In the Moon of Red Ponies: A Novel (39 page)

The federal agents who wander into the script are even more impressive. They have tanned skin, little-boy haircuts, and the anatomies of California surfers. Their psychoanalytical knowledge of the criminal mind is stunning. Without hesitation, they conclude for the viewer that serial rapists possess violent tendencies toward women and people who plant bombs on airplanes are antisocial.

But my thoughts on the subject are cheap in design and substance. It’s easy to be facile about law enforcement. The truth is the good guys are understaffed, overworked, underfunded, and out-gunned. Most of the time the bad guys win, or if they do take a fall, it’s because a wrecking ball swings into their lives for reasons that have nothing to do with jurisprudence. If you have ever been a victim of violent crime, or if you have been threatened by deviates or sadists—and by the latter I mean wakened by anonymous phone calls in the middle of the night, surveilled by people you’ve never seen before, forced to take public transportation because you’re afraid to start your car in the morning—then you know that what I’m about to say is an absolute fact: You’re on your own.

Law enforcement agencies don’t prevent crimes. With good luck, they solve a few of them. In the meantime, if violent and dangerous people intend to do you injury, your own thoughts become your worst enemies. The morning might start with sunshine and birdsong, but by noon it’s usually filled with gargoyles.

I walked around the house aimlessly, trying to chase down each of my thoughts and hold it in a bright place in the center of my mind, face it down fair and square. But it was to no avail. Thunder ripped across the sky and rain pounded on the roof and swept in sheets across the hillside. Through the kitchen window I thought I saw L. Q. Navarro standing among the fir trees, wearing his pin-striped suit and ash-colored Stetson, his face lit briefly by a flicker of lightning.

Take this guy Mabus off at the neck. Smoke him and put a throw-down on the body and buy your wife a trip to Hawaii,
he said.

I wish I could, L.Q.

Don’t think about it, just do it. Everybody dies. You want this guy to kill your wife or unborn child or Lucas? Take care of your own and screw the rest of it.

That easy, huh?

There’s nothing wrong with this guy Mabus a two-hundred-and-thirty-grain brass-jacketed hollow-point wouldn’t cure.

But I did not listen to L.Q.’s words. Instead, I found Karsten Mabus’s business card, the one he had given me with his home telephone number written on the back. I hesitated only a moment, then punched the number into the phone, thereby beginning the commission of the most cowardly act of my life.

“Hello?” he said.

“It’s Billy Bob Holland, Mr. Mabus.”

“How you doin’?”

“I don’t want my wife or boy or unborn child hurt.”

“I don’t, either. But why are you telling me this?”

“Call your guys off. I don’t have the goods from the Global Research boost.”

“Mr. Holland, I couldn’t care less about that stuff. Look, can you and your wife come out to dinner this evening? I realize it’s late notice, but—”

“Johnny American Horse dumped a metal box of some kind on my property. But I don’t have it and neither does Johnny or his wife, Amber. Wyatt Dixon found it and has it in his possession.”

My own words sounded strange and apart from me, separate from my life and the person I thought I was.

“Can you please tell me who in the Sam Hill Wyatt Dixon is?” Mabus asked.

“Leave Wyatt alone and he’ll probably blow out his own doors. But whatever you do, just stay away from us,” I said.

“At this point, gladly, sir. I guess I have a great personal flaw, Mr. Holland. I’m obviously a terrible judge of character,” he said, and hung up.

Chapter 22

IT WAS STILL
raining when Johnny was wheeled in a chair down a corridor to the X-ray room by a nurse and the U.S. marshal, who ate a candy bar while he talked. Before leaving the room, Tim cuffed Johnny’s right wrist to the arm of the wheelchair.

“You’ll be back in your room before lunchtime. If you want, I can get you an extra dessert from the cafeteria,” Tim said.

Johnny didn’t answer. Out in the hallway the painters were erecting a scaffolding against the wall.

“Did you hear me?” Tim said.

“Sorry, I got a toothache,” Johnny said, touching his jaw.

“If I don’t cut down on my sugar, that’s what I’m gonna have,” Tim said.

“We need to take some pictures now. There’s a waiting room to your left, just past the double doors,” the X-ray technician said.

“Take good care of my man here,” Tim said. He walked down the corridor and through the double doors, nodding to the painters as he passed.

“You have any pain in your left arm?” the technician said.

“None,” Johnny replied.

“Did you feel a break in it?”

“No.”

“I guess the government just likes to be careful. How’s the wound progressing?” the technician said.

“Fine. You guys did a good job.” Johnny pressed his fingers against his jaw and cleared his throat.

“Well, let’s get you done here,” the technician said.

“I hate to tell you this, but I got to use the toilet real bad,” Johnny said.

“I wish you’d told the marshal that.”

“Just wheel me over to the restroom. I’m not going anywhere,” Johnny said, clinking the handcuff chain tight on the arm of the chair.

The technician took Johnny across the corridor and watched him fold up the wheelchair, work his way awkwardly into a stall, his right wrist still cuffed to the chair arm, then ease down on the toilet seat. “I’ll come back in a few minutes,” the technician said.

When Johnny heard the door click shut, he removed the paper clip from his mouth, straightened it, and inserted it into the lock on his handcuffs. It took him less than thirty seconds to spring the curved steel tongue that Tim had crimped into his wrist. Behind the door of the next stall he found a painter’s cap and pair of coveralls hanging on a hook. He ripped off his hospital gown, pulled on the coveralls, and fitted the cap down on his head. He stepped out into the corridor just as the painters were passing by.

The last man in line was an Indian who was struggling with a rolled tarp that sagged heavily across his shoulder. Johnny picked up the end of the roll, dropped it on his shoulder, snugging the side of his face against the canvas, and walked out the front door of the hospital into the rain-swept breadth of the outside world.

But what Johnny saw was more than simply the outside world. The building and sidewalks and cars and telephone wires were gone. Under an ink-wash sky he saw hills that had turned the bright gold of haystacks in late summer, the fir trees and ponderosa pine like miniature forests in the saddles. He could see black-horn buffalo grazing in the grass along the river, and he could see lightning in the clouds beyond the hills where the four points of the wind and the Everywhere Spirit made their home. He saw muscular fish that were the dull tint of dried blood working their way up a stream, beating themselves to death on the rocks in order to lay their roe and hold their claim on the earth. He saw bears, mustangs, deer, elk, and winged creatures that lived under the great bowl of heaven the Everywhere Spirit had made with His hands and filled with both sun and rain in order to bring life to the corn and the grass, and in the midst of all this he saw thousands of wickiups whose lodge skins were painted with the signs of the moon and the passing of the seasons, and he knew these presences had long ago been ingested by the great vastness of the Everywhere Spirit and they now lived inside Him, as they lived inside Johnny’s sleep, and hence they could not die.

And more important than all these things, he saw his wife, Amber American Horse, wearing the white buckskin dress of the Indian woman who had guided him through the Bob Marshall Wilderness, the purple glass beads that were shaped like teardrops on the fringe of her dress tinkling in the wind, her hand beckoning, as though both she and Johnny were about to embark on a journey from which neither of them would return.

TEMPLE CAME HOME
early that afternoon, unsure of where I had been all day. “Why didn’t you answer the phone?” she said from the mud room, where she was hanging up her raincoat.

“I was in the barn,” I replied, although I wasn’t sure where I had been.

She walked into the kitchen. “Are you sick?”

“No, but I did something that I have a hard time squaring with—”

“With what?”

“Honorable behavior is the term I’m probably looking for.”

She waited for me to go on, her face sharpening.

“I called up Karsten Mabus and told him Wyatt had the goods from the Global Research break-in. It’s between Mabus and Dixon now,” I said. I felt my eyes shift off her face.

She was quiet a long time. Then she took a quart of milk out of the icebox and poured it into a glass, slowly, as though she couldn’t concentrate on what she was doing. “Do you want something to eat?” she said.

“No.”

“I didn’t stop at the grocery because I thought we might go out.”

“I’m not very hungry right now. We can go out, though, if you want.”

“It’s not important,” she said, looking out the window now at the wetness of the trees and the mist floating on the hillside. She picked up her glass of milk and drank from it. “So Dixon has become shark meat?”

“He can take care of himself,” I said.

“Right,” she said. She poured her milk down the drain.

“What’s wrong?” I said.

“Not much. It’s our one-year anniversary. I have your present in the car. I’ll go get it,” she said.

A HALF HOUR LATER,
I got a call from Francis Broussard at the FBI office. “Johnny American Horse walked out of St. Pat’s Hospital today. You happen to know anything about it?” he said.

I couldn’t assimilate his words. “He walked—”

“He used a paper clip to pick his handcuffs and went out the front door with some painters. We think one of his buddies from the res planted some workclothes in the restroom for him to change into. His wife was waiting for him across the street. The question is, how did he and his wife set it up and where did they go?”

“You think I had something to do with it?”

There was a pause. “No, but you’re a personal friend and you know things about American Horse other people don’t,” he replied.

“Was Amber allowed to visit him?”

“No.”

“How about his lawyer, Brendan Merwood?” I said.

“He was there twice.”

“Anyone else?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?” I said.

Again the phone went silent, and I knew Broussard had already drawn conclusions that he didn’t want to admit, at least to me.

“The escape couldn’t have been set up without Merwood’s participation,” I said.

“Yeah, that’s a possibility, isn’t it? But why would an oilcan like Merwood risk his career, plus serious prison time, on a pro bono case?”

“How about he’s scared shitless?”

“I did some background on Mr. Merwood. He’s represented a couple of Karsten Mabus’s enterprises. Do you know where American Horse and his wife are hiding?”

“No, I don’t,” I said impatiently. “You’re telling me Merwood is setting them up to get whacked?”

“You said it, I didn’t.”

“What about the painters?”

“We have an Indian from the res in custody. But he’s D, D, and D, and I don’t think that’s going to change.”

“He’s what?” I said.

“It’s the Indian concept of a dialogue with federal agents. ‘Deaf, dumb, and don’t know.’ ”

“Pick up Merwood and lose the paperwork. Move him to a federal facility and let him spend a couple of days in the bridal suite with a few swinging dicks who dig rap music.”

“I can’t imagine why the A.G.’s office was happy to see you make a career change. Call me if you hear from American Horse,” he replied.

THE REVEREND ELTON T. SNEED
was not a man for whom the world was a complex place. He believed in Jesus, the flag, the devil, sin, camp meetings, Wednesday night services, helping his neighbor, tithing, jailhouse ministries, the restorative power of baptism, the gift of tongues, and the exorcism of demonic spirits, some of whom he called by name. The heroes and villains of the Old Testament moved in and out of his rhetoric as though they were contemporary figures who lived in the community. Unlike many of his peers’, his sermons seldom touched on the subjects of sex or politics, primarily because he had no interest in them. For Elton T. Sneed, the critical issue for a preacher was the wrestling contest between Yahweh and Satan.

For Elton, a ministry meant the acquisition of power—the power to heal, to cast out unclean spirits, and to wash away original sin. Salvation didn’t come with catechism lessons, attendance at church, or even the daily practice of good deeds. It came like the sun crashing out of the sky, crushing a person to the earth. “If you don’t believe me, ask St. Paul what happened on the road to Damascus,” Elton was fond of saying.

When Elton brought salvation to the willing, it was in the form of an exorcism that left them dripping with sweat and fear, or, if he baptized them, he pushed them under so many times they thought they were about to drown or had been mistaken for dirty laundry.

The problem for Elton was not his belief system but the consequences of it. If redemption and forgiveness of sin came with baptism, or if indeed the Holy Spirit descended through the top of the tent and entered the human breast, how could a Christian shun or turn away from a brother or sister whom Jesus had chosen to save?

Sometimes Elton’s jailhouse converts seemed to be a bit shaky in their beliefs after they made parole. They showed up at the parsonage door, asking for money, perhaps smelling of marijuana, a couple of women in the car, their faces averted. In these instances Elton usually gave them money, provided he had any, then would be filled with depression, a sense of personal failure, and a question mark about the worth of his ministry.