Carthage without saying in a loud voice in Euskara, lying in its ruins, Guernica.” There wasn’t a lot of drama in the presentation; he stated it as if it were history. “Is this from the woman that died?” I nodded, and he studied it some more. “You think it’s important?”
“Everything’s important when you don’t know what you’re looking for, or if you even should be looking.”
“She was Basque?” I nodded some more. “Is there anybody you’d like me to talk to?”
I sighed, thought about the old priest, Mari’s cousin, and looked at the scrap of paper. “Maybe.” I looked back up at him. “You got a place to stay tonight?”
“I figured I’d just stay here.”
“Okay, but you might need a vehicle. If anything happens, take Vic’s. There’s an extra set of keys on the wall by the door.”
I couldn’t tell if he was smiling when he left my office, and that probably was a good thing. I picked up the piece of paper. “We can no longer say.” It was capitalized at the beginning, which led me to believe that it wasn’t the continuation of a stanza or part of a poem. I didn’t know Mari Baroja but thought she might have had enough on her plate without political intrigue. She was Basque, though.
I stuffed the paper scrap back in my pocket and picked up my life in Post-it form. Vic appeared in my doorway with her jacket over her shoulder and wine glass in hand. “I can’t fucking believe you’re gonna get laid before me.”
“Maybe you should stop looking at this as a competition?”
“You are such an asshole.” She took a sip. “Not that I give a shit, but where have you been all day?”
I took a sip of my wine, its complex bouquet undiminished by the styrene stemware. “Following up on this Baroja thing.”
“There’s a thing?”
I blew out and thought back on my day. “Spoke with the ME from Billings. His opinion is that she smoked too much, she drank too much, and I’m coming to the conclusion that she might have done other things too much as well.”
She shrugged and toasted with her glass. “That’s how I wanna go.”
I curbed the urge to say something about slow starts. “Talked to the personal physician.”
“Who is?”
“Isaac Bloomfield, who concurred. There was something else, though.” She held the edge of the plastic against her lip. “She’d been consistently beaten.” Her eyes widened. “Massive tissue damage on the back and other areas.”
The lip slipped away. “Holy shit.”
“It gets better. I went to see the granddaughter.”
When I told her what Lana had said, she came and sat in the chair opposite my desk and scooted it in so that she could lay her
arms on the flat surface and rest her chin there. The glass dangled over the edge, unseen. Her voice was low, but it cut like only a woman’s voice can. “No fucking way. Lucian?”
“It gets better.”
“It can’t get any better, unless you found the body.”
“Trust me, it gets better.” I told her about the conversation with the judge.
“Fuck me.” She glanced around the room; she had just been given a passport to strangeland where I had spent the day. The big eyes finally came back to rest on me, and they were heavy. “He did it. I’ll bet you anything he did it.” The cutting voice was back. “The love of your life is taken away and is being slowly beaten to death? Charlie Nurburn is lying in a shallow grave in Absaroka County or eaten by coyotes and shit off a cliff, which is too good for the son of a bitch.” She folded her arms on the desk again, having spoken. “What are you gonna do?”
“What do you mean?”
“What are you gonna do?” It was a smile, a wonderfully vicious and lovely smile with no warmth in it. “The sheriff has killed a man, the one-legged bandit, your pal.”
I leaned in until our noses were about sixteen inches apart. “I really wish you weren’t enjoying this so much.”
“I can’t help it. This is one of those great fucking moral quandaries, and I can’t wait to see what you’re gonna do next.”
I folded an arm and supported my head with a fist. “I’m going to wait and see what comes back from the NCIC.”
“It’s going to say that Charlie Nurburn is dead as the proverbial doornail and that somebody hammered him a very long time ago.” She trapped her lower lip in thought. “Can I go with you when you go to talk to Lucian?”
“No.”
She whined. “C’mon.” I didn’t say anything and, after a moment, she asked again: “C’mon.” We stared at each other for a while, and then she drank the last sip of her wine, placed the empty glass on my desk, and stood. “I don’t have to mention that there is no statute of limitations on murder, right?”
I sighed, still holding my head up with my fist. “No, you don’t. You also don’t have to impress upon me how easy it is to drive a man to the act.”
She pulled a wayward lock behind her ear, sparkled her eyes with a quick batting of the lashes, and quarter curtseyed. “Just here to help out.” She paused at the door. “By the way…?”
“Yes?”
“I hope you get the clap.”
I collapsed my head on my arm and looked at the small amount of wine in my plastic glass, trying to figure out how to drown myself in it. What was I going to do? Hard as I tried, I couldn’t see myself marching into Lucian’s room and accusing him of something I wasn’t sure he had done. I was going to have to feel the outside edges of the thing first. I wanted to know why he had lied to me; it was a start, a chicken-shit start, but a start. As soon as I looked toward the Post-its, Ruby appeared in the doorway.
Her tone was stern. “Have you read those?”
“I’d rather have you tell me.”
She came in, and I noticed she had a large mailing envelope under her arm. “You want the good news or the bad news first?”
“There’s good news?”
“Charlie Nurburn is alive and well and living in Vista Verde, New Mexico.”
My head came off the desk like it was on fire. “What?”
She tapped the Post-its with a bright red nail, which had a little holiday wreath painted on it. “According to the records, Mr. Charlie Nurburn has been paying his taxes in Vista Verde since 1951. Here is his address and phone number.”
I yelled out the door. “Vic!”
“She’s gone.”
I got up and walked around the desk and kissed the top of her head again. “Thank you. You have no idea how much.”
She looked up at me. “Does this mean you’re ready for the bad news?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Mari Baroja is in Billings. The medical examiner said that there were tests he wanted to perform and that he couldn’t do them here.”
I stared at her for a moment and then rubbed my hands across my face. “When was this?”
“He phoned about an hour ago.”
“He already took her?”
“Yes. He said that he left a series of autopsy pictures for you at the hospital. I had the Ferg pick them up before he left.” She was watching me, but I was looking out the window and into the darkness of my life. I wasn’t in any hurry to see those pictures. She placed the large envelope on my desk.
“Is there any more bad news?”
“Cady called. She said to tell you she was packed and to remind you that she would be here tomorrow.”
“Oh, God.”
“No, it’s not that bad. I’ve got some ideas. Do you want me to just use the department plastic?”
“Yes, by all means. Just keep the receipts.” I nudged the Post-its with my fingertips. “Anything else?”
She shrugged. “The rest of it’s all kind of mediocre.”
“How’s the new kid?”
She brightened immediately and looked directly at me to let me know that she meant business. “We have to keep him.”
“I’m working on it.” I took the last sip of my wine, my mood having been improved. “He’s Basque.”
“That’s nice.”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it; it just seemed like such a Ruby thing to say. “I don’t suppose Mr. McDermott mentioned what kinds of tests he wanted to run?”
“He did not.” She studied me for a while. “This is going to be a problem with the family?”
“Oh, yes.”
“The church?”
I snorted. “Worse than that, lawyers.”
“What are you going to do?”
“You know, I wish somebody would ask me something besides that today.” She waited. “I think I’m going to run away to the Rez.”
She smiled and had a little silence of her own. “Maybe you two need to touch index fingers and recharge.”
I picked up the Post-it with Charlie’s information and the pictures, feeling the weight of the photographs. I followed Ruby out the door and into the snow, scraped off her windshield, and watched her drive slowly away. I loaded Dog into the truck, sat on his snowy footprints, and stuffed the Post-it into my breast pocket. I didn’t look at the photos, choosing instead to place the manila envelope carefully in the center console. When the console lid snapped shut, it was very loud.
5
It was a zoo, like it always was. Maggie and the Bear were sorting through a container full of Mennonite photographs, which were destined for a spring show at the Philadelphia Academy of Fine Art. The box the photos were in was for a Stetson Open Road model, a hat I had threatened to switch to about a month ago until Vic had voiced the opinion that I would look like LBJ. I looked up at the numerous and sundry pots and pans that glittered copper in the tasteful light of the small votive candles that were everywhere in the room and in the reflections of the bay windows that looked out over a receding hill and ancient sea. It was a culinary island, an eating oasis at the edge of a snowy ocean, and it was cozy, even with the other forty-three Indians eating, drinking, drumming, and roaming around the place.
I tried to concentrate on my appointed task of cutting onions, but the six conversations and the drumming were making it difficult. There were about a dozen of us who were seated and standing around the center island and, as near as I could tell, I was the only one working. I took a break and looked around to give my eyes a chance to clear.
This house knew my secrets. It knew about the time Henry and I had gotten so drunk after a junior varsity Sadie Hawkins Day dance that we had slid from the roof adjoining Henry’s room and dropped twenty feet only to be saved by the deep snow below. Henry’s father, Eldridge, came and got us, sitting us at the kitchen table and forcing us to drink bootleg hooch for the rest of the night until we both threw up and passed out. When he made us eat eggs and Tabasco sauce the next morning,
he explained that if we were going to be drunks we should know what the life was like. The house knew about the night I had called from Los Angeles to tell Henry about being drafted by the marines only to find that he had received a similar letter in Berkeley from the army. The house remembered when I had introduced Henry to my new wife, Martha. It remembered when Cady was two and established the ritual of barking like a seal for the McKenzie River salmon that always seemed to be on hand. It had been the nerve center for getting out the Indian vote when I had run for sheriff the first time. It knew when Martha had died of cancer, and it had contained the both of us when I had come to tell Henry that four high school boys in Durant had raped his niece. The house knew a million sorrows, a million victories, and Henry and me apiece. It knew when you were hungry, it knew when you were sad, and best of all it knew when you needed comfort.
I looked longingly at the dark beer in the glass to my left through watering eyes, but I had made myself a promise that I wouldn’t have another sip until I had finished cutting another onion. I cheated and took a swig.
“Lawman, do you have those onions cut?”
I sat my glass back down. “I need some nourishment.”
“Yes, the onions are holding us up.” Brandon White Buffalo had pressed me into service when we had arrived, while Henry had absconded with my date. Brandon was the owner/operator of the White Buffalo Sinclair station in Lame Deer.
I looked around the table and knew just about everybody, including Lonnie Little Bird, who sat in his wheelchair, so close to my stool that you couldn’t tell his legs were missing. “When is Melissa coming home?”
He smiled so broadly that I thought his head might crack open. “She comes back tomorrow. Um-hmm, yes, it is so.” A product of fetal alcohol syndrome, Melissa was finishing her first semester at a community college in South Dakota. I had known the Little Birds for years. They were important in a case that I had solved less than a month ago and so, every once in a while, Lonnie would wheel himself into the office and give me updates on Melissa’s progress. “She’s liking school?”
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