“How are you any different?”
“Who said I was? But you are right, Harold. I am different. What Fitz Carpenter aspired to was an office with a view, not the windowless cubicle that defines his position on the ladder. I do not aspire to an office with a view. I aspire to the view as my office. At the present time, our government has taken that view from me against constitutional authority and has restricted my access to it and my activities upon it. People look at my beard, see my middle finger raised against the tyranny, and they say militiaman, they say conspiracy theorist, they say Christian patriot, they say white supremacist. But I have no ax to grind when it comes to the color of a man’s skin, nor Bible to thump with my knuckles. All I am is a rural free American man who wants the right to walk into the Montana horizons and hunt, fish, and camp on lands that rightfully belong to me. To have the freedom of the view.”
“And kill bears for their gall bladders and leave the carcasses to rot on the forest floor.”
Job again smiled. “Did God not give us dominion over the animals, Harold?” He shook his head. “All my adult life I have hunted under onerous restrictions and been persecuted for the slightest, ah, misinterpretation of such restriction.”
“One year, seven months, and five days,” Harold said. And thought, Provoke him. If you make him mad, you make him careless.
Once again, Job looked at him askance. “Are you mocking me?”
“I know how long you spent in Deer Lodge prison,” Harold said. “You’ve told me the story more than a dozen times.”
Job lit another cigarette. “I am a man of resolve, but how one quits this pernicious habit is beyond me.” He exhaled, the smoke columning up to hang in a haze under the rock ceiling.
“Prison is something that sticks in the craw,” he said. “And then, less than a year after my release, I pick up a rifle that has spiderwebs in its bore from disuse, yet before I can fire those eight-legged darlings out the spout, along you come, flexing your tattoos, playing hard to get, then coming around to me as if you’d just found a blood cousin. I welcome you, treat you with respect, and what is my reward? That you scheme against me. You, a man whose blood should boil at the oppression of a government that gave your people disease, that killed your buffalo and raped your women and stole your land, that hasn’t uttered a word of truth to you in more than two hundred years?”
He smoked. “I misjudged your character, Harold, but at the time I thought, ‘Here is someone who can follow a track, but more important, a man whose heritage puts us on common ground. I can trust this man.’ And I did, right up until the crack of the rifle. You placed a stone of doubt in my heart when you missed that bear. Still, I was willing to give you the benefit. And then one morning I wake up under the flag that flies over my compound, and who do I find in my drive but Fitz Carpenter with his promises of our future. What arrogance! To come to my compound, my sanctuary. All we have to do, he says, is convince you to get on board. If you resist, we can make you disappear and find someone else for our project. The truth is I think he wanted to get rid of you. It would make us brothers bound by blood. By your blood. Sharing that guilt, we would be less likely to betray one another.”
Job flicked the ash from the cigarette. “I never smoked before I went away,” he said. “It was another way of doing the time. You can get high if you try hard enough, let your mind soar. But you aren’t interested, are you, Harold? You have no vices. Yet here you are.”
Silence settled in the cave. Then the faint sound of the bats, their claws scraping against the upside-down candles of the stalactites.
“You interrupted my train of thought,” Job said. “Where was I? Oh yes, Fitz. I told him to give me a couple nights to mull over his offer, and all this time he sat across from me I was looking past him and seeing you. What was this evidence you had collected against me? Where was it? Would it surface if Fitz was to die? Would it surface if you were to die? Or would it go to the grave with your body? These things I needed to know. Truthfully, I was at an impasse. I did not see how I could eliminate either of you without a shadow cast in my direction. I even entertained the notion of tucking my tail and fleeing the state. And now we come to your friend, the Scarecrow God.”
“He’s no friend.”
“Then my mistake. It is of no consequence. What is important is that he crossed my path, call it providence, destiny, what you will.”
He looked at the cigarette between his fingers and stubbed it out against his belt buckle.
He nodded to himself as he began to tell the story.
He said he’d been in the Mint Bar in White Sulphur Springs when he overheard a man, with long hair and eyes that moved without settling, saying that he was looking for a place to park his truck near the river. The man introduced himself as Jewel MacAllen. Job had stood him a beer. “Can you keep a secret?” the man asked him. Job said he could.
Had he heard about the dagum mine? That was the word Jewel had used, one that peppered his speech. Job had heard, and yes, he agreed that the copper mine was a travesty. Jewel said he had a plan, had driven all the way from Florida to execute it. The plan came out with the alcohol, a little incoherently, but Job got the drift. He prodded the man to keep talking, but to keep his voice down. They were in the lion’s den, after all; nearly everybody in White Sulphur Springs supported the project. It was the only town in the state that stood to profit.
Job told the man to follow him to the compound, where he was welcome to leave his truck. He gave him directions from there to the homestead, told him he’d be able to keep a roof over his head there and be undisturbed as he went about his work. Jewel had asked what he could do to repay Job for his generosity. Job had replied that Jewel could honor him by constructing the largest of his scarecrows in a place of his selection. Job provided a hand-drawn map. The site where he wanted the scarecrow was the pictograph ledges above Crow’s Foot boat camp.
At this point in his narration, Job focused his eyes on Harold.
“Now the stage was set,” he said. “Now I had to be patient.”
News came to him first by word of mouth. Someone was building scarecrows along the river, putting up signs that read Not on my watch. A name for this mischief-maker was coined—the Scarecrow God. Who was he? Devil or watchman? Sinner or saint? Could he be dangerous? The state thought so. They responded by closing the river.
Job bided his time. He had to wait until Jewel built the scarecrow at the ledges. The location was chosen with care. Far enough away that it wouldn’t draw attention to the compound. Close enough to check on Jewel’s progress at regular intervals. From the compound, an old Jeep road climbed to an overlook. Every day, Job would take a four-wheeler and set up a spotting scope. Day after day, nothing. Finally, when Job figured that Jewel had forgotten his promise or lost the map, he saw something in the scope. He cranked up the power of magnification to fifty. And there it was. Not a complete scarecrow, just the beginning of one, but that is all he needed to move forward.
He paused, and smiled at Harold.
“Let me ask you a hypothetical question. Imagine that you found yourself in a predicament that could only be resolved by killing a person. Possibly two people. The killing would be easy. Keeping the finger of the law from pointing in your direction would be the catch. What would you do?”
Go along with him, Harold told himself. Keep him talking until he forgets I’m here, until he makes just one mistake.
He said, “I’d stage the deaths in a way that placed blame for them on someone else. Ideally, someone who had a motive, but didn’t have an alibi.”
“Very good,” Job said. “So who did you think that was, who could be blamed for the deaths?”
“Jewel MacAllen,” Harold said.
Job smiled. “I see that little unpleasantness at the river, when I had to quiet you with a rock, did not impair the function of your brain. You are, of course, correct.”
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br /> He said that his next step was to contact Fitz Carpenter. He was, after all, the man who had put Job in the bind he found himself in, and one of the people who had to be eliminated. He called him. Said he’d been thinking over his offer, that he was amenable, and would Fitz drive to the compound, where they could discuss their joint venture in person? But first, he wanted Fitz to do him a favor.
Again, Job smiled.
“What favor do you think that was, Harold?”
“I don’t know.”
“It was to call you. To send you on a fool’s errand to find the Scarecrow God. Because you were . . . Finish the thought for me, Harold. Who were you?”
“The second person you had to kill. Get rid of Fitz, get rid of me, and there’s nobody to tie you to your crimes.”
“My, you’re smart. I really do wish we’d met under other circumstances. Where was I? Oh, yes, Fitz. I told him that I would post a sentry on the river, either Dewey or myself, and we, whoever, would wave you over as you floated by. That way, we could present you with the details of our venture on my terms and on my grounds. If the discussion headed in a direction that was not to our liking, then you would not live to see another bend of the river. Your death would be a drowning, natural enough given the height of the water. But if you offered resistance, a bullet would do in a pinch. In that case, the suspicion would fall upon the Scarecrow God. Obviously you had caught him in the act. You died in the line of duty, your body found not far from the scarecrow.”
Job relit the crooked cigarette he had stubbed out on his belt buckle. Took a lungful, blew it out, and continued.
“If Fitz had thought it through, he would have realized that I asked him to come to the compound for the same reason that I asked him to send you down the river, to draw him into the sights of my rifle. When he saw that instead of partnering with him I was eliminating him as a witness, he pleaded with me. I told him that his only hope was to tell me what evidence you had gathered. He said that your report hadn’t been filed, that you were dragging your feet, but that he knew where it was. If I released him, he would bring it to me. Where? I asked. He said your sister’s house. Where in the house? He hesitated. In a trunk, he said. In the basement. I lied and told him I had been to the house and that it didn’t have a basement. The crawl space, then, he said. I watched him try to squirm out of the trap, heard him begin to embellish, watched his eyes go anywhere but to mine. Don’t lose your dignity, I told him. Just tell the truth. It will set you free. He began to cry and admitted then that he had no idea where your report was, or even if there was one. At that moment I had no more use for him, and I do not think he heard the shot that killed him.”
“You cut off his head.”
“I wanted to—” He stopped, and frowned down at Harold.
“My, you’ve been busy,” he said. “What happened, did a bear dig it up?”
“Birds found it. Jewel MacAllen followed them.”
“Curiosity killed the cat.”
“No, it didn’t. He was alive after you shot him, and he knows it was you who killed Fitz Carpenter.”
“He never surfaced. He’s dead.” But his voice did not sound as certain as his words.
“So you tell yourself.”
“No,” shaking his head as he said the word. “I don’t think so.” He seemed to be somewhere else and when he came back, his voice had reclaimed its authority. “No. You, Harold, are my sole remaining problem. You wonder why I have kept you alive. I have—”
“Why cut his head off?”
Job hesitated. “Again, you try to provoke me. It won’t work.”
“I asked a question.”
“Fair enough. Dewey and I wedged his corpse under a logjam where the river banked. It would be found when the water dropped, but without a head the assumption would be it was the body of the scarecrow maker. A man who possessed no name and no identify. A figure in the night that caused a little girl to lose her shoe. A ghost, when all is said and done. And even if the body was identified, where would the blame fall? It would fall on you, Harold. You worked for the victim. Perhaps you felt betrayed by him. As I was about to say before you interrupted me, it always comes back to you. I do not expect you to beg for your life, like Fitz, but I do expect you to plead for the life of your son. He is the innocent in this matter.”
“What do you want?”
“I want the report you were writing for Fitz Carpenter, of course, and any video or photographs that could incriminate me. You see my situation. You could offer me the top of a carrot, and I would have no way of knowing how much more remained buried in the ground, or when it might be dug up. The leverage I hold is Marcus. Who, by the way, I admire. He is an intelligent young man of singular spirit, and he has been treated well while you have been given the time to ponder your choices. Here is my promise. If you tell me where to recover this evidence, and it is as promised, then I will set the young man free. I could say I would set you free as well, but you and I, we are men of strong character. False promises do not become us.”
“If you know Marcus as you say, you know he would never go along. He would come after you.”
“Not if I held the life of his sister in my hands. You see, just as I have come to know him, he has come to know me, that I do as I say I will. You look surprised. Did you not know he had a sister? Half sister, to be precise. Irene. She raised him, understand. She was older and their mother had her demons. A familiar story—the absentee father, the mother whose mothering leaves something to be desired. It is a story familiar to all families, regardless of their heritage. It is my story, too. That, in part, is why I give you my word.”
Harold closed his eyes and listened to his breathing.
“I will give you tonight to think it over,” Job said.
“I can give my answer now. I will turn over all that I have to you tomorrow morning. You should be able to retrieve it without any problem. I have one request.”
“You are in no position to ask favors.”
“I know that. But I’m asking anyway. Look into your heart and allow me to see my son. I have only just met him. You have spent more time in his company than I have. If you will allow me to be with him tonight, to have a few hours so I might know his heart and keep it with me on my journey to the next world, then tomorrow I will keep my end of the promise.”
“You play on my emotions, knowing my past.”
“I’m asking you as one father to another. Let me see my son to say goodbye.”
“I will think about it.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Bone Magic
At first he thought the voices were his imagination, for the small hours belonged to the bats, and with nightfall Harold had all but given up thinking that he would stay alive long enough to see his son. But then the chamber thudded hollowly and Job entered, carrying the ax in one hand and a lantern by its wire handle in the other. Marcus shuffled behind him, prodded by Dewey with the Mannlicher rifle. Harold heard the slight clanking of a dragging chain. He rose to his knees to reach toward Marcus, who seemed not to acknowledge his presence; then the hands that held the rifle jabbed, and Marcus stumbled forward and fell to the rock floor, where he curled on his side.
It took no more than ten minutes for Job to drive the spike into the cave wall, and the ends of the chain that passed through the small of Marcus’s ankle to be padlocked to the iron ring. Marcus flinched but made no sound during the pounding, and neither Job nor Dewey spoke. It was as if they were mute laborers who had shown up for a shift, a double-checking of the length of the chain, a few grunts as the ax head fell, a simple going about of a half hour’s work.
“There,” Job said when the ax had rung for the last time. He came to stand over Harold. “Wait for me outside,” he said, not turning to face Dewey.
When the shuffling had faded, he nodded toward the form of Marcus.
“Don�
��t be alarmed. He is unhurt in any substantial way and he understands why he has been brought here. He thinks that by remaining mute that he punishes me, denying me the satisfaction of a response. He doesn’t know my history as you do, nor that I require no other ears but my own as an audience for my voice. I will leave you alone with him now. I have made the chain just long enough that you may touch his hand. When it becomes light, you and I will get to the business of unearthing the carrot.”
* * *
—
He was gone then, and the lantern light that had made the bats flutter died with his leaving. Momentarily night-blind, Harold saw his son as an outline that changed as he came to a sitting position. After fearing that he’d never see Marcus again, Harold could find no words to express what he felt. But it was no time for sentiment.
“How long have you been chained?”
“They brought me to a cabin,” Marcus said. His voice was a rasp. “Someplace that’s nowhere. That’s what he called it, the ‘Nowhere Suite.’”
“Where in relation to here?”
“I don’t know. Above. It seemed like we climbed all night, but all I know is that it was morning when we got there. The last couple miles were on a four-wheeler. Every time it hit a bump, it was like spears of pain going through my brain.”
“But you’re all right now?”
“My head is. I lost my voice screaming, but I might as well have been on the moon in that place.”
“How about the chain?”
“It just makes my leg throb. But I don’t think it’s infected.”
“Did they give you food?”
“Yeah, Job came by every evening, cooked for me like I was his guest. He likes to hold forth. Finally I just said fuck him and wouldn’t talk back, ’cause what he wants is the attention. He said you and him have an agreement? He said ask you about it.”
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