Homicide My Own - Anne Argula [64]
Cammy nodded, and that quick a domicile was changed.
No similiar offer was tendered to Houser, who by now was also sitting on their porch and, in fact, was manacled to it.
We untarped the truck and once again pushed it out of the shed. Karl got to work. The rubber was fine, after being pumped back up to forty psi. He traded off the dead battery with the Coyotes’ own pickup, along with the spark plugs. What else he did I paid no attention to, pulling Odd away and trying to get out of him just why he wanted to get that old truck running again.
He acted as though I should know. Da frick. About the time I got him focused enough to tell me, we heard wheels on the gravel and saw an official car. At first I thought it had to be Nascine coming back, and my hand fell upon the butt of my weapon, but it was Chief Shining Pony and out of his car spilled Stacey and her mom.
Odd was pleased to see them, though I could care less. They were not my problem, not, that is, until Stacey rushed to Houser, cooing and kissing and assuring herself of his well-being. By now, it seemed, I was the only one outraged by this continual flaunting of a felony. Everyone else seemed to be accepting of nature taking its own course, no matter how inappropriate.
I grabbed her by the hair and yanked her off him. Her hands went out to him as I pulled her away. I was sweating and furious. I noticed Odd watching our little scuffle with cool dusinterest and then with a broad warm smile. At long last these illicit…illegal…lovers had a purpose in his dreamlike mission, and he told us what it was.
No way, I said. Never. Indefensible. The chief agreed with me, though he pointed out he had no jurisdiction. Cammy agreed with me. Karl agreed with me. Gwen, out of her diminishing shreds of motherly concern, agreed with me. The three old Indians sat impassively on the porch. Houser and Stacey were all for it.
19.
The plan was highly suspect. It was short-sighted, it was underboard. It was irresponsible, unprofessional, and insupportable. It bordered on the irrational, the other-worldly, the insane. Worst of all, it was extremely dangerous, and it probably wouldn’t work anyway. I bought into it.
Just before nightfall, when the rain returned, Houser and Stacey made their pass through town in Jimmy’s four-by, just a couple of kids in love. Houser was wearing my sweatshirt, the hood pulled over his head, and Stacey had on Odd’s black windbreaker, so that her blonde hair fell over its collar in sharp contrast. The rain created a muddy film on the windshield and Houser had to slow down and find the wipers switch. Those bewildered people who were afoot stopped in the rain and watched them drive by.
Houser followed his directions to Point Despair, put it into four-wheel drive and plowed through the mud. They trilled wheeeeeee! and fishtailed to a particular spot drawn on a piece of paper by Odd. He backed up the truck and turned off the ignition.
Now that they were alone, on their own, unshackled, and free to do whatever inspired them, they kissed. The rain fell and they kissed. The hours passed and they kissed. They tried to play the radio but it was broken, so they kissed without accompaniment and without me saying they could not do same. I suspect they fondled as well, as well as other inappropriate behavior. Da frick.
Midnight came and the rain stopped. A light fog drifted in from the Sound. Houser and Stacey were kissed out and fighting against sleep.
Now, the butt end of a Camel drops from the open door of a Sheriff’s unit, hisses and dies in the mud. A fresh one replaces it in the mouth of the 61-year-old deputy who swings his legs to the outside and pulls on his clamming boots. He takes off his slicker and reaches for the shotgun.
Pausing for a moment, he listens. Only the non-sound that fog makes that you think you can hear. He crooks one arm around the shotgun and lights another Camel. He walks up the hill.
It is one thing for a handful of Indians to see the same ghosts,