Homicide My Own (24 page)

“Less than that,” Gutshall admitted, which turned the whole thing into a no-brainer.

The lieutenant had said that Stacey and her mother were not our problem. Why could I not listen to him even in that? Why could I not just drop them by the side of the road? Odd was no help. Since beating up on Nascine he had gone all but autistic on me.

I sat with both hands on the wheel, hoping not to explode and torch us all, while Gwen signed over her title, which she always carried in her purse, expecting some day to need it at hand, and that day was now.

She bought her cars off a fella she used to date and she was sure he could find another for her and arrange an easy payment plan. I must admit I was impressed with her quiet acceptance of catastrophe. One day she had her own ride, the next day we were it, and that’s the way it goes. Lucky for them, she said, that out on this island in the middle of nowhere they would run into nice people from home, us.

Odd seemed to wake from a slumber. He turned to Karl and said his name, almost plaintively. Karl gave him his full attention, as though he’d been hypnotized with one word.

“Karl,” said Odd, “we’re going to the Coyotes. Could you please come with us?”

Now, I didn’t know why we were going to the Coyotes in the first place, and I sure didn’t know why we would want to bring along Karl Gutshall, and since the Coyotes believed he killed their son, I could not for a moment imagine that Karl would ever want to go there, but guess what?

He said, “Well, I was about to close up anyhow. I only do half a day, Saturdays.”

“And could you bring some tools?” asked Odd.

We were on our way again, not only with the two warm bodies I didn’t expect to be carrying, but with a third extra that raised the ride to the level of low comedy. Karl took Gwen’s place and she squeezed upon his lap, which did not seem to inconvenience her one bit. His bag of tools were in the trunk, along with my two grocery bags full of fireworks, and all the luggage.

We were still a mile or two shy of Indian Territory when we had to stop again. Walking slowly but as fast as she could was Cammy Nascine, her great buttocks rolling with each labored step. She was holding something, pressing it against her bosom. Her face was bruised and one eye blackened. She was drenched with sweat.

I pulled over and Odd was out in an instant, trying to comfort her. Nascine, of course, had inflicted the damage. Then, everyone was out of the car. We all clustered around Cammy.

Gwen said, “Honey, I’ve been there. Some men…well, it’s all they have left. You don’t want to be around them, then.”

“Mother, this isn’t about you,” whined Stacey.

“No, young lady, it isn’t. It’s about
you
. Look, listen and learn.”

“When he left he was in a hurry,” said Cammy, about Nascine. “I went to his workshop. He had it hidden behind a fishing pole rack, but I always knew it was there. It’s all I wanted to take with me.”

It was Jeannie’s secret notebook, just as Odd had described it. A blue spiral notebook with stick-ons of the Beatles and psychedelic flowers, and the name Jeannie on the cover in silver ink and on the bottom printed in block letters: PRIVATE PROPERTY!!!! Cammy handed it to Odd, returning it after all these years to its rightful owner, sort of.

“He found it back then, when they searched Jeannie’s room, and he stole it out of evidence, and he kept it ever since. He couldn’t bring himself to destroy it, because to him it was proof that Jeannie once loved him, and as old as the old fool is, he had to hold on to that. Why do you think he married me? I was the next best thing. Why did he stay with me? ‘Cause I knew.”

“Knew what?” I asked.

“That for one moment in time, Jeannie might have loved him.”

“Did he kill her?”

“I can’t ask myself that question.”

“I asked it.”

“Leave it,” said Odd, turning my own words back on me. “Get into the car, Cammy.”

She got into the back seat, leaving room for only one additional person of any size. We were going to have to jettison somebody, and it wasn’t going to be me, not with Nascine on the prowl. Odd got behind the wheel, the rest of us apparently expendable.

“Okay,” I said, taking charge. “Karl, you’re going to have to wait here.”

“No,” said Odd, “we need Karl.”

“Why?”

“He’s got to get the pick-up running again.”

Huh? It was either discuss it and run the risk of getting busted by the county or making some kind of forward progress. I put Karl in the back next to Cammy, and I put Houser on Karl’s lap, over his protests, of course. Stacey and her mom, who were not our problem, who were never our problem, I abandoned on the side of the road and could care less if I cared at all, which I didn’t.

Gwen, who probably wished she were dead anyway, accepted her fate, but Stacey went off on a rant, describing the nature of the lawsuit, which would go into the multi-millions should anything happen to either one of them as a result of my callous disregard for their safety. We left them in the dust.

Old man Drinkwater was sitting on the porch with the Coyotes. They were not surprised to see us. It seemed they were waiting for us. If not for us, then for something, because Deputy Nascine had already been there.

And why?

“He wanted to make an offer on James’s old pickup,” said Drinkwater.

“Nascine wanted to
buy
the truck?” I asked. “After thirty-three years?”

“And at a pretty good price, too.”

I looked at the Coyotes, wondering.

“We didn’t sell it,” said Mr. Coyote.

“When the deputy saw he wasn’t gonna be able to buy the four-by, he started up saying how he could confiscate it, by law. He demanded to know where it was. He was pretty hot about it.”

“Did he confiscate it?” Odd asked, worried.

“I ain’t there yet,” said Drinkwater.

“Then where are you?” said I.

“Deputy was wanting to know where it was. To keep my friends from having to lie, I said it was towed away to the Tribal Headquarters garage, long ago these many years now.”

“Which was a lie,” I pointed out.

“The Coyotes are respected for their honesty. I am respected for my lies.”

“Sorry. Go on.”

“I was one step ahead of him. I knew he would want to know why the truck was at Tribal Headquarters garage.”

“Did he?”

“He did. I told him for the rite of purification.”

“Is there such a thing?”

“No, but he does not know that. Here is the funny thing.”

“It was very funny,” said Mr. Coyote, dead-pan.

“What?” I asked

“The Tribal Headquarters,” said Drinkwater, “don’t have no garage, never did.”

No one on the porch cracked a smile, though I could sense all three of them thought it was hilarious.

“So the skinny deputy went off mad,” Drinkwater continued, “and we have been sitting here waiting to see who showed up next. Cammy, did your husband do that to you?”

Cammy went up onto the porch and sat down with them, and didn’t say a word, but apparently didn’t have to. Mrs. Coyote said, “You can live with us now.”

Cammy nodded, and that quick a domicile was changed.

No similiar offer was tendered to Houser, who by now was also sitting on their porch and, in fact, was manacled to it.

We untarped the truck and once again pushed it out of the shed. Karl got to work. The rubber was fine, after being pumped back up to forty psi. He traded off the dead battery with the Coyotes’ own pickup, along with the spark plugs. What else he did I paid no attention to, pulling Odd away and trying to get out of him just why he wanted to get that old truck running again.

He acted as though I should know. Da frick. About the time I got him focused enough to tell me, we heard wheels on the gravel and saw an official car. At first I thought it had to be Nascine coming back, and my hand fell upon the butt of my weapon, but it was Chief Shining Pony and out of his car spilled Stacey and her mom.

Odd was pleased to see them, though I could care less. They were not my problem, not, that is, until Stacey rushed to Houser, cooing and kissing and assuring herself of his well-being. By now, it seemed, I was the only one outraged by this continual flaunting of a felony. Everyone else seemed to be accepting of nature taking its own course, no matter how inappropriate.

I grabbed her by the hair and yanked her off him. Her hands went out to him as I pulled her away. I was sweating and furious. I noticed Odd watching our little scuffle with cool dusinterest and then with a broad warm smile. At long last these illicit…illegal…lovers had a purpose in his dreamlike mission, and he told us what it was.

No way, I said. Never. Indefensible. The chief agreed with me, though he pointed out he had no jurisdiction. Cammy agreed with me. Karl agreed with me. Gwen, out of her diminishing shreds of motherly concern, agreed with me. The three old Indians sat impassively on the porch. Houser and Stacey were all for it.

19.

The plan was highly suspect. It was short-sighted, it was underboard. It was irresponsible, unprofessional, and insupportable. It bordered on the irrational, the other-worldly, the insane. Worst of all, it was extremely dangerous, and it probably wouldn’t work anyway. I bought into it.

Just before nightfall, when the rain returned, Houser and Stacey made their pass through town in Jimmy’s four-by, just a couple of kids in love. Houser was wearing my sweatshirt, the hood pulled over his head, and Stacey had on Odd’s black windbreaker, so that her blonde hair fell over its collar in sharp contrast. The rain created a muddy film on the windshield and Houser had to slow down and find the wipers switch. Those bewildered people who were afoot stopped in the rain and watched them drive by.

Houser followed his directions to Point Despair, put it into four-wheel drive and plowed through the mud. They trilled
wheeeeeee!
and fishtailed to a particular spot drawn on a piece of paper by Odd. He backed up the truck and turned off the ignition.

Now that they were alone, on their own, unshackled, and free to do whatever inspired them, they kissed. The rain fell and they kissed. The hours passed and they kissed. They tried to play the radio but it was broken, so they kissed without accompaniment and without me saying they could not do same. I suspect they fondled as well, as well as other inappropriate behavior. Da frick.

Midnight came and the rain stopped. A light fog drifted in from the Sound. Houser and Stacey were kissed out and fighting against sleep.

Now, the butt end of a Camel drops from the open door of a Sheriff’s unit, hisses and dies in the mud. A fresh one replaces it in the mouth of the 61-year-old deputy who swings his legs to the outside and pulls on his clamming boots. He takes off his slicker and reaches for the shotgun.

Pausing for a moment, he listens. Only the non-sound that fog makes that you think you can hear. He crooks one arm around the shotgun and lights another Camel. He walks up the hill.

It is one thing for a handful of Indians to see the same ghosts, even for a handful of whites to get swept up in their vision, but it is another thing for an experienced lawman to believe that Jeannie and Jimmy ride again, as was reported, even though this very thing has happened so many times in his restless dreams. Jimmy in a hooded sweatshirt, Jeannie a sunburst of yellow hair.