Bitter Creek (13 page)

Chapter 25

MICHEL DUHOUX SLID UP
on the stool next to Du Pré. Eleanor Macatee came down the bar, DuHoux pointed to Du Pré's drink. She made him one.

He put some money on the counter.

Eleanor took a bill, brought back change. Then she went to the kitchen.

DuHoux sipped his drink.

“I'd rather have a martini,” he said.

Du Pré nodded.

“Suzette is certainly acting like Suzette,” said DuHoux. “I suppose she will keep shrieking as long as anyone will listen to her. But for reasons having nothing to do with what she wants, she may actually be helpful. …”

Du Pré looked at him.

“Do you know anything about Canadian history?” said DuHoux. “We don't really have much. Even our scoundrels are, by the abysmal standards of the rest of the world, rather nice. We are, someone said, the people your mother wanted you to hang with in high school. …”

Du Pré laughed.

“Louis Riel,” said DuHoux, “our single great blazing character. He founded a nation that did not last long, gathered a people, helped them know who they were. …”

“He was,” said Du Pré, “nuts.”

“Absolutely,” said DuHoux. “Paranoid schizophrenic. Little chats with God. Her Majesty's servants hanged him. Today we would put him in a nice quiet place and keep him away from sharp objects. …”

“Gabriel Dumont,” said Du Pré. “Him, come down here, riding with one of my great-grandfathers.”

“The little general and his marksmen,” said DuHoux.

“So the Canadian Métis will use Amalie, their politics,” said Du Pré. “Use Suzette, too, but she will be more trouble than she is worth.”

“You do know Canadian history,” said DuHoux.

“Company of Gentlemen Adventurers of Hudson's Bay,” said Du Pré, “and then they built a railroad.”

“Amalie was not who she said she was,” said DuHoux.

Du Pré looked at him.

DuHoux took out a packet of Player's cigarettes. He shook one from the packet and he tapped it on the ashtray before lighting it.

“You know who she was?” said Du Pré.

DuHoux nodded.

“The winter of 1910 was especially harsh,” said DuHoux, “and indeed little Amalie did survive the massacre and indeed she was taken to Canada, and given to some Métis. But little Amalie was full of visions not of this world, and so the next summer the Métis, unable to cope with her, and with the help of a priest, committed her to an asylum for the insane.”

Du Pré sighed, had a mouthful of his drink, rolled a smoke and lit it.

“So who is the woman we buried, the churchyard, Toussaint?” said Du Pré.

“The daughter of a woman who worked at the asylum, cleaning and cooking, who came there when Amalie had been there a year or so. The woman's name was Thérèse Malveaux. Amalie died a few years later of tuberculosis. Thérèse Malveaux had a daughter a few years after that, an absolute little horror, Catherine, to whom she told the tale of Amalie and Bitter Creek, and that is who you have buried in your churchyard. It will not be very long before reporters find this out. With computers, there's no privacy left, and anyone can find out just about anything. …”

“Christ,” said Du Pré.

“So,” said DuHoux, “Thérèse told Amalie's story to Catherine, who after some jail time—a five-year prison sentence for forgery—decided to start anew as someone she had never met. …”

Du Pré laughed.

DuHoux looked at him.

“People,” said Du Pré, “ver' strange world with them in it.”

“But,” said DuHoux, “little Suzette doesn't know this. Granmaman was a bad girl, just like Suzette, and I have half a feeling the old bat knew it would come to this. …”

“It does not matter,” said Du Pré.

“I suppose not,” said DuHoux. “Just giving you a heads-up. …”

“You are writing a book,” said Du Pré.

“I am,” said DuHoux, “and I would really love to talk to the riddler, the medicine person Benetsee. …”

“Good luck,” said Du Pré. “Shoot him, you get a chance. …”

“I was hoping,” said DuHoux, “you might make an introduction. …”

Du Pré laughed. He took a pen from his pocket and he found a cocktail napkin. He sketched out a map.

“You go there,” he said, “from Toussaint. Take wine and tobacco. Old fart will know you are there. Him want to speak, he will come. …”

DuHoux took the napkin. “Thank you,” he said.

“I got extra guns,” said Du Pré.

“You really love the man, don't you,” said DuHoux.

A shadow flickered; someone had come up behind them.

Du Pré turned.

Rudabaugh was standing there, massive, red, a toothpick in his mouth. He chewed it a bit. “Mister Doo Pray,” he said, “if you are done here, I would like a word with you, perhaps outside, where it's private. …”

Du Pré stood up.

Eleanor came out of the kitchen. She looked at Rudabaugh.

“He's out, Ellie,” said the sheriff. “He comes round, you call right
then
.”

She nodded.

Rudabaugh jerked his head toward the door and he moved with his heavy grace toward it. Du Pré nodded to DuHoux and he got up and followed. Rudabaugh's cruiser was parked next to Du Pré's.

The huge sheriff opened the driver's door and he got in, and Du Pré went round to the passenger door and he got in, too.

“Been talking to a few folks about you,” said Rudabaugh. “All of them, after the customary complaints about your bad habits and lousy character, do seem to have a high opinion of yer brains and character and all, which I expected. Sheriff Klein, who sounds like a nice feller, says you kin figure about anything out. He calls you first thing he has something needs figurin' out. …”

Du Pré sat, waiting.

“It's late and maybe you would be good enough to get in yer car and foller me. I got something I would like you to take a look at. …” said Rudabaugh.

“OK,” said Du Pré. He got out of the sheriff's car and into his own.

Rudabaugh backed and turned and drove out to the blacktop. Du Pré followed. Rudabaugh drove toward the site where Chappie and Patchen were camped and Du Pré tensed, but Rudabaugh passed the gate and drove on another mile and a half.

Du Pré could see flashing lights off to the left, out of sight over a low hill.

Rudabaugh drove in and Du Pré followed.

There was a sheriff's cruiser parked in front of an old two-story ranch house, the standard Sears Roebuck ranch house from the twenties.

Rudabaugh parked.

He got out and he waited for Du Pré.

Red lights showed out on the county road.

An ambulance turned in and came on toward them.

A deputy stood by the front door of the house.

Rudabaugh nodded and the man stepped back.

“Thank you, Tom,” he said as he passed.

Du Pré followed.

Rudabaugh went through the living room to the kitchen.

Jackson Pardoe was lying on the floor, next to the pantry. A telephone lay on the floor beside him. A faint blood trickle ran from his ear down his cheek.

Footsteps sounded, coming through the front door. A man with a big nylon bag came in. He looked at Pardoe.

“Hi, Doc,” said Rudabaugh.

The coroner put on thin rubber gloves. He took some cases, small ones, out of his bag. “He's dead,” said the coroner, “if you can't stand the suspense.”

“What'd he die of?” said Rudabaugh.

“Something fatal,” said the coroner. “Don't see any holes right off. Blood could be from the fall, or not. Lessee here …” And he reached under Pardoe's body and he rolled him. Pardoe was stiff.

Nothing. No blood underneath.

The coroner stood up.

“You want to keep lookin' for somethin' ain't there?” he said. “Or shall I call in the boys and get him sent off fer an autopsy?”

“Fine,” said Rudabaugh.

The coroner went out and he came back with two helpers and a rolling stretcher. They got Pardoe's body on it and they wheeled him out. His left arm stuck forward, his palm out.

“Could be a massive coronary,” said the coroner.

“Don't think so,” said Rudabaugh. “Called 911.”

“Oh,” said the coroner.

“Didn't say anything,” said Rudabaugh, “but we knew where the call come from.”

“Well,” said the coroner, “we'll just have to wait on the autopsy.”

He went out.

Du Pré looked at Rudabaugh.

“If he had him a heart attack,” said Rudabaugh, “how'd he manage to dial 911?”

Du Pré shrugged.

Rudabaugh crooked a finger.

He led Du Pré up the stairs.

One room was a bedroom, in bachelor disarray. The other Pardoe had used as an office.

The office had been ransacked. Drawers were on the floor, papers had been kicked around, books pulled from the shelves. A computer sat, a weird geometric form waving on its screen. “Like I said,” said Rudabaugh, “I don't think it was a heart attack.”

Chapter 26

“SO,” SAID RUDABAUGH,
“seems that pore ol' Jackson is dead and as he was not dead 'fore all this blew up about that massacre, I suspect that had somethin' to do with it. …”

Du Pré nodded. He was walking around the parking gravels. The mercury lamp was bright and threw any shadow into high relief.

The tracks were jumbled, vehicles, the narrow wiggling lines left by the rolling stretcher.

“Not knowin' what they will find when they cut ol' Jackson up yet,” said Rudabaugh, “I 'spect he was poisoned, and poison is somethin' a woman who is squeamish about blowin' someone's head off uses. …”

Du Pré nodded. “State people will help,” he said.

“Could come to that,” said Rudabaugh. “Doubt I will need them. Thing about livin' on the ass end of nowhere is there ain't that many people to sort through. We got the ones don't like what you are stirrin' up down there, few of them. Bonner Macatee would come to about anyone's mind, but thing about Bonner is he's a hothead and this ain't hotheaded. …”

Du Pré nodded. “You look the kitchen?” he said.

“Did that,” said Rudabaugh. “Everything nice and clean and put away. Jackson didn't drink much. Partial to scotch, which hereabouts is a blot on yer drinkin' character. Bertie down to the post office wondered about Jackson, as he subscribed to the
New Yorker
and other magazines didn't have useful articles on wormin' calves or how to sell mint jelly you made in yer spare time. …”

Du Pré nodded.

A sheriff's cruiser came up the road, sedately. “That'll be Ellie,” said Rudabaugh. “She was the only livin' kin Jackson had round here anyway. …”

The car pulled up and the deputy got out and opened the passenger door and Ellie Macatee got out. Her face was composed and she stood very straight.

“Where is he?” she said.

“Been took off,” said Rudabaugh, “might do to come sit. …”

Ellie nodded, and she walked up to the porch. She sat on the worn floor, her long legs folded, her boots in the flower bed. Rudabaugh sat down next to her.

“If he had a heart attack, “said Ellie, “why is
he
here?” She looked at Du Pré.

“Might have been one, might have been somethin' else,” said Rudabaugh. “They're takin' him to Great Falls, see. …”

“Autopsy?” said Ellie.

“Got to,” said Rudabaugh.

“If somebody killed him,” she said, “it wasn't Bonner. That dumb son of a bitch might throw a punch. But …”

“Didn't think it was him,” said Rudabaugh. “Somebody tore up his office, though, so I do wonder what they might have been lookin' for, as you might expect. …”

Ellie nodded. She looked at Du Pré. “My father is dead,” she said, her voice flat, “because you bastards came here and raked up an old crime. It was a crime. But half the county are people descended from the folks who did it. …”

Du Pré nodded.

“And they are all dead and now my father is too,” said Ellie. “Goddamn the lot of you. …”

Rudabaugh nodded.

“Maybe,” he said, looking at Du Pré, “I don't need you no more tonight. …”

Du Pré nodded. He walked to his old cruiser and he got in and he drove back to the gate that opened on the big pasture. He got out, opened the gate, and he went through and shut it and he drove on toward the camp near the little bitter creek.

Two wall tents were set up, and an electric generator fuffled off in the dark.

Chappie and Patchen were sitting at a small folding table playing chess.

“Somebody kill Jackson Pardoe,” said Du Pré.

“Jesus,” said Patchen, “why?”

Du Pré shrugged.

“That asshole?” said Chappie. “Mctee or what he is?”

Du Pré shook his head. “Not him.”

“God,” said Patchen, “you would think people would want to air this out and let it go. …”

Du Pré looked at the long table close to the cutbank. He took a flashlight and he walked to it and he shone it on what was piled there.

Hundreds of cartridges, shotgun, rifle, pistol, were in small plastic buckets.

“We found one thing other than shells,” said Chappie. Du Pré turned and Chappie held out a small silver crucifix. It was black with tarnish, but the Christ was all there.

… like the one that Amalie had, only hers was worn …

“Where was this?” said Du Pré.

“Patchen found it,” said Chappie.

They walked back to Patchen, still studying the chessboard­.

“Where you find this?” said Du Pré.

“Down in the flat, over there,” said Patchen. “It was just sitting on top of the ground. I thought it was a piece of bark at first.”

“Show me,” said Du Pré.

Patchen looked at him for a moment and then he got up and he went to a bank of lights on poles and he turned them on. The gasoline generator picked up when the drain on the electrical supply flipped a switch.

The flat by the creek was bright with arc lights. Patchen pointed to a grid, near the creek.

“You find it there,” Du Pré said.

“Yes,” said Patchen.

“On top the ground,” said Du Pré.

“Mostly,” said Patchen. “Just the base was in the soil, not far, quarter inch maybe. …”

Du Pré nodded. He yawned. They went back and Patchen cut the lights. “You don't find any bones or teeth?” said Du Pré.

“No,” said Patchen.

“Just the shells,” said Chappie. “They were all up here but a few we found down there. Hard digging there, it is rocky. …”

“I am going, Toussaint,” said Du Pré. “Maybe bring back horse. …”

Patchen looked at him.

The country to the south was a jumble of rocks and hills, a low reef in the distance under the starlight.

“They are out there, you think,” said Chappie.

Du Pré nodded. He turned.

“You be careful,” he said. “Somebody is willing, kill to stop this.”

Chappie and Patchen looked at each other. Chappie went over and shut off the lights.

Du Pré got in the SUV he had driven down in and he drove back to the gate. He got in his cruiser and he drove out and shut the gate behind him.

He drove east, north, then east.

He yawned, reached under the seat, had a snort, rolled a smoke. There was no traffic on the two-lane.

… long time gone and long time they have been buried … it is winter they don't dig no big hole … old mine, blow it down …

He got to Toussaint just as the light was rising in the east. He drove out to Bart's and he went to bed in one of the guest cabins.

… winter … bitter cold … sundogs …

He dreamed, dark dreams with strange shapes roiling in them. He heard a voice.

“Git outta here, you son of a bitch!” yelled Booger Tom.

Du Pré yawned. He looked at his watch.

He had slept for three hours. Not enough, but it would have to do. He got up and pulled on his boots and went out.

The old cowboy was shoving on the water buffalo. Eustace had his head through a window in Booger Tom's cabin. Finally the buffalo pulled his head out. His face was smeared with dough. “Ate my biscuit dough,” said Booger Tom.

Du Pré laughed.

“It ain't funny, you half-breed son of a bitch,” said the old cowboy.

“I need some horses, trailer,” said Du Pré.

“How 'bout a water buffalo?” said Booger Tom.