The Girl with Braided Hair (A Wind River Reservation Myste) (8 page)

“Tell ’em we’re gonna give the girl a proper burial, see that she goes to the ancestors. Her ghost’s not gonna be walking around anymore looking for the way to the sky world. We’re gonna take care of her, soon’s we get the bones from the coroner.”

“The coroner’s going to need help identifying her. Detective Coughlin’s going to need help. Somebody on the rez might remember her.”

Thomas exchanged a quick glance with the other elder, then cleared his throat. He set his hands on the table and laced his fingers together into a tight grip. White knuckles rose like miniature mountain peaks out of the brown skin. “Nobody’s gonna want to talk about that old time. It’s over and done with, and I say good riddance. You gotta tell them investigators that we need to bury her.”

“She has to be identified first, Grandfather,” Father John said. His voice was soft. He waited a moment, then he said, “She had a child. The child would be grown now, in the thirties probably. It’s possible her child is here.”

Hugh cleared his throat, as if he were about to say something. He shot a glance at Thomas—the elder one, the holy man—then sat back, dropped his head, and studied the front of his yellow shirt.

Thomas said, “They came from all over, them AIM people. Lakota, Blackfeet, Crow, Ojibwa, Cheyenne. Most of ’em city Indians trying to figure out who the hell they were. Didn’t know nothing about our culture and ways. Never went to the elders and asked permission to come on the rez. They just came. Thought they was gonna take over, run the rez their way. Held demonstrations, marched around with the flag upside down, that was their way. Shouting for Indian rights. Demanding treaty rights, saying the government’s got to give back all the land that was ours in the treaties. One day, they left. Took some of our people with ’em, some of the young warriors just back from Vietnam and having a tough time. AIM give ’em the kind of battle they wanted to fight. I heard there was miles of trucks and vans full of Indians from all over that went to Washington to see the Great White Father just like in the old days.”

He gave a bark of laughter, threw his head back and stared at the ceiling, as if he were watching the images of the caravans converging on the Capitol. “Took over the BIA building. Could’ve gotten a lot of people killed, with them soldiers surrounding ’em, like in the Old Time. Couple warriors did get killed, if I remember right. Went to Pine Ridge and took over Wounded Knee. From what I heard on the moccasin telegraph, Feds came rolling in with assault weapons and armored trucks, like it was Vietnam. Whole town was destroyed. Lot of people got wounded. After it was over, the Feds went after those Indians real hard. Some of ’em came here, looking to hide. There was people here that helped ’em. It was a bad time. Feds crawling all over the place, and there was gossip all the time that AIM was gonna occupy some place on the rez next.”

Hugh sipped at his coffee. When Thomas didn’t continue, he said, “Folks like us were working, raising kids back then. Hell, we didn’t have time for demonstrations and marches. They had a big demonstration in Fort Washakie. I was real worried they’d take over the tribal offices, ’cause I had a job in accounting. How was I gonna get paid if I couldn’t work? They hated those of us in the younger generation, AIM did. Said the mission school turned us into white men. People that went AIM’s way were the young vets and the old traditionals living out on their ranches like in the Old Time. They thought AIM was gonna bring back the old ways.”

“No good’s gonna come from going into all that,” Thomas said. He was shaking his head, the white braids swayed across his chest. “Lot of people got hurt. AIM pushed folks into separate camps. You was for ’em, or you was against ’em. Either way, you might get killed.”

“There was lots of murders in that time.” Hugh pushed his empty foam cup into the center of the table. It spun like a top, then tipped over, spilling out little drops of black coffee. “Two or three hundred all over Indian country, I heard. Maybe more. Most of ’em never solved. Just bodies that turned up in ditches and graves out on the prairie. Police shrugged ’em off. Indians killing Indians, is what they thought. There wasn’t any justice for those dead Indians.”

“There wasn’t any justice for the dead girl, either,” Father John said. “It’s an old case,” he hurried on, “and Coughlin may not make any headway in the investigation unless we can come up with something that might help.”

Thomas drew himself upright along the back of his chair and squared his shoulders. “You go asking questions, Father—I don’t mean no disrespect—but people ain’t gonna like it. There was a lot of violence on the rez back then. There’s people that might be what they call ‘accessories.’ If that old stuff gets dragged up, they’re gonna think they could get in trouble. They’re gonna be scared.”

“Police shot one of them AIM people over in Ethete, if I remember right,” Hugh said, crossing his arms and pushing against the back of his chair.

“Do you have a name?” This was something, Father John was thinking. There would be records, police reports.

Hugh gave him a half-second blank stare before turning toward the man next to him. “Remember that AIM guy got himself shot?”

Thomas was shaking his head. “Nobody from around here. Lakota, I think, from Pine Ridge, hiding out here. Police got on to him, went to talk to him, and there was a big shoot-out. My little brother happened along when it was all coming down. He says a bullet parted his hair, and he took off running across the plains. Ran in a big circle around Ethete until he got home.”

Father John picked up his cowboy hat and got to his feet. He reached across the table, shook the weathered hands, and thanked the old men. Then he set his hat on his head and started back across the vacant hall.

“Hold on, Father.” Thomas’s voice behind him.

Father John turned back.

“We can put the word out, see if somebody might be willing to talk to you about that time, but could be dangerous. You gotta be careful. People that got secrets ain’t gonna want you or any detective pryin’ into ’em. Girl’s been dead a long time. We don’t need any more murders, you understand?”

He said that he understood, thanked them again, and hurried toward the door. Outside he clamped his hat down in the wind and let himself into the pickup. A red-tailed hawk circled over the senior citizens center, then dipped toward the dirt parking lot before flapping its wings and rising high overhead. The fear that had gripped the reservation thirty years ago was still holding on, he realized. Even Thomas and Hugh were affected. They hadn’t given him names. It might be dangerous, not only to him but to them. But they would put out the word on the moccasin telegraph. Even that could be dangerous.

But he had something: the police had killed an AIM member in Ethete.

VICKY DROVE ONTO
the wood planks that crossed the barrow ditch. The small white house set back from the road looked deserted—curtains half drawn in the windows, a skinny black dog sniffing at the wooden stoop in front. Her cell started ringing, and she dragged it out of her bag as she guided the Jeep across the dirt yard and parked at the stoop. The dog loped off, a wild thing, like a coyote. An Indian dog, whites would say. She recognized Adam’s number on the screen and pressed the cell to her ear.

“Hi,” she said. This morning, she’d told Adam she’d be back by midafternoon. She stole a glance at her watch. Four thirty. In the rearview mirror, Aunt Rose’s old green sedan with the bent front fender was bouncing across the planks.

“Where are you?” Adam said.

“I stopped by to see Aunt Rose.”

There was a long moment of silence. “I thought we were going to take off early, go for a hike in Sinks Canyon, have a picnic.”

She was still in her lawyer clothes, the blue skirt and light blouse she’d picked out this morning. Her feet felt achy in her pumps. Vicky waved at the old woman in the sedan pulling in alongside her and told Adam that she’d be at her apartment by six.

That seemed to be acceptable, because he said, “How is she?”

Vicky got out of the Jeep, still gripping the cell. She pulled her bag across the console and the driver’s seat and slammed the door. Aunt Rose was coming around the front of the sedan, pumping both arms as if she couldn’t wait to get them around her. “She seems fine,” Vicky said.

“See you at six.” The cell cut out. Vicky was trying to stuff it back into her bag when she felt herself enclosed in Aunt Rose’s arms, pulled against her soft bosom. She had the fleeting sense of being a child again, safe in her mother’s arms. Aunt Rose was her mother’s sister, which, in the Arapaho Way, meant that she was also her mother.

“Been a while since you come by.” Aunt Rose let her go and stepped back, looking her over and leaving Vicky feeling a little wobbly, stuck somewhere between childhood and adulthood.

Finally, she said, “Better come inside. Get some iced tea. Hot enough to roast a rock out here.”

Vicky followed her up the stoop and waited while she fumbled with the knob and pushed the door open. It wasn’t locked. No one locked doors on the reservation. It wasn’t until she’d moved to Denver that Vicky had started locking her door. Even then, it had been hard to remember.

The living room was surprisingly cool. A little fan stood in one corner, the metal head moving back and forth like the head of a robot, riffling the edges of the magazine on the coffee table. Vicky could feel the cool air on her legs.

“You sit down,” Aunt Rose said, nodding toward the sofa with a star quilt folded across the top.

“Let me help…”

“Sit,” she said.

Vicky dropped onto the sofa and leaned back into the cushions. It was like coming home. The house looked the same as when she was a kid: the same worn brown sofa and wood chair with the blue cushions and the blue ottoman with the white cover. Past the doorway to the kitchen, she could see the wood table and chairs, sun flowing over the tabletop. There was the sound of running water and metal clanking against glass, comfortable sounds.

After a moment, Aunt Rose was back, carrying two glasses of iced tea. Vicky took the glass she handed her. It felt cold and moist against her palm. She waited while Aunt Rose settled herself in the blue chair, lifted her feet onto the ottoman, then let out a long sigh and took a drink of her own tea.

There were a few moments of catching up, synchronizing the rhythms of their lives: How you been? Staying busy. Sure been hot, and then Aunt Rose said, “How’s that man of yours?”

“Adam’s fine,” Vicky said.

“You like him, huh? A Lakota. Arapahos in the Old Time stayed as far away from them as they could. They were fighters, those Lakotas. Take over the entire plains, if they could’ve figured a way.”

“He’s a good man.”

“Made you forget about that priest?”

“Auntie, please. There was never anything…”

Aunt Rose threw up one hand. “You don’t have to tell me. Didn’t stop you from having feelings.”

“We’re friends. We work a lot together. Cases come up—” Vicky shrugged. Her heart was thumping. Why was she going on like this? She could feel Aunt Rose watching her, peering through her skin to what was going on inside.

She said, “I wanted to talk to you about the nineteen seventies.”

The old woman’s eyes widened into large, black stones that turned opaque, as if she were now staring at her from behind a curtain. “This about that girl with the bullet in her skull out in the canyon?”

Vicky nodded.

“Skeleton’s all that was left of her, the newspaper said. She’d been there a long time. I figured she might’ve gotten killed back then. Lots of trouble with those AIM people.”

“Diana Morningstar and some of the other women came to see me. They’d like to see the girl get justice.”

Aunt Rose nodded and sipped at her tea. A moment passed before she said, “Everywhere I go on the rez, gas station, convenience store, senior center, women are talking. Girl oughtta be buried with her own name. Killer oughtta be caught. They asked me if you’d make sure that detective in charge keeps looking for the killer. I tol’ em not to bother you. Not your business. Sounds like some of ’em bothered you anyway.”

“I want to see her get justice, too, Auntie.”

The old woman nodded. “What good’s our wanting it gonna do?”

“I’ve talked to Detective Coughlin. He’s working the investigation, but she was murdered more than thirty years ago. If we can give him names of people who might be willing to talk about that time, he’d have something concrete to go on. If we can…”

“We?”

“I’ve asked Father John to talk to people who were on the rez then. People trust him.” Vicky ignored the knowing look that froze in the old woman’s face. “It’s possible some of the women will talk to me. Even the smallest piece of information might help the investigation.”

“You shouldn’t get involved.” Aunt Rose finished off her tea, then shifted sideways and set the glass down hard on the little table next to the chair.

“I’m hoping you can help me, Auntie.”

“Your mother and me, we stayed away from AIM and their demonstrations and marches. Closed down the curtains, kept to ourselves. You were just a kid, going to school. Your mother worried all the time things were gonna blow up on the rez, like they did at Pine Ridge where those Indians took over a whole town. Held on to it, too, for a couple months. Little kids in that town with their folks, and the Feds were shooting at all of ’em. It was bad, and we were scared they was gonna do the same here. Worst part is, some folks went along. Said AIM was gonna get our rights. They was looking out for the people, running Indian culture schools.” She gave a snort of laughter and rolled her eyes upward until only the whites showed in her brown face. “City Indians never been on a rez before, and they was teaching people about being Indian!”

“Who went along?”

“What?”

“Any women, that you remember?”

“Vicky…”

“Please, Auntie.” Vicky stopped herself from telling her about the girl in the alley in Denver. It would only worry her. She’d lie awake nights thinking about what might have happened if there had been a weapon and the man had turned on Lucas or Susan or her. “It’s important,” she said.

“It’s always important when you get yourself into dangerous stuff you oughtta stay out of. Practice your law. Take care of your man. Take care of yourself.”

“It’s part of that,” Vicky said. It was part of taking care of herself; as if in finding justice for the girl, she could, in some strange way, find justice for herself and the years with Ben. She hurried on: “It’s part of practicing law. The killer shouldn’t be able to hide any longer. He should be brought to justice.”

“What if he’s dead?”

Vicky swallowed the hard lump forming in her throat. The killer wasn’t dead. He’d left a warning on her dashboard. She said, “The murdered girl had a child, Auntie.” She could hear the pleading note in her voice.

Aunt Rose threaded her fingers together and looked at her hard. “They use to beat up people that didn’t go along with ’em.”

“It was a long time ago.” Vicky tried to blink away the image of the word floating in front of her: STOP. A warning, that was all. He hoped to scare her, call her off. Let the case fade from everyone’s memory. And yet, he was still in the area. He had killed a girl once, and now he was watching her.

“Way I look at it, they were mean then, they’re gonna be mean now.” Aunt Rose shifted about and clasped her hands in her lap. Finally she settled back. “Promise you’ll be careful.”

Vicky nodded and tried for a reassuring smile. She could feel the muscles twitching in her cheeks.

“You might wanna talk to Donita White Hawk over on Boulder Flats Road. Those White Hawks always made it their business to know what everybody was doin’.”

VICKY TAPPED OUT
the numbers for directory assistance when she got into the Jeep. She asked for White Hawk on Boulder Flats Road, then shifted into reverse and backed into the yard while the operator searched for the number. Another moment, and she was across the planks, driving down Blue Sky Highway, a phone across the reservation buzzing in her ears.

“Yeah, hello.” A man had picked up. Vicky asked for Donita White Hawk.

She wasn’t home—the voice was laced with irritation and a hint of sleepiness—and who wanted her, anyway?

Vicky gave her name and was about to say that she was an attorney.

“I know who you are,” the voice interrupted. “What d’ya want with Donita?”

“I’m hoping she can help me with a case.”

“Donita don’t hang around with the kind of low-life Indians you lawyers hang with.”

“Of course not,” Vicky said. “When might I reach her?”

The man seemed to be considering, and after a moment, a loud sigh, like a cough, sputtered down the line. “You might catch up with her at work tomorrow. Early shift at the Sunrise Café in Riverton.”

Vicky thanked him, pressed the end button, and was about to slip the cell into her bag when it started ringing. She knew it was Adam, even before she glimpsed the readout.

“I’m on the way,” she said. The dashboard clock was blinking 6:02. It would be another thirty minutes before she got to the apartment. The asphalt blurred through the stretch of plains ahead, and the sun burst off the hood of the Jeep.

Adam said he’d wait.

IT WAS COOL
in the mountains, and peaceful. The faintest sounds—an engine backfiring, a dog barking—drifted on the air from somewhere below. Halfway up the dirt road that wound above them, they’d found a vacant picnic table overlooking a creek that plunged through a stand of evergreens. They’d set the cooler Adam had brought on the table, then hiked up the narrow dirt path next to the creek, dodging the branches that slapped at them. Adam went ahead, picking the way around the boulders that jutted out of the dirt, holding back the branches until Vicky stepped past, then letting them slap into place before he raced ahead.

Long gray shadows lay over the path that had gotten steeper. The last daylight glowed through the trees. Vicky had the sense that they were climbing away from everything familiar—the sound of traffic sputtering past the office on Main Street, the bungalow-lined streets of Lander, the open spaces of the reservation. They might have been in the Old Time, she thought, watching Adam climb up the boulders, as if they were stair steps. Warriors always walked in front of women to make sure the path was safe, to protect them from the danger lurking ahead. There could be wild animals, the enemy.

Adam stood on top of a boulder and looked out across the chasm of space. He seemed preoccupied, weighted down with something. Vicky lifted herself from one boulder to the next until she was beside him. The wind gusted around them. Below were the rooftops of Lander, lights flickering on in the shadows. “What is it?” she said.

He was quiet a moment before he said, “I got a call this afternoon. My uncle died in Pine Ridge.”

“I’m sorry, Adam,” Vicky said.

“The funeral’s in three days. I have to go.”

“Yes, of course.” Adam’s relatives would all be there, she knew.

“It’ll be dark soon,” he said. He took hold of her hand and pulled her close. His lips were warm on hers. “We should head back,” he said after a moment. Still he waited a little longer before starting down through the boulders. Vicky started after him, then veered off on another path that looked less steep.

Adam was waiting when she got down, and they started walking along the trail to the picnic area. He was talking about tomorrow’s meeting with Charles Crow at the tribal offices, how the director of economic development on the rez had insisted on a meeting as soon as possible. They’d already discussed this on the drive to Sinks Canyon, and she realized now that all the time he’d been talking about Charles Crow, he’d probably been thinking about his uncle, waiting for the time to tell her, to speak the words that would make his uncle’s death real and irrevocable.