Winter's Child (13 page)

The front door
sighed open into the warm, muggy atmosphere of the diner halfway down Main Street in Lander. Odors of hot grease, fried meat, and coffee hung over the counter that stretched along the rear. A few booths lined the plate glass windows on either side of the door. The place was empty. The lunch crowd, if there had been one, had moved on, leaving behind wet traces of boot prints on the yellow vinyl floor.

The bell above the door jangled into the silence for a moment before cutting off as Vicky let the door bang behind her and slid onto a stool. Through the opened door behind the counter she could see a woman bent into scrubbing the metal surface of a trestle table. The shiny circle widened under her hand.

Vicky took the menu out of the metal holder and flipped it open. The realization that she was hungry had come out of the blue. Toast and coffee this morning before she'd gone to the office, then nothing, and it was almost time for dinner. Living off adrenaline, chasing
after Clint Hopkins, trying to escape the image of the dark figure suspended over the hood of the black truck. She squeezed her eyes shut a moment, forcing away the thought that she was two blocks—
two blocks
—from where Clint had died.

She glanced at the menu: hamburger, steak sandwich, turkey sandwich, grilled cheese. There was another thought that stayed with her, an icy hand gripping her: the truck had been waiting for Clint Hopkins. She
knew
it to be true. Clint had been murdered. Somehow it all converged on the last name on the calendar, Lou Bearing. Clint had met the man, spoken with him, and something Lou Bearing said must have sent Clint elsewhere. A man obsessed with uncovering the truth behind an infant's sudden appearance on a doorstep, doggedly interviewing one person after another, day after day, and then? Nothing. A calendar with three days x-ed out. Where had he gone? What had he done? Taken a break in the midst of an investigation? Put his feet up by a fire and smoked a pipe? She didn't think so.

She had been staring at the menu, lost in her own thoughts, and now the woman from the back was on the other side of the counter. She had set down a glass of water, and now she was tapping a pencil on the notepad cupped in her hand. An Arapaho with the prominent cheekbones, the little hook in her nose, the black eyes that seemed to take in everything and gave nothing.

“What can I get you? Sorry, we're out of apple pie.”

Apple pie. Vicky hadn't yet turned to the dessert section. “Are you Dina?”

The woman stepped back, something new in her eyes, a flicker of interest. “Dina's Diner. This is my place. What's it going to be?”

“Grilled cheese.” A hot grilled cheese sandwich struck her as the most delicious item on the menu. “Coffee.”

Dina slipped the pad into the pocket of a white apron streaked
with ketchup and mustard stains and the shiny residue of grease. The order was not worth writing down. She had already turned back when Vicky said, “I'm an attorney here in town. Vicky Holden. I'd like to talk to you for a few minutes.”

The woman swung back. “I heard of you. The Indian lawyer. Were you working with the lawyer that got killed?”

“I've taken over one of his cases.”

“About time, I say. He came in here last week, asking questions. Had me digging into the past, trying to remember what happened five years past, like that wasn't a lifetime ago. ‘You must remember,' he told me, and sure enough, I remembered. He was working on an adoption case for an Arapaho couple. Well, he didn't have to say anything else. I figured he was helping the Little Shields adopt that white girl they'd been taking care of. I told him, you need to talk to Vicky Holden, the Indian lawyer. She'll know about tribal adoptions.” She studied the surface of the counter and drew in a breath that puffed her cheeks. “Too bad what happened to him. Run down in the street like that. He seemed like a good guy.”

She glanced around the diner, as if she wanted to make sure another customer hadn't materialized, before leaning in closer. “Let me get your grilled cheese. I'll join you for a cup of coffee.”

Then she was off. Through the door, out of sight in the back, a refrigerator door swishing open and closed, metal clanking against metal, a faucet running. After a moment, new odors floated out to the counter—hot, fresh coffee and melting cheese. Vicky sipped at the water, conscious of the empty space in her stomach.

Dina reappeared, balancing two mugs of coffee with a plate piled with a grilled cheese sandwich, potato chips, and a dill pickle. She set them on the counter, then walked around and settled on the adjacent stool.

“You go ahead.” She nodded at the sandwich. “It's late for lunch. You must be hungry.”

Vicky bit into the sandwich, then took another bite. Is this what came from working in a diner—feeding people all day long—the ability to sense hunger? She took a sip of coffee, aware of the woman's eyes watching her, waiting until the time was right to talk. Until they were both ready. It was the Arapaho Way.

She finished half the sandwich, took a long drink of coffee, and rotated toward the woman. “I spoke with Rosemary . . .”

Dina put up a hand. “And she told you about the crying baby. Clint came around wanting me to tell him everything I knew. Like I say, it took a minute to figure out what he was asking about. But when the memories started coming, they were real clear. We were living outside Fort Washakie, Matthew and me. Nearest neighbors a little way across the field. Lou and Debbie Bearing. Arapahos. Real standoffish, didn't want anything to do with anybody. Never saw them go anywhere. Lou worked in the barn out back. Kept to themselves. Didn't have any kids. All of a sudden they had a baby. How'd we know? Never heard a baby crying like it was in pain, screaming bloody murder all night long. We didn't get any sleep for a week. I went over once and knocked on the door. They didn't even answer, just shouted from inside: ‘What do you want?' ‘Is there anything I can do to help?' I had to shout back. I remember it was freezing cold, and I was leaning into the door trying to get some warmth. They shouted back that they were fine, just a little colic. They were taking care of her. It wasn't gonna last long.”

“Her? They said
her
?”

Dina pulled her lips into a tight line and nodded. “That was the last night we heard the crying. The next night was quiet as a
grave. After that, I started watching their house when I was home, you know, their comings and goings. She drove a little car, and he had a pickup. They'd drive off for a while, then come back. I didn't see any sign of a baby. I wondered what had happened to the baby. I thought I should call social services.”

“Did you?” This would be something, a social services inquiry from someone else about a baby that had appeared out of nowhere. Like the baby dropped at the Little Shields', except Mary Ann had not disappeared.

The woman was shaking her head. “We talked about it and decided we should give them a chance to explain, before we dragged in the . . .” She let a beat skip before she said, “Authorities. We went over one evening after we'd seen them come home. This time Lou opened the door. Real friendly like, which surprised us. Says come on in, want some coffee? Matthew said we came over to see how their baby was doing. He said
their
baby even though we knew she wasn't theirs. Debbie never looked like she was pregnant, and we'd seen her outside a couple weeks before that crying started.”

Vicky waited while the woman took a drink of coffee. Finally, she went on: “‘Oh, wasn't our baby,' Lou said, like we was some kind of nincompoops didn't know the score. ‘Some friends were visiting. Sorry their baby made so much racket. Yeah, we were real glad to see them move on.'”

“Did you believe them?”

“Clint asked the same question.” Dina held the mug to her lips and peered over the rim, a faraway look in her eyes, as if, for a moment, she were back talking to Clint. “Now, I think, of course we didn't believe them. How could we? But at the time, what can I say? It seemed reasonable even though . . .”

“Even though?”

“We never saw any other cars at the house. No pickups or campers, the kind of thing you see when folks come visiting.”

Vicky took another bite of the sandwich. Lukewarm now, the cheese congealing against the toast. She washed it down with coffee. “Did Clint say anything?”

The woman laughed. The mug of coffee shook in her hand. “I got the impression Clint Hopkins wasn't much for saying what was on his mind. He kept his own counsel. I imagine he went to have a talk with Lou and Debbie. Wouldn't surprise me if they denied there was ever a baby at their house. Maybe we were having hallucinations, me and Matthew. Wouldn't surprise me if that's what they told him.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Clint? Never saw him again. Just that one time. You could tell how much he wanted that little girl to be safe with the folks that loved her, like he was going to do everything he could to make it happen.”

Vicky pulled her bag around from the back of the stool where she had hung it and was groping inside for her wallet when Dina set a hand on her shoulder. “It's on the house. I'd like to see that little girl safe, too, so no one can take her away.”

*   *   *

Outside, the temperature
was dropping, the cold settling over the parking lot. Vicky pulled her scarf around her neck and sank inside her coat. Her fingers stiffened as she pulled on her gloves.
I'd like to see that little girl safe
. The words bounced around inside her head. Clint had wanted the same thing. It had gotten him killed. And now it was what she wanted.

She slid into the Ford and shut the door. It made a hollow thud
in the cold air. The engine balked for a second before it finally turned over, cold air exploding from the vents. The sky, gray clouds edged in black, fell all around. Spring seemed so far away this afternoon, it might have been November. She realized that the tiny buzzing noise, like that of a mosquito, was her cell. She rummaged through her bag among the lipstick, combs, notepads, pens, tissues, keys—the detritus of her life—and pulled out the cell. “Vicky Holden” appeared in the readout. She pressed the answer button.

“Oh, I'm glad I reached you.” A mixture of relief and anxiety ran through Annie's voice. “Betty White Hawk called back. A so-called friend of Vince's sent her on a wild goose chase. Betty went to the house the friend told her about, and nobody there had seen Vince in a week or more. You ask me, they're helping him. Betty said she's going to lose her job because she didn't go into work today. All she can think about is Vince.”

“Did she mention Lou Bearing?”

“The guy from the bar last night? She went to his house this afternoon. He ordered her off his property. Said she was harassing him.”

Vicky took a minute. She could see her breath curling into the cold air. “What is she going to do next?”

“She's hoping you'd tell her.”

Lou Bearing. The name kept appearing like thistles in a patch of grass. The clock on the dashboard read 4:24. It would take forty minutes to drive across the rez to the Bearing house.

“Anything else?”

“You had a couple of walk-ins this afternoon that Roger took. Are you okay?”

“Yes, of course.” The questions took her by surprise. “Why wouldn't I be?”

“You seem so, I don't know, distracted, ever since the accident.”

Vicky started to say it wasn't an accident, then checked herself. Was she the only one who believed it was murder? She told Annie to lock up when she left. She would see her tomorrow morning. Then she pressed the end button, put the gear into reverse, and backed out of the parking slot. She had to wait for a thin line of traffic to pass before she skidded onto the street. Exhaust from the truck ahead lay down black lines over the snow, like paint. There was nothing in Clint's notes except the name Lou Bearing. Nothing about him. Who he was. What kind of work he did. What he had told Clint.

Why did you leave it all in your head?
The truck threw back chunks of snow that slid down the windshield. Vicky fiddled with the wipers until, finally, they swished the snow away. She was heading out of town into the reservation. The snow-streaked brown shoulders of the Wind River Range rose into the gray clouds.

Lou Bearing, wife Debbie, no children—that was all she knew. She drove to Fort Washakie and continued west, the mountains looming closer. The Bearings lived on a road outside town, with a big barn out back, Dina had said. “You can't miss it.”

Vicky turned off
the engine and scanned the house. A rectangular house, wooden stoop at the front door, a faint light inside turning the windows iridescent. Whoever was inside would have heard the Ford, engine growling, crunching the snow. If the Bearings wanted company, they would open the door.

She gave it another couple minutes, then got out. The snow was banked around the stoop and piled over the steps, and she had to grip the rail to keep from slipping. She could feel the snow trickling down into her boots. The door bucked under her fist when she knocked. Draughts of icy air blew across the stoop. Silence except for the swoosh of the wind.

She had started back down the steps when she heard it: the loud, heavy clank of metal on metal. She stood still, holding on to the rail. The sound came again, like that of railroad cars coupling, or a trolley banging against a metal bumper. Industrial, city sounds incongruous on the open, snowy plains that stretched into the dark distances.

Vicky walked around the house and down the side, the cold working its way through her coat. Across an expanse of churned snow in back was the dark cliff face of a barn. Dim arrows of light escaped around the double doors that shuddered with the thumping noise. It was getting dark fast, shadows thickening across the snow.

She made her way to the doors, waited for a break in the noise, and knocked. The noise stopped, leaving an eerie quiet that lasted a half minute, as if whoever was inside had run out another door. She removed her glove and knocked again, pounding hard, the wooden doors shivering sideways. From inside came the sound of shuffling footsteps and a low muttering before the doors finally rattled apart on their metal rails.

The man standing in the opening was slim and hunched forward, backlit by the bright lights inside. He had black hair, cut short above his ears, and deep-set eyes that gave his face the look of a mask. A red scar, like the teeth marks of a saw, pulsated on one cheek.

“Lou Bearing?”

“Who wants to know?”

Vicky went through it all, keeping her eyes on the mask: She was Vicky Holden, an attorney. Could she talk to him for a few minutes?

“I'm busy.”

“I represent a friend of yours, Vince White Hawk. And there's another matter . . .”

He sliced a thin arm between them, as if he were chopping wood. “That Rap is no friend of mine. Who told you that?”

“You were seen drinking with him at the Buffalo Bar and Lounge a couple of nights ago.”

“So what? I drink with a lot of people.”

“Could I come in?” The wind, sucked through the opened doors, was whipping around them. The man started backing up, and Vicky followed him inside. Floodlights attached to metal poles in the
corners lit the barn like a stadium. Tools and crumpled rags littered the benches against the walls. In the center, a sedan listed sideways on blocks two feet high. Next to the sedan was a black truck, the front facing the rear wall, hood up. The air was thick with the smells of paint and metallic dust. She had stepped into a garage and body shop.

Lou Bearing reached past her and yanked the doors shut. “Make it quick.” He spoke out of the corner of his mouth, his lips stiff, as if they were glued on. The jagged red scar, which ran from the corner of his mouth to his temple, pulled his left eye downward. He stared at her out of the right eye.

“Vince could be in serious trouble,” she said.

Bearing swung around and walked over to one of the benches, then turned back. “Don't see how it's my business.”

“There's a warrant for his arrest on a robbery charge.” She could feel the cold gripping her. The barn was like an icebox despite the lights beaming down and a space heater that crackled and glowed red in the far corner. She pushed on: “He's gone into hiding. I'm trying to help him. I was hoping you might know where I can find him.”

Bearing rubbed his hands together, impatience pouring off him. He didn't say anything.

“Who else did Vince drink with at the bar? Did he say anything about a drinking house?”

“Time for you to push off.” Bearing's expression remained flat, unreadable, except for the scar, which glowed purplish in the light.

Vicky stood her ground. Everything about the man's demeanor said he was hiding something. If he knew where Vince might be, why wouldn't he say so? Especially if what he claimed were true, that he and Vince were not friends. What difference would it make to him? The man was as nervous as a cat.

A new thought hit her as she watched him: Lou Bearing did not want Vince found.

Then he was shouldering past her and pushing back the doors. Frozen air stirred around them. What had made her think Lou Bearing would tell her anything when he had stonewalled Vince's mother and John O'Malley?

She stepped farther into the center of the barn, ignoring the opened doors. “There is something else.”

“There's nothing I have to say to you.” The scar jiggled when he spoke. He was rubbing his hands, as if he could work warmth into them. Little beads of perspiration glistened on his forehead.

“I've taken over the Little Shield adoption case that Clint Hopkins spoke to you about.”

“Don't know anything about it.” Bearing dodged sideways toward the bench, picked up a hammer, and walked to the front of the black truck. “Get out of here.” He spit the words over his shoulder.

“Whoa! What's going on?” A woman stepped into the doorway, then came into the barn. Something familiar about her, and yet Vicky couldn't remember ever meeting her. Another face on the reservation, at the grocery store, the gas station, lost among hundreds of faces. Arapaho with straight black hair showing beneath a cowboy hat pulled low over her forehead. She had a dark complexion, red-flushed with cold or anger, and little pillows of flesh below her deep-set dark eyes. She wore a bulky jacket that gave her a stuffed look, shoulders and chest bulging. So this was Debbie Bearing.

“Who are you?”

“Vicky Holden.”

“Oh yeah. The Rap lawyer in a fancy office in Lander. We don't need any more lawyers around here.”

“I'm representing the Little Shield family . . .”

“Nothing to do with us. You better leave.”

“I know Clint Hopkins came to see you.”

“I was gonna tell her . . .” Lou began.

The woman put up a hand and moved deeper inside, head bent forward; the doors jiggered behind her in the wind. She threw a warning glance at her husband. “I'll handle this.” Then she squared her shoulders a few feet from Vicky. “If you know that lawyer came around here asking a lot of stupid questions, you know what we told him. Five years ago? Who remembers five years ago? So some neighbor says she heard a baby crying. So what? We got relations. They come and visit. Sometimes they hang around. I told that lawyer to stop bothering us.”

Stop bothering us.
Debbie Bearing swallowed hard, as if she could pull back the words. It was obvious this was not something she had meant to say.

“Clint came to see you two days in a row.” Vicky went for the opening. She could see Clint's calendar, the black Xs on the following three days. “Then he came back a third time. Where had he gone? What new questions did he have for you?”

Lou Bearing looked frozen in place, a statue next to the truck. His wife was breathing hard, shuffling her feet on the hard-packed dirt floor. She took her time before she said, “How are we supposed to know what that crazy lawyer was after? Asking a lot of questions that had nothing to do with us. What do we know about the Little Shields? What do we care if they adopt a kid or not? You lawyers get your jollies pestering people. Made Hopkins feel like he was earning his big fee. Lou threatened to throw him out.”

And that was it. Vicky knew by the nervous lift of Debbie Bearing's voice, the nerve jumping at the edge of her eye. She glanced over at the thin, stooped man braced against the side of the black
truck, hammer dangling from one hand. She doubted Lou Bearing could have thrown out a big, fit man like Clint Hopkins. Clint had left because he had run into a wall, and whatever he had glimpsed behind that wall had led him to call her.

That night he was murdered.

“I also represent Vince White Hawk.” Vicky went on, grasping at thin air. From the tiny flicker of light in the woman's eyes, Vicky knew that Debbie Bearing knew her client.

Debbie curled her lips against her teeth. She looked over at her husband a moment, then settled her shoulders inside the bulky jacket. “How we supposed to know every Rap on the rez?” Keeping her gaze on Vicky, she said to her husband, “You told her that, right?”

“Right.” Lou's voice sounded shaky and uncertain. “Just because I had a drink with the guy doesn't mean I know him.”

Debbie turned sideways and glared at the man, who looked as if he wanted to fade into the truck. “You drink with a lot of guys.”

“I told her.”

Debbie turned back. Her gaze was level and steady, as if everything had been cleared up. “Get out and leave us alone.” She tossed her head in the direction of the doors and the wind whistling through the cracks.

The doors banged shut behind her as Vicky went out. She picked her way through the pencils of light around the corner of the house and out to the front, the light getting dimmer. The night was black with dark clouds that obscured the moon and the stars that usually lit up the sky. She lurched for the handle and slid inside the Ford, grateful for the familiar feel of the steering wheel in her hands, the cough of the engine turning over, and the flare of headlights that washed over her footprints in the snow.

She backed across the yard, turning halfway around to make out the tracks, not wanting to attempt a U-turn and get stuck. The Ford crawled down into the barrow ditch and up onto the road, engine growling and tires spinning. She drew in a sigh of relief and drove toward Lander.

She had accomplished nothing. Nothing to allay Betty's fears, nothing that might help the Little Shields. And yet she couldn't shake the feeling that behind the stonewalling and the indignation of Lou and Debbie Bearing, there was everything.