The Girl with Braided Hair (A Wind River Reservation Myste) Page 20

  Sleigh bells rang into the convenience store as Father John let himself through the door and stepped over to the counter. “Lookin’ for something special?” the man asked.

  “I’m Father O’Malley from St. Francis,” Father John said. “You have a minute?”

  The man’s face was pockmarked with freckles and old scars. The vertical wrinkles between his eyes looked as though they’d been drawn by brown pencils, and now they were drawing together in one deep line. “You planning on buyin’ something, or just jawing?”

  Father John pulled a dollar bill out of his jeans pocket and flattened it on the counter. “I’ll help myself to a cup of coffee,” he said. He walked over to the coffee servers against the wall, filled a foam cup of black liquid that had probably been sitting in the container all morning, poured in a couple of envelopes of powdered cream, and walked back.

  “What’s this about?” the old man said. He was drumming bony fingers on top of the register, throwing glances at the pickup still next to the pumps.

  “You heard about the skeleton found in the Gas Hills?”

  “What about it?” he said, still drumming.

  “It might be the skeleton of a young Indian woman who stopped here for gas in the summer of 1973.”

  The old man looked at him over the top of the glasses, as if he were expecting him to go on, and Father John said: “You were here then, right?”

  “Nineteen seventy-three? What, you think I look like some kind of computer? You think I remember every Indian gal ever come in here?”

  “I was hoping you might remember her. She had an infant with her.”

  “Yeah, like that’s something new.” He pulled his hands off the top of the register and folded his arms over a thin chest, as if he were hugging himself in the cold. He began plucking at the sleeves of his yellow shirt.

  “She came for gas, and she might have gotten something for the baby. Maybe some formula.” Then he remembered something else: “She wore her hair in a long, black braid.”

  “Used to rob me blind,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Yeah, some of them AIM girls back then. Driving down Main Street, raising hell, shouting all about their rights. Well, I got rights, too. Never was no call for them to come in here and clear out my shelves, way they did. Oh, they didn’t think I saw ’em, but I saw ’em all right. Trouble was, I tell the cops, and next thing I know, somebody’s gonna throw a firebomb through my window. So I shut up, is what I did. Tried to keep an eye on ’em best I could.”

  “You know the girl I’m asking about? She was one of them?”

  “Black braid hanging all the way down her back. Yeah, yeah, she was one of them.” He lifted one hand and clapped his upper arm. “Seen her with her baby lots of times. Come in here with the others, stuff their pockets, all of ’em. No call to do that, like I said.” He stopped, tilted his head back and appraised Father John, as if he were seeing him for the first time. “You that Indian priest, right?”

  Father John said that was right. It was how white people in Lander and Riverton thought of him, he knew. The Indian priest.

  “Well, I want you to know something. I always treat Indians real fair, always have. Felt sorry for her the night she come in alone, just her and the baby. Offered to give her some formula, if I recall. Yeah, I think I gave her four or five cans of formula. Offered to pump her gas for her, even let her have a little more.”

  “Any idea of who the others might have been?”

  “Never got no names. I wasn’t lookin’ to fraternize with Indian girls, you know what I mean? They got their ways, we got ours. Always say, stick to your own.”

  “Did she mention where she was going?” Father John took a sip of the coffee. It was stale and bitter.

  “Thirty-five years ago? You expect me to remember what she might’ve jawed about?”

  “It’s important. She might have been killed after she left here.”

  “Hey, wait just one frigging minute.” The old man’s hands shot up into the air, as if somebody had pulled a gun on him. “You sayin’ I had something to do…?”

  “Hold on, that’s not what I’m saying,” Father John said. He took a moment to take another draw of the coffee, giving the man a chance to settle down. “She went to a friend’s in Lander. Did she ever come in with a girl who was in nurses’ training? Her name was Ardyth LeConte.”

  The old man had dropped both hands and was breathing hard, his chest pounding beneath the yellow shirt. “Told you, I don’t got any names. Might be there was another gal with ’em at times. Once in a while she come in by herself. Far as I know, she wasn’t lifting stuff, but I couldn’t watch her every second. Seemed okay. Told me once she was in some kind of training program, gonna be a nurse. Well, ain’t this unusual, I remember thinking. One of them’s doin’ something useful, instead of marching around and shouting. Yeah, I think she might’ve come in here one time wearing a white dress. Looked real white with her brown skin.”

  “Any idea of where she might have lived?” Lander was small, he was thinking. If he could even get a neighborhood, he might be able to trace her.

  “How would I know that?” the old man shouted.

  Father John took another sip, then dropped the nearly full cup into a trash receptacle. The interview was over. “Thanks for your help,” he said, starting for the door.

  “I tol’ you, I never fraternized with ’em. Didn’t want nothing to do with ’em. But I treated ’em good. Still treat Indians good. You tell ’em back on the rez for me, okay? They’re gonna get a fair deal, they come to Ray’s.”

  Father John gave the man a two-finger salute and let himself through the door. There was a low whine of traffic out on the highway, and little spurs of dust lifted over the concrete apron in front of the store. The green pickup was pulling out, emitting black tails of exhaust.

  He slid behind the wheel of the pickup, started the engine and followed the exhaust out of the lot and onto the highway, trying to sort through the pieces, arrange them in order, tease out the meaning. A woman in Lander, a friend, an Arapaho named Ardyth LeConte. Someone in nurses’ training, doing something, as the old man had said, not marching and shouting. Someone Liz Plenty Horses had trusted.

  He drove through town, glancing down the side streets—the rows of bungalows and patches of lawn and tree branches swaying in the breeze, and the sun flaring over all of it—wondering which street Liz Plenty Horses had turned down.

  Then he was on the road leaving town. He slowed through Hudson for the turn onto Rendezvous Road, feeling the frustration build inside him, brick upon brick. The murdered girl had a name, but where was the justice? One night she’d driven to Lander, scared and alone, with a baby in her car. She’d stopped at Ray’s gas and convenience store, then driven into the night and disappeared.

  Disappeared for thirty-five years. And what had he and Vicky come up with? An old man who may or may not remember Liz Plenty Horses, a woman who’d told part of the story, and would never tell the rest. The truth about what had happened to the girl was as impenetrable and unknowable as the vastness of the plains opening around him.

  And yet, there was someone else: a park ranger, reeking of alcohol, who had known Liz Plenty Horses and who might remember Ardyth LeConte. This afternoon he had two counseling sessions with parishioners, and there was the Eagles’ practice. After all of that and before the liturgy meeting tonight, he’d take a drive over to the park in Riverton and see if Joe was hanging around.

  21

  1973

  “WE’RE GONNA MAKE a great baby,” Jimmie said. They were lying in a sleeping bag outside somewhere. The ground beneath them wasn’t hard at all. It wasn’t even there. They were floating together in the field of stars blazing in the black sky. Then loud thuds filled the air, as if the stars themselves had started to explode, and she and Jimmie were falling, falling…

  Liz sat up in the narrow bed. Someone was pounding on a door. She could feel the air moving around her. Sh
e blinked into the dimness and tried to get her bearings. Her skin felt cold and clammy, as if she’d been caught in the rain. Her tee shirt clung to her, and she realized she was lying on the star quilt in Ardyth’s bedroom, still dressed in her jeans and tee shirt, ready to bolt out of there. She could hear Luna moving about in the cardboard box on top of the chest.

  The pounding was harder. “Open up, Ardyth.”

  Jake’s voice. Liz jumped off the bed and peered around the edge of the curtain. The rear of a dark pickup jutted past the corner of the house. She stumbled to the door, cracked it open about an inch, and searched through the shadows of the living room and kitchen. Headlights shone through the little pane of glass in the kitchen door.

  Ardyth padded past and flipped the switch. Light flooded over the counters and vinyl floor. Liz could see the door bowing with each thud. Grabbing at the ends of the belt to a pink robe, pulling the belt around her waist, Ardyth leaned into the door. “Who is it?”

  God, Ardyth knew who it was, Liz was thinking. Jake had come after her, just as they’d both known he would. Why had she thought she and Luna would be safe tonight?

  The baby started to whimper. Liz moved to the cardboard box, picked her up and held her close. “Shhh,” she whispered. “It’s okay. It’s okay.” She could feel her own heart pounding against the warm bundle. If Jake heard the baby cry, he’d know she was here.

  “Open the goddamn door, Ardyth,” Jake shouted.

  Liz stayed by the chest and peered past the edge of the bedroom door. Don’t let him in, she whispered to herself in the darkness. But Ardyth had her hand on the knob and the door was opening. Jake pushed into the kitchen and took hold of Ardyth’s shoulders. “Where is she?” he shouted.

  Luna jumped in her arms, and Liz bent her head to blow on the baby’s hair, her eyes fastened on the man in the kitchen, pushing Ardyth aside, stumbling toward the table. He picked up the Coke can and squeezed it in his fist. It made a loud popping noise.

  “What are you talking about?” Ardyth said.

  “Don’t give me that shit.”

  “You come bursting in here in the middle of the night full of whiskey, looking for somebody. I don’t know what the hell you’re goin’ on about. I don’t know what you’re up to. I got a job I gotta go to in the morning.”

  “Liz Plenty Horses come running here,” Jake said.

  “Liz? That’s a laugh. Why would she come here? She thinks I turned white.”

  “Where’d you hide her?”

  “You see anybody here?” Ardyth was shouting now, shouting and flinging her arms about. “Look for yourself. You see anybody?”

  Liz pressed the baby against her chest and leaned against the wall, out of the line of vision. She could barely draw a breath. The shadows swerved about her, the kitchen light bobbed in the crack at the door. She squeezed her eyes shut, aware of the rough stucco biting into her skin, afraid that she was going to pass out.

  The voices had gone quiet. There was the scuff of boots on the floor, the sound of something hard—one of the chairs—crashing against the table. Grandfather, Grandfather, she prayed silently, help me.

  “She shows up,” Jake shouted into the quiet, “you keep her here. You understand?” Another crash punctuated his voice.

  “Dirty traitor,” Jake said. His voice sounded farther away, as if he’d stepped outside. Liz eased herself forward and looked through the crack. Jake was in the doorway, one boot still planted in the kitchen, eyes darting about, debating with himself. She felt the hard knot of her breath in her throat, waiting for him to crash into the house again and check the bedroom.

  He stepped outside. “Makes you a traitor, you help her. You’ll get what she’s gonna get.”

  Ardyth took hold of the door and slammed it shut, sending shock-waves rippling through the floor. Liz could feel the vibrations in her bare feet. She made herself take in a long breath as Ardyth pushed the lock into place. Outside an engine roared into life, headlights flashed through the kitchen window. There were the sounds of fists thumping on the sides of the pickup, voices yelling and shouting—“Whoopee! Whoopee!”—just like the caravans coming into Washington, Liz thought, Indians banging and shouting, like they were gonna get what they wanted, like they were in charge.

  Ardyth was peering around the edge of the little window in the door, motioning with one hand for Liz to stay where she was. It didn’t make any difference because Liz felt as if she had turned to stone, her feet riveted to the floor. She had no power to walk into the kitchen. Her chest was numb against the warm bundle of Luna’s body. She kept listening for the sounds of the pickup driving out of the yard, but the sounds were coming closer—engine shifting down, tires digging into dirt. For a moment, the headlights glowed in the curtain at the window over the bed, then faded. The kitchen light went out, the bedroom sank into shadows. She could hear the pickup driving alongside the house toward the shed.

  “Be quiet,” Ardyth whispered into the crack. “They’re not done yet.”

  They! Liz forced herself to move across the small space to the window. Jake wasn’t alone. There was someone else in the pickup. By pressing the side of her face against the wall, she could see through the gap between the window frame and the edge of the curtain. The pickup stood in front of the shed, shimmying from side to side, headlights playing over the doors. Two men were in the front seat: dark shoulders and cowboy hats backlit by the headlights. Then the passenger door swung open. Jake got out and started pacing between the pickup and the shed. Finally, cupping both hands around his eyes, he leaned into the crack between the wood doors, then he took hold of the padlock and banged it against the wood. Finally he crawled back into the pickup and slammed the door. The pickup jumped like a bronco and lunged backward, veering so far to the left that Liz braced herself for a crash into the corner of the bedroom. Then it straightened and shot past. She heard the brakes squealing out front.

  Doors slammed, and the pounding started again. Liz moved back to her position next to the chest. It seemed that Ardyth was taking her time, shuffling into the kitchen, flipping on the light again. She leaned into the door. “Go away,” she shouted.

  “Open the damn door, Ardyth.” Jake’s voice again. “Do I have to break it down?”

  Ardyth pushed back the bolt. The door cracked open a little way before it slammed back against the wall and Jake strode inside. “You hidin’ her in the shed?”

  “The shed?” Ardyth looked small next to the man. She had to lift her head to look up at him. “You’re drunk.”

  Jake held out the palm of his hand. “Gimme the keys.”

  Liz leaned against the wall again and closed her eyes. She had to think. The instant Jake went back to the shed, she would run out the front door. She’d find a place for her and Luna to hide, maybe a ditch somewhere.

  “Get ’em from the landlord.”

  “What?” Jake hunched over Ardyth, one hand gripping her shoulder. Liz could see the fury and strength popping in his brown hand. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe.

  “It’s his shed,” Ardyth said. “Go wake him up at fucking three o’clock in the morning and get the damn key.”

  Liz opened her eyes and struggled to bring the slice of the kitchen into focus. Jake was blinking down at Ardyth, as if she’d been speaking a foreign language he didn’t understand.

  “White house on the corner,” Ardyth said. “He’ll be real glad to have you pounding on his door. Probably call the cops.”

  Jake grabbed Ardyth by the throat and jammed her against the counter. Her head lolled sideways, like the head of a rag doll. Liz held on to the baby with one hand and pressed the other over her mouth to keep from screaming. She could feel Jake’s hands tightening around her own throat that night in the kitchen of the BIA building. She struggled to stay conscious, the way she’d struggled then, when everything had gone black.

  “I find out you’re lying,” Jake said, “I’m comin’ back.” He shoved her aside, spun around, and headed out th
e door, pulling it shut behind him.

  Ardyth was slumped over the counter, rubbing at her neck. The roar of the pickup’s engine filled the house. The noise became softer, receding into the distance. Ardyth took hold of the counter edge and pulled herself upright. Like an old woman, she gripped her way across the kitchen, the top of the chair, the table. Lunging for the door, she slammed the lock into place.

  “They’re gone,” she said, burying her face against the door. Her voice was muffled and blurred.

  Liz could feel the tension begin to leak out of her muscles, like water draining out of a faucet. She put Luna down in the cardboard box, found her sneakers under the folds of the quilt, and put them on. Then she grabbed the cardboard box and the diaper bag and went into the kitchen.

  Ardyth was still at the door, her forehead propped against the edge of the window. She worked her fingers into her neck below her ears.

  “I’ve got to get out of here,” Liz said.

  Ardyth turned around slowly. Tears glistened like a spray of crystals across her cheek bones. “You’re as crazy as he is.”

  “I’m sorry he hurt you.”

  “It’s nothin’ compared to what he’s gonna do to you. What the hell have you done?”

  “I told you. Nothing.”

  “Nothing? Nothing? Jake’s out to kill you for nothing?”

  Liz swallowed hard. Luna was starting to wake up, and she thought that if the baby cried she didn’t know what she would do. She didn’t know how she could hold on. “Look, Ardyth,” she managed to say, “I really appreciate your helping me out. Just give me the padlock key so we can get outta here.”

  “God, Liz. You really are nuts. How far do you think you’ll get before they spot you? You think Jake and the other guy are the only ones lookin’ for you? You wouldn’t last five minutes. Go back to bed. Let ’em drive all over. Soon’s they get tired enough or drunk enough, they’ll give up and go back to the rez. Tomorrow morning first thing, you and the baby are outta here…”