The Girl with Braided Hair (A Wind River Reservation Myste) (27 page)

“What about Susan?” she said. It wasn’t her own interview tomorrow that she was worried about. But Susan…Vicky felt a prick of pain. Her daughter seemed to rummage through the past, select the memories she wanted, and discard the rest. It would be hard on Susan, the hammering: Are you sure? Can you be certain? Isn’t it possible…?
Did you select the truth this time?

“They’re flying a lawyer to L.A. to interview her,” Lucas said. “We talked last night.” He let a couple of seconds go by, apparently debating something with himself. “I told her what to expect,” he said finally. “Stay calm. Tell them what happened. Don’t let them make you believe otherwise. Don’t let them make you doubt what we all saw and what we know to be true.”

Vicky sipped at the ice water that the waitress had delivered. She needed a moment. Lucas
knew
, she realized. All those years with Ben—Lucas knew what was true. He knew that Susan still clung to what she wanted to remember. The good times, they were her reality; not the rest of it.

“What about the girl?” Vicky said, wanting to change the subject.

Lucas shook his head. “It’d probably help if she could testify. If she dies, that bastard’s looking at a murder charge. He ought to be charged with murder anyway. Even if she lives, she’s never going to be the same. I heard she has brain damage.”

After the waitress had materialized next to the table, cleared the plates, and, smiling down at Lucas, set the brown leather envelope with the check inside next to his arm, Vicky said, “There’s a house I’d like to see.” What she didn’t say was that she wanted to see if the house was still there.

“A house?” Lucas ran his eyes over the check, then leaned forward and extracted a wallet from his back pocket—and this, too, so like his father. How many restaurants where they’d sat across from each other, the waitress flirting a little, and Ben, leaning forward, gripping his wallet.

“You thinking about moving back?” Lucas inserted the credit card and handed the envelope to the waitress, looking up at her this time and smiling.

“It has to do with another case I’m working on,” she said. “It will only take a little while. I’ll see you later at home.”

“You sure? You want me to come with you? Where’s the house?”

“Lucas…” She reached over and laid her hand on top of her son’s. “It’s a house, that’s all. I’ll bet you’ve brought some work home tonight. I’ll see you later.”

VICKY TOOK SHERIDAN
Boulevard, the sun dropping over the mountains in the west, fracturing into a million pieces of light in the passenger window. Two lanes of cars and trucks lumbered ahead, belching noise and exhaust. A few blocks past Alameda, she turned onto a side street. In the Indian neighborhood now, driving through the shadows pressed against rows of small bungalows and oak trees with branches drooping from weeks of summer heat. She steered past the cars and pickups at the curbs, glanced at the address she’d scribbled onto a scrap of paper, then circled a block. She parked in front of a square-shaped house with yellowish siding, a front door in the center and vertical windows on either side. It had a vacant, run-down look, blue shadows washing across the front—like a Halloween house occupied by ghosts. She wondered how it had looked when Liz had come here.

Jammed into the patch of dried, brown grass was a sign: For Sale by Owner. The telephone number at the bottom might have been written with a black felt pen. Vicky switched off the engine, dug a pen out of her bag and copied it down. Then she got out and started up the sidewalk. Inch-wide cracks with tufts of grass ran through the concrete. A dog was barking in a nearby yard, and in the distance, she could hear the roar of traffic on Sheridan.

A narrow porch hung off the house with a white plastic chair smudged with dirt and twigs jammed into one corner. The screened door squealed on its hinges as Vicky pulled it open. She knocked on the inner door. There was always the chance someone might be around, she told herself, even though she could feel the vacancy leaking through the siding. She knocked again.

This was the house where Liz Plenty Horses thought she would be safe, she thought. Stood on the porch, knocked at the door, Luna in her arms. What time had it been? How late was it? A summer night, but it might still have been hot. How tired were they, she and the baby, after the long drive?
I gave her enough money for gas
, Mary Hennings had said. Was it enough? Had she made it all the way to Denver, to a house where she would be safe? Beginning to relax, maybe, thinking everything would work out. A misunderstanding, that was all, and someone named Robert Running Wolf would see that it was cleared up. And until he did, she and Luna would stay here.

There were no sounds inside, no footsteps pounding toward the door or TV noise suddenly turned down. But that night, the door had flown open—and then what? Come in, someone had said, pulling Liz and the baby inside where it was cool. The windows might have been opened; there would have been the slightest stirring of air, the soft billowing of curtains. She could almost see her stepping into a small living room and glancing around. Everything had seemed normal and so far away from the reservation and the men who wanted to kill her, and she had started to weep, dipping her head over the baby, not wanting them to see—whoever was in the house—the mixture of fear and fatigue and relief spilling from her.

Vicky wiped at the wetness that blossomed on her own cheeks and moved toward the window on the right. She peered past the edge into the dimness inside: a small, bare room with a dark vinyl floor meant to look like wood abutting the walls. On the right were two doors and straight ahead, an opening into the kitchen in back. She could see the white enameled edge of a stove. She went back to the door and tried the knob, wanting to go inside, walk across the floor, see the kitchen and the bedrooms, see the place where Liz had spent her last days, as if the house itself might tell her what had happened. Places are changed by the things that happen there, Grandmother always said. Places remember.

The knob didn’t turn. Vicky stepped off the porch, walked across the dried grass and down the side of the house. Windows were open in the house next door, and she could hear a baby crying over the noise of a TV and the sounds of a faucet running and dishes clanking. On the other side of the chain-link fence between the houses, a tricycle was tipped on its side in the dirt yard.

She walked over to the little stoop at the back door and reached for the knob. It was then that she realized the door wasn’t tightly shut. It swung open when she pushed it, and she stepped into a small space with a stairway ahead that plunged downward into the dark of a basement and four steps on the left that led to what looked like a back porch with a row of windows on the outer wall, just below the ceiling. The air was hot and stuffy, as if the windows had been closed a long time.

She started up the four steps, conscious of her heels clicking into the quiet. A refrigerator stood against the wall, taking up most of the porch. She moved past it into the small kitchen with cabinets and a counter on the wall ahead and a white stove and sink on the right. The turquoise linoleum creaked as she crossed the kitchen and went into the long, narrow room that must have served as both dining area and living room. The dining area was next to the kitchen; she could see the fine black lines, like a spider’s web, that the chairs had scratched on the floor.

They would have eaten at the table, the people who lived in the house and Liz—Liz cuddling the baby. There was probably a sofa, a couple of chairs near the front door, arranged around a TV against the wall, maybe, and she had been safe—until they came.

Vicky crossed the living room to the far door on the left and stepped into a bedroom. The same brown, fake-wood vinyl on the floor, with nicks and scratches where furniture had stood—the four legs of a bed, a chest of drawers below the window. Outside a blue sedan slowed past the house.

She went back into the living room and through the second door into a tiny hallway with two more doors. One opened into the bathroom; the other led into another bedroom, smaller than the one in front, but the door in back went into a covered porch with windows under the ceiling, like the porch next to the kitchen. Almost too small for a bedroom, but she could see the marks on the floor left by the legs of a twin bed. There were other scratches, possibly from chairs that had been pulled about.

She closed her eyes and concentrated on the picture forming on the back of her eyelids. A twin bed and two chairs pushed together to hold the cardboard box where Luna had slept. The porch had been Liz’s room, the safe place where she’d hidden.

A door creaked open somewhere in the house. Vicky opened her eyes and stood frozen in place, muscles tensed, listening. The house had gone quiet again, yet she could feel the change in the atmosphere, the presence of another person. The footsteps, when they started, sounded like the thuds of a drum. It wasn’t possible, she told herself. How could he have known she’d come to the house? How could he have gotten here so quickly, unless…

Unless he’d followed her from the reservation, a silver sedan hanging back, staying in her wake, not drawing her attention. My God. Why hadn’t she watched the traffic in the rearview mirror? She dug into her bag, extracted her keys, and jammed them between her fingers, making a tight fist. Then she moved slowly into the little hallway, walking on her toes, careful not to make a sound. She could see the living area—there was no one there—but the wall blocked her view of the dining area and kitchen.

The footsteps started again—tap, tap, tap—across the kitchen, into the dining area. Vicky squeezed her fingers around the keys and stepped out of the hallway.

The woman standing across the room whirled around and let out a strangled half scream. “Who are you?” she managed. She was pretty, with black hair that touched her shoulders, dark, almond eyes and the sculptured cheekbones and little bump in her nose of the Arapaho. Probably in her early thirties, Vicky guessed, about five foot seven and trim looking, dressed in a dark tee shirt, khaki capris, and sandals. A small purse dangled from her shoulder.

“Sorry to frighten you.” Vicky felt her hand relax around her keys. “I was interested in seeing the house,” she hurried on, “and the back door was open.”

Tension began to drain from the woman’s face and her entire body seemed to settle into what was probably her normal posture. “I was worried about that,” she said. “I showed the house this morning and couldn’t remember whether I’d locked the back door. Are you looking at the house for yourself or as an investment? It’s a good neighborhood.” She gave a little wave toward the front door. “Very friendly,” she said. “Mostly native people.”

“The sign said for sale by owner,” Vicky said. “Are you the owner?”

“No. No.” Another little wave, this time toward the space between them. “Just helping my mother sell the place. She lived here most of her life.”

“Your mother?” Vicky said. She couldn’t believe her luck. Standing before her was the daughter of the woman who had owned the house when Liz was here. Who could have opened the door, let Liz and the baby inside. “I came here to find your mother.” She rushed on, aware of the flush of excitement coming over her. She was close, so close to the truth. “My name is Vicky Holden. I’m from the Wind River Reservation.”

“Luna Norton.” The woman held out a slim, brown hand.

Vicky wasn’t aware of moving across the narrow room or of reaching for the outstretched hand, only that she was holding on to it, conscious of the warmth in the palm and the faint rhythm of Luna Norton’s pulse.

“Luna,” she heard herself say. Her voice seemed to come from far away.

“Do I know you?” The young woman withdrew her hand and took a step back, something new moving in her expression, questions and curiosity mingling with a hint of apprehension.

Vicky took a moment. She could feel her heart thudding. It sounded like the pounding of a drum, and she wondered if Luna could hear it. “I know your mother,” she said finally. It wasn’t exactly true, and yet, it seemed to be the truth.

“Who are you?” Luna said, still holding back.

“I’m a lawyer. I came here looking for your mother.”

“My mother!” Apprehension fixed on the woman’s face now. She took another step backward, clasped her hands, and held them in front of her. “I can’t imagine why she would want to talk to a lawyer,” she said. “My mother isn’t well.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“I don’t think you know anything about us. My mother had a heart attack last month, so I moved her in with us—my husband and our baby girl. I couldn’t stand the thought of her being alone. She doesn’t want to sell this old place.” She was glancing about the vacant room. “There are so many memories.”

“Would it be possible to speak with her?” Vicky said quietly.

“About what?” A sharpness came into Luna’s voice.

“About AIM and the summer of 1973.” Vicky waited a moment before she added, “About Liz Plenty Horses.”

Luna Norton squeezed her lips together and narrowed her eyes. An almost imperceptible moisture appeared at the corners and glistened on her cheeks. “There’s no good that can come from stirring up all that trouble. What happened, happened. There’s nothing we can do about it. I’ve had a good life. My mother made sure that I had a good life. What right do you have to come here and disturb her?”

“Listen to me, Luna,” Vicky said. “Your mother…” Her mouth had gone dry. It tasted of dust. “Your mother could be in danger.”

“Danger! What are you talking about?”

“Someone on the reservation might want to harm her.” Vicky was aware of the keys still pressed against her left palm. She dropped them into her bag, took out the small leather container that held her business cards, and managed to pull out a card. Her hand was shaking as she held it out. “I have to see her right away,” she said.

Luna hesitated, some kind of battle playing out behind the dark, narrowed eyes. Finally she stepped forward, took the card, and held it between her hands, flexing it back and forth, but not taking her eyes from it. “I have to talk to her first,” she said. “I don’t know if she’s up to this.” She held the card steady a moment, then slid it inside the thin envelope of her purse. “You’d better go.”

“Will you tell me your mother’s name?”

“I thought you said you knew her.”

“I don’t know her name.”

“Inez. Inez Horn.”

Vicky walked across the vacant room, took hold of the knob, and pulled at the door swollen in the frame. It gave in pieces—the top edge first, then the bottom. Still holding the knob, she looked back. “You should stay away from the house for a while,” she said.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Please,” Vicky said. “Don’t come here for a while.” She watched Luna take this in—fingers pinching the edge of her bag, lips pulled into a tight line—then she stepped outside and closed the door behind her.

THE PHONE STARTED
to ring, breaking through the afternoon quiet that had settled over the administration building. Father John reached across a pile of papers on his desk and picked up the receiver. “Father O’Malley,” he said.

“Hey, Father.” It was the voice of probably an eleven-year-old, and he matched the voice with the brown, smiling face and eager eyes of Mason Willow. “Hey, Mason,” he said.

“When’s practice?”

“Sorry, Mason. Not today.” He’d spent the last couple of hours calling parishioners, canceling meetings and carryin suppers—all the activities scheduled for the week. He’d called the homes of the kids on the Eagles team and left messages: no practice for a few days; he’d get back to them. He’d asked them to pass the word on to the kids who didn’t have phones. Mason was one of those kids. “We have to take a short break.”