Watching Eagles Soar

by Margaret Coel

  Vicky took a deep breath. “Whoever killed him used your pistol.”

  “It got stole out of the garage.”

  “Did you report it stolen?”

  “How’d I know it was gone?” Phillip shifted forward, scraping the handcuffs over the table. “I kept it under the counter for emergencies, some warrior coming in and eyeing the cash register. Haven’t been any emergencies lately.”

  “Who knew about the gun?”

  He shrugged. “Everybody on the rez. What’s the good of protection, nobody knows you got it?”

  Vicky made a quick note: pistol stolen from garage. Then she said, “You were having an affair with Moon’s wife, right?”

  The man kept his gaze steady. “Wasn’t no secret. She’s a good woman, Gloria. Traditional, you know what I mean?”

  Vicky nodded and he went on: “Been learning the stories from Regina Old Bear. Someday Gloria’s gonna be a storyteller herself, so she can pass on the Arapaho Way to the younger generation.” The brown, bulky arms slid forward on the handcuffs. He kept his eyes locked on hers. “All me and Gloria wants is a little happiness. She’s been trying to get a divorce, but that bastard Moon was fighting her. Wouldn’t let her go.”

  Vicky swallowed hard. There it was—the motive. She could hear the prosecutor’s voice in her head: The only way Phillip Blindy could have Gloria Moon was if James Moon was dead.

  “What about the afternoon of the murder?” Vicky said. “Martin Greasy saw . . .”

  “Yeah, well, he don’t know . . .”

  “What, Phillip? What doesn’t he know?” Vicky could hear the hope in her voice. Maybe the prosecution’s key witness had missed something.

  The Indian threw another glance at the ceiling. “He don’t know how scared Gloria was when she come running into the garage. Said Moon was gonna kill her. Next thing I know, Moon’s wheeling his truck in behind Gloria’s Honda. He comes stomping inside, screaming like a wounded bull. ‘Told you to stay away from this SOB.’ He grabs Gloria, pulls her outside, and starts slapping her around.”

  “What did you do?” Vicky held her breath. It was like watching the first act of a play when you knew the final act was murder.

  “What d’ya think?” The handcuffs pounded the table. Vicky could feel the vibration in her chest, like the aftermath of a drumbeat. “I run outside and pull him off her. The bastard turns on me and throws a sucker punch to the gut, and I go down on all fours.”

  “What about Gloria?”

  “She’s outta there. I seen the Honda driving off and Moon’s truck peeling out after her. I seen Greasy’s truck parked across the road. He’s watching everything.”

  Vicky wrote: Greasy saw Moon assault wife. Then she said, “According to Greasy, Gloria and Moon drove off about ten minutes before three. You went back into the garage, then left a few minutes later. You know what that means, don’t you? The prosecution will argue you went back to get your gun. Then you followed Moon, forced him onto Cedar Butte Road, and shot him.” She watched the Indian’s face for some sign that what she’d said was true—the tiniest nod, the faintest twitch. There was nothing.

  She hurried on: “The prosecution will also say you intended to bury the body, so it would look like Moon disappeared. You started to dig a hole next to the road, but something happened. A car coming, maybe. So you drove off in a hurry . . .”

  “Yeah, and I’m stupid enough to leave my gun there.” Blindy let out a loud guffaw, an explosion of breath. “And I’m gonna hang around to bury that bastard? You look in my toolbox. You’ll see my shovel’s busted. What’d I use to dig a hole? A stick?”

  He leaned back, the self-mockery in his expression edging toward despair. “Like I told the fed that come around asking questions, I went back inside to lock up. Then I drove straight over to Gloria’s place. She never showed, so I went driving around the rez looking for her. After a while I went home, thinking maybe she went to my place.” He shook his head. “Moon’d kill her for sure, he found her there. Pretty soon she calls, says she drove right to Regina Old Bear’s. Should’ve figured she’d go there to get some comfort from the stories.”

  Vicky sat back, aware of the jail sounds coming from far away, the smell of perspiration, like fear, in the man across from her. She could imagine the prosecutor’s summation—she could write it herself: Blindy wants us to believe he spent an hour just driving around. No one saw him. No one talked to him until four o’clock when Gloria finally got ahold of him. Where was he, ladies and gentlemen of the jury? Out on Cedar Butte Road shooting James Moon.

  Vicky felt a sense of hopelessness pouring through her like a cold rain. She had nothing—Phillip’s story; that was all. The prosecutor would demolish it in five minutes. And yet, and yet . . . the story rang true. Why would a killer leave the murder weapon at the scene, unless the killer wanted to frame Phillip Blindy?

  She said, “I believe you, Phillip.” God help us both, she was thinking as she stuffed the tablet and pen into her briefcase and started to her feet. The door opened behind her, and a wave of air—not fresh, just different—floated into the room.

  “Father O’Malley waiting to see you, Blindy,” the guard said.

  The Indian jumped to his feet, as if a lifeline had been tossed out that he meant to grab. In his eyes, Vicky saw a surge of hope that matched her own. She and the pastor of St. Francis Mission had worked on many cases together. He was logical—relentlessly logical. If anyone could find the missing piece of logic in the evidence against Phillip Blindy, it would be John O’Malley.

  “I’ll be in touch,” she told the Indian. She brushed past the guard and hurried down the corridor to the lobby.

  “How’s he doing?” Father John was just outside the double security doors—tall and redheaded, in the usual blue jeans and plaid shirt, slapping his tan cowboy hat against one leg. He looked out of breath, worried, as if he’d been called to the scene of an accident.

  “He’s scared,” she said. She stopped herself from adding: So am I. “He wants to talk to you. I’ll be waiting outside.”

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later, Vicky spotted Father John coming out of the glass-fronted entrance. She got out of her Bronco, where she’d been going over the grand jury transcripts once again, and hurried across the parking lot. The hot asphalt grabbed at her heels; the sun burned through the back of her suit jacket. “What do you think?” she said when she reached him.

  “He’s innocent, Vicky.”

  “The evidence says otherwise.” An engine turned over. A car backed out of a slot and drove past, emitting a blast of gray exhaust.

  “Phillip’s not the only one with a motive,” Father John said after a moment. “Gloria Moon also had a motive . . .”

  Vicky cut in: “She has an airtight alibi, John. Regina Old Bear says Gloria came to her house at three, ten minutes after she’d left the garage. Regina’s spent her life memorizing the old stories and telling them exactly as they’ve always been told. She tells the truth. She wouldn’t lie for anyone.”

  Father John glanced at some point across the parking lot. After a moment, he brought his eyes to hers. “Phillip’s worried about Gloria. He says she’s so upset, she’s been staying with Regina since the murder. Why don’t we drive over and have a talk with them?”

  * * *

  The house was painted pink, fading to gray. The woman in the doorway looked bent and ancient, wearing a blue dress that brushed the top of her white moccasins, clasping a red shawl about her shoulders. Her hair was almost white, pulled back from a narrow, creased face with wide-set black eyes and a thin slash of a mouth. Pinned in one side of her hair was a tiny black feather—her only jewelry.

  “Well, Father John and Vicky, come in, come in.” Regina Old Bear swung the door back and motioned them inside.

  Vicky felt as if she’d stepped into the Old Time. The oblong living room resembled the i
nterior of a tipi on the plains. Thick buffalo robes and Indian blankets were draped over the low couches that surrounded a faded Indian rug. On a small table near the door—a place of honor—was a buffalo skull, painted sky blue and decorated in red and yellow lines and circles, Arapaho symbols for life and the people. Everything in the room was old and worn. Nothing hinted of the present.

  “We got company,” Regina Old Bear called down a hallway on the other side of the table. Then she dropped onto a couch and waved them to another: “Make yourselves comfortable,” she said.

  Vicky sat down on a cushion covered with a scratchy wool blanket. Father John perched next to her. “How have you been, Grandmother,” he said, using the term of respect for the old woman.

  “Real worried about Gloria. She’s been in a state.” Regina Old Bear shook her head. “Terrible thing, James getting murdered. It’s good Gloria’s learning the stories. They’re gonna make her strong. You know”—she nodded toward Vicky—“stories about the girl who became a bear, and the man who sharpened his foot, and the woman who climbed to the sky.”

  Vicky felt as if Regina Old Bear had hurled a stone and hit her in the chest. She gasped for breath. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Father John shift forward, his posture suddenly rigid with understanding.

  “And married Moon,” she managed.

  Somewhere in the house, a door slammed shut. There was the shush of footsteps coming down the hall, then Gloria standing in the doorway. Still in her twenties, Vicky guessed, a trim figure in tight blue jeans and a short, white tee shirt that exposed her navel. There was a mixture of hardness and vulnerability in the finely sculptured features, the black hair parted in the middle and draping over her shoulders, the narrow eyes as dark as river stones.

  “What are you doing here?” she said.

  “We want to talk to you about Phillip.” Father John got to his feet. “He’s charged with a murder he didn’t commit.”

  “If that’s what he told you, he’s lying,” Gloria said.

  “Grandmother says you’ve been learning the stories,” Vicky began, selecting the words. “She says you know ‘The Woman Who Climbed to the Sky.’”

  Did she imagine it? The almost imperceptible flinch in the young woman’s cheeks?

  “Gloria got that story down just right.” Regina Old Bear rearranged herself on the couch, patting her blue dress over the bony knobs of her knees. “The woman was unhappy, married to Moon. She wanted to come back to her people on earth. But Moon said no. He said he’d kill her if she left.”

  “She left anyway.” Vicky kept her eyes on Gloria. “The woman took a stick.”

  Vicky hesitated, Phillip’s words burning in her mind: What’d I use to dig a hole? A stick? “She dug a hole in the sky. Then she looped a line over the stick, set the stick over the hole, and swung down to earth on the line. Remember the rest, Gloria?”

  The young woman didn’t say anything, and Vicky went on: “Moon killed her, just as he’d said. He threw a boulder down and crushed her.”

  Gloria jerked sideways, knocking against the edge of the table. The buffalo skull skidded over the top, and she grabbed at it and set it upright.

  For a long moment, there were only the sounds of breathing—in and out—in the room. Finally Father John said, “You wanted to change the story, didn’t you, Gloria?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” A note of hysteria worked into the woman’s voice.

  “You can’t change the stories.” Regina Old Bear set both hands on the edge of the couch and leaned forward. “Gloria’s gotta pass ’em on truthfully, like she learned them.”

  Father John pushed on: “The story meant a lot to you, Gloria.”

  “It’s your favorite,” the old woman said. “You been telling me how you know the woman.”

  “Grandmother, don’t . . .”

  “You understand her, ’cause she’s like you.” Something new—a tightness—had come into the old woman’s voice.

  Gloria swung around and opened the door. “Why don’t you get out, Vicky. You, too, Father. All you care about is Phillip. You don’t know anything about me.”

  Vicky stood up. “If you hadn’t taken a stick and dug the hole, Gloria, Phillip would have paid for a murder he didn’t commit. But you wanted to leave a sign that the story could turn out differently. The woman didn’t have to die. Moon died instead.”

  “You’re crazy, both of you.” Gloria was shouting now. “I tell you, Phillip killed my husband.”

  “That’s what you’d hoped would happen,” Vicky said. “Phillip has a quick temper, and he was in love with you. You arranged the meeting at the garage, knowing your husband would rush over and start a fight. You were counting on Phillip going for the gun and shooting him. But he didn’t. Instead, they got into a fistfight outside.”

  Vicky stopped. It was clear now. She could almost see the story unfolding. “You had to change your plans. You ran back inside and got the gun while they were fighting. Then you drove to Cedar Butte Road, knowing James would be right behind you. When he got out of his truck, you shot him.”

  Gloria let out a scream of laughter. “You can’t prove anything.”

  Father John said, “Not true, Gloria. How did James know when to come to the garage, unless you called him? There’ll be a record of your call. And I suspect Martin Greasy, when he thinks about it, will remember that you ran back into the garage before you drove off.”

  “I got a witness,” Gloria said, turning toward the old woman. “Grandmother knows I got here at three o’clock. Tell them, Grandmother.”

  “How can you know, Grandmother?” Vicky said. “I don’t see any clocks here. You don’t wear a watch.”

  “Of course there are clocks . . .” Gloria began.

  “I don’t need clocks.” The old woman pushed herself off the couch and walked stiff-legged over to Gloria. “Sun comes up, I know the day’s started. Sun’s high in the sky, day’s half over. Sun drops behind the mountains, I know night’s coming on. That’s all I need to know.”

  “Please, Grandmother . . .” Gloria swallowed back the rest of the plea.

  “You come rushing in here, said your husband and Phillip got in a fight, said it was three o’clock. I believed you was telling a true story, but you changed the time, just like you wanted to change the story.” The old woman drew herself upright in a rictus of rage. “You forgot the ending, Gloria. The woman gave birth to a son before she died. He grew up in her village. He was called Hiiciisisa, Moon-child. He was brave and strong, like his mother. He lived a hundred years and taught the people good things—only good things.”

  Regina Old Bear grabbed Gloria by the shoulders and pulled her forward. She looked small in the old woman’s grasp, limp as a rag doll. “The woman brought goodness to her people, you hear me, Gloria? Not murder.”

  Gloria slumped forward, hands clawing behind her at the table, the buffalo skull, and for a moment, Vicky thought she would crumble to the floor.

  “He wouldn’t let me go, Grandmother.” She was sobbing, shoulders heaving inside the old woman’s grasp. “He was just like Moon. He was gonna kill me. I had to change the story.”

  Regina Old Bear stared at her a long moment, then wrapped her arms around her and pulled her close. The sound of sobs, muffled and intermittent, drifted into the silence.

  “She’s going to need a good lawyer,” Father John said.

  Vicky felt the pressure of his hand on her shoulder.

  She drew in a long breath. “As soon as I get Phillip’s case dismissed,” she said, “I’ll be available.”

  Whirlwind Woman

  The Tenth Commandment: Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s goods.

  Hospitals. Nursing homes. Hospice centers. They had a sameness about them, Vicky thought. The same vinyl floors gleaming under fluorescent ceiling lights, mop marks visible in th
e wax; the same dust motes floating in columns of sunshine that shot into the middle of the seating areas; the same odors of disinfectant mingling with the smells of half-dead roses on a stand somewhere. She signed in on the register that the gray-haired woman in the dark blue business suit pushed across the counter toward her. Under Patient, she wrote, Anna Running Fast.

  “Vicky Holden?” the woman said, her eyes on the register. “Are you family?”

  “Granddaughter,” Vicky said.

  The woman looked up, skepticism pinging in her gaze. The name on the white plastic badge shimmering on her lapel was Alice Berkel. She said, “We didn’t realize that Mrs. Running Fast had any granddaughters.”

  Vicky kept her own expression immobile, her gaze steady. She didn’t say anything. There was no explaining to a white woman the complicated relationships of the Arapahos, relationships that had nothing to do with blood ties. Anna had been her grandmother’s friend. She and her family had lived down the road from her grandparents’ ranch. Another friend, Mamie Yellow Bird, had lived across the road. They’d gone back and forth, the three families, visiting and eating and looking after one another’s kids and grandkids. She could still see herself, a small brown child, tugging on one of the women’s skirts, staring up into warm brown eyes, saying, “Grandmother. Grandmother.” She would keep tugging until either Anna or Mamie would scoop her up, prop her on one hip, and nuzzle her neck. “My, you are a persistent little girl,” Anna would usually say.

  And now Anna was dying. Another patient at Riverton Memorial moved to the hospice floor where only family members were allowed to visit.

  Vicky knew the white woman was waiting for some explanation, some proof, perhaps—birth certificate, marriage license—that would give her the right to a final visit with Anna Running Fast. There was no proof, nothing but tradition and the way things were on the Wind River Reservation. She remained silent, knowing she could outwait the woman. Silence made white people nervous.