She sat down in a chair across from him. She wore a white dress with purple and green flowers printed on it, a silver chain around her neck. Her hair was brushed in thick swirls, her cheeks ruddy. Once again she made him think of a country woman, someone who could knead bread dough, grind up hamburger, and handle a windstorm blowing her wash all over the lawn.
“Darrel, I’ve got a lot at stake in this. Don’t be clever or tease me,” she said. Her eyes were green and sincere, and they never blinked when she spoke.
“The Indians had the stuff from Global Research stashed in a barn up by Johnny American Horse’s spread,” he said. “Wyatt Dixon is con-wise and was onto these guys from the jump. That’s why he was following Amber Finley around. He found their stash and moved it to an old potato cellar behind his house on the Blackfoot. I’m going to take him down tonight. Dixon’s going to do the big exit on this one.”
“Say that last part again.”
“Tonight he gets his ticket punched. No transfers. Next stop, a long cylinder where he gets turned into a shoe box full of ashes.” Darrel laughed, watching her.
“That sounds mean,” she said.
He studied her face, the expression in her eyes, the pulse in her throat. “It doesn’t have to be that way. I thought it was what you wanted,” he said, his heart regaining a sense of hope he had all but abandoned.
There was a long silence. She turned from him and gazed out the window, biting down on the corner of her lip. She cleared her throat. “I don’t tell other people what they should do,” she said.
So much for pangs of conscience, he thought.
Then he pulled the string on her.
“The stuff from Global Research will have to go into an evidence locker for a while. But eventually it’ll get back to the owners,” he said.
Her expression clouded. She took his empty beer bottle from his hand and went to the kitchen to get him a fresh one. When she returned, her eyes were flat. “You don’t want to do something before you work?” she said.
“The highway is clogged with fire trucks. I’d better go.”
“You said, ‘I’m going to take him down.’ Don’t you have to use backup?” she said.
“Did I tell you I was an M.P. in the Army?”
“No.”
“Know what an instructor told me off the record in M.P. school?”
“No,” she said, one hand on her hip, looking down at him curiously.
“When you escort a prisoner and a situation goes south, you bring back only one story. Isn’t that a howl?”
WYATT DIXON DID NOT dream in color, nor upon waking did he remember stories from his sleep or events that fell into any narrative sequence. His dreams were stark, in black and white, composed of indistinct shards, disembodied faces carved out of wood, voices that had no source, perhaps a bull exploding like a piece of black lightning from a bucking chute, or sometimes a razor strop hanging like a punctuation mark in the back of a closet.
In his dreams he both saw and smelled his father, an unshaved, jug-headed man whose overalls hung like rags on his body. The father did not speak in the dream; he simply stared, one eye squinting with an unrelieved anger that seemed to have no cause. But his hands were remarkably fast, a blur of light capable of delivering blows before Wyatt ever saw them coming.
When Wyatt woke from dreams about his father, he would sit for a long time on the side of the bed, his skin insentient, a sound in his ears like wind blowing in a cave. On this particular night he woke to his father’s presence in the room, as palpable as the smell of field sweat and smoke from a stump fire and fresh dirt peeled back over the point of a plowshare. His father stood in silhouette against the window, a revolver hanging from his hand.
“You wasn’t worth the busted rubber that got you born,” the father said.
Wyatt sat on the side of the bed. He wore no shirt and the cold from the river had invaded the room. “What are you doing here, Pap?” he said.
The figure stepped out of the moonlight, the revolver still pointed at the floor. “There are men coming to kill you. I suspect they’ll try to take me out at the same time. Do I have to hook you up again?”
Wyatt focused on the face looming above him and saw his father’s image disappear and another take its place. “How’d you get in, McComb?”
“It was pretty hard. I had to slip the lock with a credit card. Why don’t you invest three bucks in a dead bolt?”
“You said some men is coming here to kill me.”
“Old friends of yours.” McComb touched Wyatt’s cast with the barrel of his revolver.
“Take this dogshit of yours somewheres else.”
“What makes you think you got a vote in this?” Darrel asked.
Wyatt picked up a jelly glass partially filled with his chemical cocktail. He upended the glass, gargled, and swallowed. He licked the dirty residue from the inside of the glass, then set the glass back on the nightstand. “You ain’t no different from me, McComb. Anything I done, you done it twicet over. Except you hid behind the government and done it against a bunch of pitiful Indians down in Central America.”
Even in the dark Wyatt could see Darrel’s hand tighten on the grips of his revolver. “You’re a stupid, ignorant man. Question is, what do I do with you?” Darrel said. “Reason doesn’t work and neither do threats. Know why? Because guys like you wait all their lives for somebody else to snuff their wick. Every one of you knows your parents hated you from the first day your mother didn’t have the monthlies.”
Wyatt sat very still in the gloom, his hands flat on his thighs. Darrel waited for him to reply, but he didn’t. Wyatt’s eyes stared into space, the pupils like drops of black ink. A train whistle echoed along the canyon walls.
“Did you hear what I said?” Darrel asked.
“My chemical cocktails ain’t working no more,” Wyatt said.
“Say again?”
Wyatt continued to stare at nothing, his hooked jaw and Roman profile as immobile and chiseled as a statue’s. Darrel shook his head in exasperation, then heard rocks sliding on the hillside behind the house. He went to the back window and looked out at the trees and at the shadows they made in the moonlight. The potato cellar he had told Greta about was cut back into the face of the hill, shored up with pine logs, covered with a slat door. Pieces of gravel or dirt bounced down the hillside above the cellar and fell into the yard. Darrel strained his eyes at the shaggy outlines of the fir trees and saw the shape of a man move through a patch of moonlight, then disappear. He looked over his shoulder at Wyatt.
“They’re coming. You stay out of the way,” he said.
“That was you said I wasn’t worth the broken rubber that got me born?” Wyatt asked.
“What?” Darrel said.
If Wyatt answered, Darrel did not hear him. Up on the hill a second shape, then a third, moved across the illuminated spot in the trees. His cut-down twelve-gauge pump was in the kitchen, along with a high-powered flashlight. He had a full magazine in his nine-Mike and five shells loaded with double-ought buckshot in the pump, enough to make everyone’s evening an interesting event. But he wondered at his own recklessness and whether his words to Dixon about repressed suicidal intentions were not better directed at himself.
He stepped back from the window. “If I don’t walk out of this, get on your cell and call for the meat wagon.” He flipped his credit card on Wyatt’s bed. “Then buy yourself a dinner on me.”
He turned back toward the window. He thought he heard someone sliding down the slope through slag, perhaps fighting to catch his balance. A fine mist, mixed with smoke, had drifted into the canyon, and the moonlight inside it gave off a sulfurous yellow glow. The floor creaked behind him. He turned curiously, having already forgotten about Wyatt Dixon and his exchange with him.
Wyatt stood shirtless and barefoot in the center of the room, wearing only a pair of jeans, one leg split to accommodate his cast, a Sharps buffalo rifle held at port arms. His mouth made Darrel think of t
he square teeth carved in the face of a Halloween pumpkin.
“Ain’t no man uses me, Detective. Ain’t no man comes in my home and wipes his feet on me, either,” Wyatt said.
He butt-stroked Darrel so hard across the jaw Darrel’s partial bridge flew from his mouth, his head snapping back into the wall. Then the floor came up and hit him in the face. He felt the room, the house, and the ground it stood on float away like a wood chip on the river’s surface.
Wyatt filled his hand from a box of fifty-caliber shells, stuffed them in his pocket, and shuffled through the kitchen and out the back door. Smoke or ground fog or a mixture of both had rolled off the river into the yard and hung as thick as wet cotton in the trees. He could make out three men at the opening of the potato cellar. He thought he saw two more, up on the hillside, where the old railroad bed used to be, before the tracks had been torn up and hauled away for scrap. What had McComb said? They were coming to pop Wyatt and take out McComb for extra measure. But why were they at the potato cellar? It contained nothing but a set of studded snow tires for his truck. It made no sense.
But the two men on the railroad bed did. They were going to flank the house or pop Wyatt when he moved into the backyard. He went back through the house, out the front, and circled around the side, deep inside the shadows, out of the moonlight.
A rusted tractor, spiked with weeds, its engine stripped for parts, was parked by the back corner of the house, a perfect shield between himself and the men up on the hill and the three using a pair of bolt cutters on the lock and chain strung across the potato cellar door.
The tractor had been used to drag logs off the hillside, and the owner had welded a steel cab over the seat in the event the tractor ever rolled. Wyatt positioned himself at the edge of the cab, took aim across the hood, and clicked back the hammer on the Sharps.
“What do you collection of pissants think you’re doin’?” he said.
Two of the figures automatically crouched down and one ran into the undergrowth at the base of the hill. One of the crouching men shined a flashlight on the tractor, then he and the man next to him opened up, the fire from their pistol barrels slashing into the dark, the rounds whanging and sparking off the tractor. Wyatt squeezed the trigger on the Sharps and felt the rifle’s weight heave into his shoulder. One of the men by the cellar was propelled backwards as though he had been jerked on a wire.
Wyatt worked the lever under the Sharps, ejecting the spent casing, fitted another cartridge into the chamber, and closed the breech. He took aim at one of the men up on the hill and squeezed the trigger. The bullet struck a boulder and whined away into trees. Wyatt sank to one knee and reloaded just as a man broke from the brush and ran up a deer trail into the timber. Wyatt swung his sights on the man’s back, pulled the trigger, and saw the man crash against a ponderosa trunk.
Wyatt’s eardrums were numb from the explosions of the fifty-caliber rounds and he could no longer hear the men running through the slag or the trees. The first man he hit had stayed down, but the second one was being lifted to his feet by the two men Wyatt had seen on the abandoned railroad bed. Wyatt stood erect, trying to keep his weight off his bad leg, worked the lever on the Sharps, and fumbled another round into the chamber.
But the home invaders were gone, except for a man with five days of unshaved whiskers and hair like black snakes who lay slumped against the door of the potato cellar, a hole as big as a thumb in his sternum. Wyatt picked up the man’s wrist and felt for a pulse, then set the man’s hand back in his lap. In the center of the man’s forearm was a red welt, like wire that had been threaded into a design under the skin. Wyatt touched it with his fingertips, felt the hardness in the tissue, then wiped his fingers clean in the dirt.
He stood erect by pressing his weight down on the rifle butt and limped back toward the kitchen door.
Darrel McComb stepped outside, holding his jaw. “Where are they?” he said.
“Gone, except for that one yonder. Sunk one in a second man, but my aim was off.”
“I could lie and mess you up, Gomer. But I’m letting this slide for now. What happens down the road is another matter,” he said.
“You a student of Scripture?”
Darrel waited for him to go on.
“Take a look at the mark on that fellow’s right arm,” Wyatt said.
McComb squatted down by the cellar door and clicked on a pen-light, moving it back and forth in the darkness. “What mark?” he said.
Wyatt limped back to where the dead man lay. The blood had already settled in the lower regions of the body and the face had turned unnaturally white, the eyes fixed and half-lidded. “Shine the light again?” Wyatt said.
He studied the dead man’s forearm, then touched the skin gingerly with the balls of his fingers. He held on to the rifle with two hands and pushed himself to his feet.
“Where you going?” Darrel said.
“To sleep.”
“There’s nothing on the guy’s arm. Why’d you tell me to look at it?” Darrel said.
“He was carrying the mark of the beast. But it ain’t there now. They don’t take it with them when they die. Don’t bust in my house again, McComb. Next time I’ll take your head off.”
Chapter 18
THE DEAD MAN had been a Marine Corps veteran and inveterate gambler from Elko, Nevada. He had no criminal record, but he had gone into debt to moneylenders in Vegas and disappeared from the computer five years before. The insides of his arms and thighs were laced with scar tissue from repeated hypodermic injections. The most recent ones were infected.
The investigation into the homicide behind Wyatt’s house cleared Wyatt of any culpability, but not Darrel McComb. He was suspended from the department without pay, pending a determination by Internal Affairs regarding the general deterioration of both his private and professional life. He had now shown up in the middle of two firefights without adequate explanation, been witness to the death of a federal agent he was following without authorization, and broken into the house of an ex-felon. To make matters worse, Darrel had been on the premises while the ex-felon killed a man. One of the investigators from Internal Affairs, dead serious, asked Darrel if he had been recently tested for syphilis of the brain. Humorous insiders at the courthouse suggested that Darrel resign his job now and consider a career as a mortician’s assistant in a town that had never heard of him.
The following week I saw him on a steel bench on the walk by the river, feeding pigeons from a bag of caramel popcorn. In his scuffed, boxlike shoes, white socks, ill-fitting dark suit, and pale blue necktie printed with trout flies, he was probably the saddest-looking plainclothes cop I’d ever seen.
“Wyatt Dixon told me everything that happened,” I said.
“So?” he replied.
“If you’d been a little creative in your report, you could have skated and jammed up Dixon at the same time. I think you’re a stand-up guy, Darrel.”
“Fay Harback ratted me out with Internal Affairs.”
“Doesn’t seem like Fay’s style.”
“Yeah? Well, she dimed me good. Those I.A. guys think I’m having a nervous breakdown. They say it’s been a concern to the D.A.’s office for months. Ever try proving to people you’re not nuts?”
“Why were those guys trying to break into Wyatt Dixon’s potato cellar?”
“I spread the word the goods from the Global Research robbery were in there.”
“Through Greta Lundstrum?”
“Maybe.”
“You told the sheriff all this?”
“I don’t trust anyone in that courthouse. You want justice, you got to get it yourself.” He felt the inside of his swollen jaw with his tongue, his eyes slitted.
“Why do you hate Wyatt Dixon?” I asked.
“It’s enough I hate him. He’s a psycho. What do you care, anyway?”
“Sometimes we hate the people who remind us most of ourselves. It can flat eat you up.”
He nodded his head. “You a ch
urchgoing man?” he asked.
“I guess.”
“Keep doing that. It looks good on you,” he said. He dumped his popcorn on the cement, then walked across the lawn of a Holiday Inn to a cul-de-sac where his car was illegally parked.
JOHNNY AMERICAN HORSE was hurt. He had been hurt several times while federal agents and county lawmen chased him across the state—abrasions, sprains, and cuts from falls—but this time it was serious and he had lost the medical supplies Amber had sent him. Up in the Bob Marshall Wilderness a sharpshooter’s round had ricocheted off a boulder and driven a stone splinter deep into his left forearm. He had removed the splinter, bled the wound, and washed it clean in a stream, but two days later the edges of the hole were red and tender, a tiny pearl of infection in the center. He gashed the wound open with the point of his survival knife, an electrical current climbing instantly into his armpit, then heated the knife blade in his campfire and stuck the point inside his flesh.
He passed out and fell backwards into a patch of moss under a fir tree. When he woke in the morning, western bluebirds filled the branches, their breasts as orange as new rust in the sunrise. He made a poultice of birch bark, wrapped it on his arm with a leather boot-lace, and walked higher up on the mountain, out of the smoke of forest fires, into strips of snow among fir trees.
Fever took him the next day, although he wasn’t sure if it came from infection in his arm or bad water in a slough. He wandered deeper into the Bob Marshall, climbing to the top of the Grand Divide, from which he could see Marias Pass and the ancient home of the Blackfoot Indians. Farther east, beyond the roll of the plains, was the home of the Crow, the Northern Cheyenne, and the Oglala Sioux. The Blackfeet called the place he stood on the Backbone of the World. Somewhere in the distance, beyond the vastness of the landscape below him, was a place called the Sand Hills, where the dead went to live with the buffalo and the grandfathers who watched over the four corners of the universe. Far to the east, it was raining on the hills, and clouds veined with lightning moved across the sky like bison flecked with St. Elmo’s fire.