“Back from them.”
“Jesus … Jubal, is Earl there?”
“He is not Earl. He is Black Elk.”
Gabriel drew a long breath and held it, feeling his lungs swell and the blood rise in his neck. He let it out slowly, looking at Dr. Sifton, who had settled back into the cot with one arm thrown across his eyes to protect him from the glare of the bulb. His mouth was open. His breathing slowed.
“Yes. Is Black Elk there?”
“No. He is going to steal us a car. Comes In Sight and the Sweetwater girl are talking to the men in the gray wagon.”
“Are the men hurt? Did you hurt them?”
“Not yet. The young one is crying. I am here to tell you to come and help us with these people. They are not even going to let us ask any questions or look around. All they want is to rub us out.”
“Where did this happen?”
“At the gas station.”
“Was Bell there?”
“Yes. He was the one who shot first. Then the rest came, and they shot at Joe Bell, and we ran off up a big hill where we could watch them. We saw them put Eddie into a gray wagon. Then they all stood around taking pictures and putting yellow ribbon all over the place. Then the gray wagon men drove off. But they went to a bar not far away.”
“The police came, and
they
shot Joe Bell?”
“That is what happened. I can’t stand around here until the morning, Blue Coat. We have no truck and no clothes. They took them. We have the men who took away Eddie, and then
we are going to do a sing for Eddie. Then we will have a talk and think what to do about these people. We want you to come to this talk.”
“Why not just go in to the police there? Tell them about everything. They’ll help you. Whatever you do, you can’t hold on to those men. That’s a federal offense. They’ll turn everything they have loose on you. You gotta let them go.”
“They are looking for us now. The cars go around everywhere with big shotguns in the front. But they are too lazy to get out and walk around the country. They shine their lights up into the hills and the trees by the river here. You are a fool if you think they want to help us. Anyway, you come tomorrow and stay in the Holiday Inn in Billings. We will call you in your room.”
“Jubal—”
“I am Two Moon.”
Christ.
“Okay. Two Moon. I can’t go there. We have three more days of shooting here. Maybe four. Then we have to go to Vancouver. Let me give you the name of a lawyer I know. He works for the federal Indian Affairs people in Helena. He’ll—”
“You are a fool, Blue Coat. Good-bye.”
“Jubal, don’t—”
He was gone. Gabriel threw the phone across the room. It hit the tent wall and fell down beside the doctor. Sifton moved his arm and turned his head to see what had landed. He pushed himself upright and slumped against the wall.
“Good news, Chief?”
“Not really. Is this leg gonna be okay?”
Sifton gestured toward his aluminum case.
“I have some Novocaine there—it’ll ease the pain. You banged it up pretty good on that dumpster. You keep it wrapped, and I’ll write up a prescription. A little pick-me-up.”
“Can I use this knee tomorrow?”
“You going to be here tomorrow, Chief?”
“Yes. Why wouldn’t I?”
Sifton sighed and groaned and lurched to his feet. He put
his hands in the pocket of his baggy linen pants and looked at Gabriel from under his fleshy lids.
“Your friend there sounds like he’s in a serious situation. I guess I thought you’d be going to help him out.”
“You heard that? I hope you can keep it to yourself, Doc.”
“I am the very paradigm of discretion, Chief. In this business, doctors hear everything. Most of it would nauseate a dung beetle. I quite frankly have contrived to reduce my reactions to this sort of stimuli to a manageable level of contained amusement. And as you have observed, I have vices of my own. May I venture a question? Purely academic? Consider it part of my interest in contemporary anthropology.”
“Sure.”
“You
are
a Native American, are you not?”
“Yes.”
“Professional stunt person?”
“Yes.”
“And your background is Sioux?”
“Lakota. My band is Sans Arcs. You’d call us Teton Sioux.”
“Yes. Military service, too, I understand? A warrior?”
Gabriel stared at the paunchy man for a long time, thinking that a word excluded more than it included.
“Where’d you hear that?” he said finally.
“You are talked about. The enigmatic Mr. Picketwire. Empirically, I observe that you have a familiarity with weapons. Also, you have a … directed quality that I have come to associate with men who have seen some sort of combat.”
“I served for a while in Southeast Asia.”
“Vietnam?”
“No, I was never in Vietnam. What’s this all about, Doc? I gotta call a friend of mine.”
“The lawyer in Helena—well, that brings me to my question.”
“What question?”
“What’s the Lakota word for lawyer?”
“In Lakota? There isn’t one.”
“Ah. I didn’t think there was.”
Bell’s Oasis was an island of corpse-colored light at the far end of the darkened main street of Pompeys Pillar. The only other business up and running at this late hour was Fogarty’s New York Bar, two blocks over on Custer Street. Beau could hear the music drifting through the still evening air as he rolled by on his way up to Bell’s. “Evangeline” by Emmylou Harris.
There was a Mountain Bell van parked out in front of Bell’s Oasis. The yellow crime ribbon was still stretched around three pump islands. More of it was roped around the chain link fence enclosure and the propane tank. No other cars were around.
Finch and Rowdy had checked out and gone home a few minutes back. Ron Thornton and Rita Sonnette were also off duty. Beau had gotten Patrolmen Pietrosante and Benitez—the Munchkin—away from their separate off-duty pleasures and out into the back country. Benitez had insisted on a cruiser, so Beau pulled one from the traffic pool.
They were calling in now and then over the CB-Communications patch. Nothing. No sign of the morgue wagon, no sign of Danny Burt or Peter Hinsdale anywhere.
Hinsdale’s mother was getting pretty worked up about that. Hinsdale was a nineteen-year-old part-timer taking a course as an undertaker at Billings Vocational College. Actually, Hinsdale’s mother had said he was “in the bereavement sciences course, specializing in grief management.”
Bereavement sciences? Grief management?
Christ help us.
McAllister killed the cruiser lights and rolled to a stop beside the first pump bank.
“Five eleven.”
“Five eleven?”
“Central, I’m gonna be out of the car here at Bell’s Oasis for about fifteen minutes. I’ll be OTA on the portable. Okay?”
“Ten-four, Sergeant.”
“That you, Beth?”
“That’s me, Beau.”
“How come you’re still on?”
“Overtime. The swing-shift girl isn’t coming in tonight.”
“Oh, right … the LT still there?”
“No. He’s gone down to see Bill Garner. Big Horn County guys.”
“Okay. Well, I’m ten-seven on the air.”
“Bye-bye, Beau.”
He got out and stood for a while, looking down at the blood patch on the pavement. It was funny about blood. Rain wouldn’t wash it away. Gas wouldn’t. That stain would be there for six months, until they salted the lot after the first winter snows. Salt would bleach it out. Somebody had once told Beau that blood was very similar to sea water. Salt water. Maybe this all meant something in a cosmic way, but probably not.
Beau walked over to the doorway of the main office. The snack-bar lights were on. He stepped sideways to the plate-glass window and looked in. He could see a man hunched over a toolbox on the floor, in front of a row of pay phones along the back wall by the washrooms.
MOUNTAIN BELL
was stitched across the back of his overalls. Beau tapped on the glass.
The man jumped up and swiveled, holding a screwdriver like a knife. Beau smiled at him.
“Sorry to frighten you. Sergeant McAllister, Highway Patrol. Who’re you?”
The man was lean and young, very pink-skinned. A wispy
red moustache rode on his upper lip like a pet caterpillar. He had pale blue, wet-looking eyes, the eyes of a man used to bad luck. He came over to the glass and peered out at Beau.
“You gotta badge?”
“It’s on my shirt, son. Open up.”
He stared at Beau’s pocket for a minute, moving his lips.
Inbred, thought Beau. Bet he plays a hell of a banjo.
The stringy kid slouched over to the door, threw the bolt. “Yuh gotta be careful. This here’s a crime scene, Sergeant.”
“Yeah, I noticed. What’re you doing here, son?”
He rolled his head on a boneless neck, indicating the bank of pay phones. “Service call.”
Beau nodded. “You have some ID?”
The kid stared at Beau as if Beau had grown a third eye.
“Yuh kin see my uniform. I gotta truck.”
“I see a uniform. I see a truck.”
The kid rolled his eyes and let out a long sigh. He smelled of stale beer and peppermint gum. He dug around in his overalls and came up with a tattered card. As he handed it over, Beau could see patches of raw flesh and new scab on the fingertips of his right hand. He tried not to think what might have caused that. He was pretty sure he wouldn’t like the answer.
HUBERT WOZCYLESKO
. And a photograph of the kid without his pet caterpillar. It was Mountain Bell ID. Beau handed it back.
“Thanks, Hubert.”
“Woz. People call me Woz.”
“Okay, Woz. How come you’re working this late?”
“Supposed to service ’em this morning. Couldn’t. Hedda shoot-out here. Joe Bell killed some fuckin’ Indian. I guess you heard?”
“I heard. Well, don’t let me stop you. I’ll just do a walk-around. See if everything’s okay.”
The kid shrugged, swiveled on a heel, and headed back to the phones. Beau walked past him and into the kitchen. The back door was bolted and barred. The alarm-box light flickered in the darkened corner, green like a one-eyed cat.
Hope Blasingame knows to feed the cats, thought Beau, strolling over to the doorway of Bell’s office.
So. Is that packet still under the desk? Beau looked over his shoulder at Woz Wozcylesko from Mountain Bell. He had the casing off one of the pay phones and was picking away at the coin slot with something long and sharp, cursing softly to himself.
Meagher had been pretty clear about the issue. Leave it alone. Laws were laws and rights were rights. A lawman was a man of the law, or he was nothing but a lawyer with a permit to carry.
Meagher had once read an essay by somebody named Kant out loud to Beau over a bottle of Utah champagne, at the sleepy close of a retirement party for one of the Big Horn County cops. Meagher apparently kept the paper in his pocket because when he pulled it out it was so creased and worn, it almost fell apart.
The essay had been about how lying was
always
wrong because no matter how good your motivation for lying, you were somehow breaking down the—the
currency
of honest exchange, was how Meagher had put it. The
coin
of ideas and belief. So when you lied or did something deceitful, even if you were doing it to save a life or right some terrible wrong, it was still a lie, and a lie eroded the … tacit … understanding we all share about each other. About being able to trust in each other. In every other. And this went double for cops. Truth was what cops were all about, was Meagher’s point.
Interesting thought, Eustace, Beau had told him. Anybody ever put this guy Kant to the test?
Not that Meagher had heard. What did that have to do with anything?
Well, you know. Like if Kant was trying to—if a young girl runs into Kant’s apartment, her clothes are all ripped up and she’s bleeding. Obvious victim of an attack. So then Kant is pouring her some tea or something, and suddenly there’s this bang-bang at the door. So the girl jumps up and hides, like in Kant’s closet. And Kant opens the door, and there’s this huge outlaw biker asshole there, has his pants down around his ankles,
loaded for bear, got a hard-on like pink steel, he’s waving a knife, wants to know if Kant has seen this girl run by his door. Does Kant know where this girl is?
Yeah …?
Yeah, so what does Kant do? Does he lie and save the girl, or does he tell the truth and get her killed?
Meagher wanted to know if Kant was armed.
Yeah. Let’s say he is.
Well … I guess I gotta say he tells the guy the truth. Why do I get the idea this actually happened to you?
Yep.
So what did you do?
What you said Kant would do. I told him the truth.
You said she was there?
Yep.
Then what?
Then I shot him.
So what’s your point?
The point is, trust in Allah, but tie up your camels.
What?
Tell the truth to people who have the truth in them.
That’s not what Kant was saying.
I know, but Kant wasn’t a cop.
Cops aren’t all the law is. Cops are just the bouncers in the dance hall of the law.
So let me see if I get this. What are the lawyers?
They’d be the bartenders. Bar-tenders? Get it?
Yeah, I get it. And the judges?
They’re the disc jockeys of justice.
Beau had laughed then. And what do they play?
Truth—the song of justice.
You really believe that, Eustace?
Well, said Meagher, reaching for the bottle. There you go.
Go where?
Go get another. This one’s empty. Anyway, that argument’s irrevelant. Irrelevant. It doesn’t address the principal tenets of the thesis. It’s ad hoc.
Say what?
Ad hoc, Beau.
Ad hoc!
Hey, Beau had said, getting up to look for some more champagne. That’s a nasty cough you got there, Eustace.
He was looking at the television set on Bell’s filing cabinet. There was a VCR underneath it, so it was probably what Bell used for his … diversions. Beau came around and flicked it on. What he got was a picture of the pump area out front, his cruiser, and the Mountain Bell truck glowing gray in the black-and-white image. There must be a camera mounted up on the roof, a cheap one from the look of the image, which was grainy and out of focus. Beau felt that kind of rare thrill a cop gets when something breaks his way in a case.