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Bitterroot Blues

Page 29

by Paul Moomaw


  “I wish I could say I’m sorry about this,” Marks said, and swung the maul at Arceneaux’s head. Arceneaux rolled away at the last minute and the maul slammed into the earth inches away, making the ground vibrate. Arceneaux tried to scramble to his feet, but Marks kicked him in his wounded ankle and he dropped to his knees. Then Marks kicked him under the ribs with such force that it lifted him from the ground and rolled him onto his back. He straddled Arceneaux and raised the maul again.

  Arceneaux cocked his left knee to his chest and then kicked straight up with all the force he had, directly into Marks’ testicles. The other man grunted and lurched back. Arceneaux rolled out from under and onto his hands and knees and launched himself toward the trees again. When he turned and looked back, Marks had not moved, and was in obvious pain. Then the other man glared at him, juggled the maul in his hand, and started toward Arceneaux again, more slowly this time.

  Arceneaux stood, panting, and watched Marks approach. Finally, reluctantly, he reached into his cargo pocket and retrieved the HiStandard derringer. He pointed the weapon at Marks.

  “Don’t make me shoot you,” he shouted.

  Marks laughed. “Go ahead, God damn you. I’ll kill you before that little popgun can kill me.” He kept walking forward.

  Arceneaux pulled back with his index finger. The gun had a long, stiff trigger pull, and it seemed to take forever before it went off with a high-pitched crack.

  Marks gasped and grabbed his shoulder with his left hand. “Damn,” he said. “That hurt. Now you’ve really made me mad.” He started walking toward Arceneaux again.

  Arceneaux turned sideways. Holding the little gun in both hands he aimed carefully at Marks’ midsection. It was the last bullet, and he could not afford to miss if he had to shoot; but he did not want to shoot.

  “Please, Arden. I don’t want to kill you,” he said. Marks just shook his head and kept walking toward him. Arceneaux took a deep breath and pulled the trigger a second time.

  There was a puff of dust as the bullet struck Marks square in the middle of the chest. He stopped and looked down, shaking his head. He pawed at the spot where the bullet had entered him, then gazed back at Arceneaux, no pain in his eyes, just surprise and bewilderment. Then he fell back and down, straight as a tree, still grasping the maul.

  Arceneaux stood where he was for a while, catching his breath and willing his heart to stop racing. Then he walked over to Marks. The eyes were still wide open, but Marks was clearly dead, with the faint smell of feces that comes when a human being lets go of life suddenly.

  Arceneaux turned away and began walking slowly to his truck. The singing in the church had stopped, and a few people were standing just outside its door, gazing in his direction, but no one approached. Arceneaux reached the truck, opened the door, and got his cellular phone. He dialed 911 and stared at the trees until the dispatcher answered.

  “I need to report a homicide,” he said. “In Woodvale.” He gave the dispatcher his name, then listened briefly before he nodded and said, “Yeah, I’ll be right here. I’m not going anywhere,” and right at that moment those words felt as if they held the whole meaning of his life.

  Chapter 47

  Arceneaux and Tina Tanner sat at her small kitchen table, working on a batch of eggs mixed with the last of the season’s elk sausage, washing that down with glasses of Moose Drool. A mixed freight was heading east on the tracks just beyond her building, and the heavy rumble of its engines made the window glass vibrate. Arceneaux had needed to talk, to debrief. As he looked over his plate at Tina the thought came, unbidden and with a pang, that it should have been Anne, but he brushed that away with the fingers of his mind and took a big swallow of beer.

  “They’re not going to charge me with anything,” Arceneaux said. “Barbara Drake says it was obvious I shot Arden in self defense, and she can’t see wasting county money. I think she wants the whole thing to just go away.”

  “No formal clearing of Elbert’s name?” Tina said.

  “Not publicly. The case can die a natural death.” Arceneaux chuckled. “Nice to have at least one natural death in all this, don’t you think?”

  “How are you feeling about it?”

  Arceneaux shrugged. “I don’t know. Lots of different ways, I guess. Foolish that I got conned for so long. Glad I finally caught on.” He glanced over at Anne and smiled. “I owe it all to my old Subaru, you know? If it hadn’t broken down, I wouldn’t have gotten that ride with Peck, and I would never have known Arden was at the Double Pine that night. I wouldn’t have made the connection with the poker, either.” He took a sip of wine and leaned back.

  “That was the key, somehow. When Peck mentioned the poker, everything fell into place, kind of like wiggling a kaleidoscope and suddenly a beautiful pattern forms. I realized Arden had lied about being at Double Pine. Then I took a better look at some of the other lies he told me. For instance, he said he felt grateful to Elbert. Said Elbert had protected him from their father when they were kids. But you told me right at the beginning that Elbert used to hold Arden down so the old man could whack him better. Elbert told me the same thing, matter of fact. It just didn’t get through my thick skull.” Arceneaux paused and shook his head. “Arden lied about the knife, too. I knew he was lying, but I just assumed he was covering for his brother.”

  Arceneaux got up and loaded his plate with a second pile of eggs and sausage. “You want some?” he asked.

  “I’m good,” Tina said. She grinned up at him. “Being a hero must be hungry work.”

  “Some hero,” Arceneaux said, and sat back down. “There was another lie I should have caught earlier, too,” he said. “I saw Arden’s little trail bike, all smashed up. Darline Jasmine said that she heard him riding the thing around right up until just before the murders. When I asked Arden about it, he said he had wrecked it early in the summer.” Arceneaux paused and nodded. “I forgot that, which ought to teach me a lesson, for sure. I took notes on everyone I interviewed except Arden.

  “Maybe you were too busy listening,” Tina said. “When I was in high school, I had a teacher who said that when she lectured, I could either take notes or listen.”

  Arceneaux laughed. “Great excuse,” he said. “I’ll have to remember that next time I screw up.” He gazed out the window for a moment, nodding his head thoughtfully. “There was another thing I had forgotten, too, until the very end. When I found Elbert swinging, the noose around his neck was done in a hangman’s knot. It’s not a real hard knot, but it takes two hands. I know. I tried for a quarter of an hour to tie one with one hand. Couldn’t do it, and I realized Elbert wouldn’t have been able to either, not with that crippled arm. Somebody had to do it for him, and that obviously was Arden.”

  “Case closed,” Tina said.

  “I guess. It turns out that when Elbert disappeared, it was because Arden had drugged him and hidden him in the church basement. They found signs where he had been tied up for a long time. He didn’t get to answer any calls of nature, and Arden never cleaned up the mess.”

  Arceneaux stopped and thought for a moment. “There was another thing. You know that fire at Harvey English’s office? Crisp set it to destroy the interview notes on Samantha, remember?” He waited for a nod from Anne. “Harvey finally talked to Barbara about those sessions. Samantha hadn’t said a word about Crisp. She was all worked up about how Arden had talked her into letting Elbert knock her up, and then started giving her hell for being pregnant, telling her she was a sinner, that she was going to hell, and her baby, too. That last day at Arden’s place, he said something about the pregnancy being his idea. I didn’t get it then, but now I’m beginning to.”

  Arceneaux laughed and spread his hands. “Arden was setting Elbert up to frame him, playing him and Samantha like pieces on a game board. He was playing me, too. Years ago I read a book called Squares of the City, by a guy named John Brunner. The story was about this city with all kinds of conflict and politicking and maneuvering, and all the p
eople being wrapped up in what they think are their own clever ideas. Only it turns out that it’s all a giant chess game, played by a group of super beings. The city is the chess board, and the people are the pieces.” Arceneaux shook his head. “They should have met Arden. He could have played with them.” He reached for his beer glass and took a large swallow.

  “It’s kind of ironic,” he said. “Crisp never needed to set that fire, and if he hadn’t, he probably would never have been connected to Laura Hooters, no matter how much I complained. And if they hadn’t busted Crisp, he would never have fingered Elbert.”

  “And without Elbert, Arden would have been convicted months ago,” Tina said. “What a hoot!”

  They both began laughing, but then Arceneaux suddenly stopped, and his face fell apart. He sat for a long time staring at the wall.

  “What’s going on, Sam?” Tina finally asked.

  “If he had been convicted back then, I wouldn’t have his death on my soul,” Arcenaux said. He looked intently at Tina, pain in his eyes. “I didn’t want to kill him, you know? I did my best not to have to. If he had just let me run away, I would have.” He shuddered. “When he died, it was with his eyes wide open.” He looked at Anne. “When I was in the Gulf War, I killed a soldier. You didn’t know that, did you?”

  Tina shook her head and waited for him to continue.

  “He was just a kid, maybe fifteen or sixteen. He knew I was going to kill him, and he was so scared. Maybe if he had dropped his gun I wouldn’t have, but he didn’t. He never tried to shoot me with it, never even pointed it at me, just stood there hanging on to it and begging me with his eyes while I killed him. Then I went over to where he was lying on his back, and his eyes were wide open, and still scared looking. When I looked at Arden’s eyes I saw that kid all over again.” He paused and tried not to feel the huge wave of sadness that began to wash over him. “I could have at least closed that boy’s eyes,” he said at last. “I didn’t even do that. I just kind of kicked at him and walked away.” Arceneaux knew he was starting to cry, and could not stop.

  Tina sat silently and let him cry. He did it silently, but with rivers of tears that dripped from his face and splashed onto the table. Finally the tears stopped. He stared out the window again and took a deep breath, then looked back at Tina.,

  “I guess the Sam you thought you saw isn’t the Sam you get,” he said. I’ve got a big stain on my soul.”

  Tina reached across the table and squeeze his hand, then let go again.

  “What I see is just a guy,” she said. “Only in some funny kind of way you’ve lived longer than I have.” She rose, picked up their plates, and carried them into the kitchen. “How’s your son?”

  “He’s doing okay,” Arceneaux said. “He even still thinks I’m a hero.”

  “Tina came back from the kitchen with the big growler bottle of Moose Drool and poured what was left into their glasses. Then she lifted her glass to Arceneaux.

  “Here’s to hero worship,” she said.

  “While it lasts,” Arceneaux replied.

  Chapter 48

  The sweat house was hotter than the ones Arceneaux thought he remembered from his youth, and not as dark. He could just make out the ghostly forms of Harry Blackbird and Jasper across from him, and Josh, sitting at his side. The sweat house was Harry’s. Not his, really, but located near his place, which was outside the town of Arlee, off the road that led to Gray Wolf Peak, and years before, Harry had accepted the responsibility of keeping it in shape. They had driven up that morning, he and Josh and Jasper, in Jasper’s 1956 Chevrolet convertible, a confection of pale sky blue with creamy white seats that Jasper had bought and rebuilt in the early nineties, and that he cleaned and polished and fussed and prayed over. Jasper was single and childless, and referred to the convertible as his family. They had brought Subway sandwiches and shared them with Harry in the forty-foot trailer he called home, and then walked up a path that led from his place to a clearing next to a small stream. In the middle of the clearing was the sweat house. It was solid, and traditionally built, with a curved frame of willow poles, roofed probably with canvas originally, and that covered over with a thick layer of sod that had sprouted and grown, so that the whole thing looked like a grass-covered mound. Harry said it had been built before he was even born, and when he moved into the trailer he knew it was his job to keep it in good repair. No one had told him to, he said. He just knew he was supposed to.

  Inside the sweat house, near one wall, was a pit, and outside a pile of stones and a fire pit. Harry had started a fire before the others arrived, and now they placed the stones carefully into the hot coals. They returned to the trailer and had coffee, with a Pepsi for Josh, while the stones got hot enough to use. Then they shoveled the rocks into a wheelbarrow, one of Harry’s nods to modern technology, and placed them into the pit inside the sweat house.

  They had done one sweat, and Harry had said a prayer. He said it was to the Creator Spirit, asking for guidance and purification, but Arceneaux had to take his word for it, because he knew only a few words of Salish he had picked up from his father. Then they had gone to the stream and poured water on their naked bodies with a bucket, and returned for a second sweat.

  They sat silently in the dark for several minutes. Arceneaux let the heat penetrate his body, and wished it could penetrate to his soul. Now he carried the burden of another life taken, and it was hard to believe that any fire could purge him. He sighed, a deep, noisy sigh.

  “You sound troubled,” Harry said.

  “I am. I killed a man, and I don’t know how to cleanse myself of that stain.”

  “He was trying to kill you,” Josh said in a righteous tone. “He deserved to die.”

  “No one deserves to die, son,” Arceneaux said.

  “Your father is right,” Harry said. “Only the creator has that right, to give life, and to take it away. But even the creator has to use physical tools, because he is a spirit being. Look at how he uses a man and a woman to make a new child so that there is a place to put a soul. Maybe the creator needed your father to be his tool to help him take a soul back.”

  It sounded great, Arceneaux thought. But it did not make him feel any better.

  After a while they went back to the stream and poured water on themselves again, then returned to the sweat house.

  “This will be the last one,” Harry said. “Josh is still pretty young.”

  “I can do more,” Josh said.

  “You will, for sure,” Harry replied. “But not this time.”

  Arceneaux expected Josh, who had been demonstrating a growing streak of stubbornness recently, to protest, but all he said was, “Okay. You’re our teacher.”

  “No,” Harry said. “I’m just a man like the rest of us.”

  “But you know the things we have to learn,” Josh said.

  “I know the things I had to learn. You will have to learn the things you need to know. But because this is your first time, I’ll tell you about the sweat.”

  Harry paused, and Arceneaux felt Josh move closer to him. He put a hand on his son’s shoulder, let it rest there briefly, and then removed it.

  “Before there were human beings in this land, there were other people. They were the animal people, and the Creator Spirit made them just like he made us,” Harry said. “So when the Creator Spirit knew that humans were about to come into the land, he called all the animal people together and told them they would have to choose names, and that those names would tell them how they would relate to the humans. So he had them all come together to his sweat house, quil’ sten, the warming place, to choose names. He told them that the first to arrive could pick any name he wanted, and the next could pick any name but that one, and that way, down the line, until the last one had picked a name.”

  Harry fell silent again, and in the heat he seemed to waver and blur, like a spirit being himself.

  “The very first animal person to arrive was the grizzly bear, and he was happy with tha
t, because he could be strong and everyone would fear him; and so he said, ‘I will take the name that belongs to me, kee-lau-naw, Grizzly Bear.’ And the Creator Spirit agreed and sent him out of the quil’ sten. The next to arrive was the eagle, and he kept his name, too. It was milka-noups. And it went that way all day, until all of the animals had chosen names. Some of them weren’t real happy, because the names they wanted were gone. Like the coyote, sink-a-lip, who wanted to be the eagle, or the bear, or even the salmon, except those names had been picked already.”

  There was silence again, and Harry motioned with his hand toward the hot stones. There was a tiny hiss, and then the fragrance of sage filled the air.

  “When the names were all used up, the Creator Spirit’s wife still had not taken one. So she became quil’ sten, sweat house, and this is her body. This is where we can come to cleanse ourselves and find our way. When we have big decisions to make, coming here can help. This is where you can find your real name.”

  There was another long period of silence, and then Josh broke the spell.

  “I know my real name,” he said. “It’s Josh.”

  “You’ve got a spirit name, too,” Harry said.

  Arceneaux sat thinking. He certainly had big decisions to make. Whether to return to practicing law. What to do about Josh, for that matter. The boy had been making noises about coming to live with him, full time, and he did not know if he was ready, would ever be ready, for that.

  “I think you’ve got decisions to make,” Harry said. It took Arceneaux a moment to realize that the other man was speaking to him, as if he had been reading his mind.

 

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