Homicide My Own - Anne Argula [67]
I arose from the mud with a sense of calm and well-being. My felon and his willing victim were probably half-way to Canada. I could care less.
20.
We hit I-90 East just as dawn was cracking, or as is the case in Seattle, insinuating itself. This time, Odd was driving. One of his tapes was on. “Driving-into-Dawn Music.”
Against all my predictions, Houser and Stacey had done the right thing, finding their way to Tribal Headquarters and calling 911. So we were taking Houser back after all and our careers, at least for now, were still intact. Of course, we had Stacey and her mother too, all in the cage in the back, their luggage filling our trunk, with our muddy uniforms. We were back in our casual civvies.
When we went back to the Coyotes and woke everybody up, Odd was the one who told them who had killed their son, so long ago. They took the info and just nodded. Cammy, the newly widowed, had a tearful moment and closed the book on a lifetime of regret. Chief Shining Pony had stayed behind to deal with the minutia of a violent death and the closing of a 33-year-old murder case.
Odd took an hour and went off alone to talk to the woman who used to be his mother in another life. Whatever happened there I don’t know and Odd never said.
We had a lot to talk about, the five of us, and the rehash carried us all the way to Ellensberg. His underaged girlfriend was concerned about what would happen to Houser now.
“Can’t you put in a good word for him? He did help you.”
“Sure,” I said, “we’ll say that he was very helpful.”
“You’re not just saying that?” asked Stacey, ever distrustful of me.
“Credit where credit’s due. He may be a disgusting short-eyes, but he did help catch a killer, and he didn’t give us any trouble, unless you count chewing up on his wrists.”
“I went a little out of control,” said Houser.
“You’ll still have to do some time, probably,” I said.
“How much?”
“Don’t know. Make a deal. Go for…for digital penetration. How much can a finger-fuck be worth?”
“Now who’s being disgusting?” said Stacey.
“Besides, it’s not true,” said Houser. “We wouldn’t do that.”
“Then make a deal for the least of what you did do. I could care.”
I could. I was colossally disinterested in the outcome of Houser’s case, or in their peculiar sex life, or in my own peculiar sex life or lack of same. There is more under the heavens.
By Moses Lake, Stacey and Houser had each fallen asleep against one of Gwen’s shoulders. Gwen, propped up on each side, her head back, fell asleep as well.
We waited until then to broach the subject of our mutual past, so to speak.
“Have you ever even been in Philadelphia?” I asked him.
“Not in my life. You?”
“A few times. With the old man, to see the Phillies play. Once with some girlfriends to see a Little Richard concert. It was the big city to me, pretty intimidating.”
Yet now, driving across the Washington prairie, we could both see our old neighborhood, our school, the sights and sounds of Standard Pressed Steel, where we worked together before the war. We could see Paris Island and Marine boot camp. And we could see the battle of Chosin Reservoir, at least from our limited perspective, and we could feel the bone-breaking cold and finally the wounds that killed us both.
“It explains why I was always drawn to you,” he said, and added quickly, “As a friend. Okay, there were a couple hot dreams….”
“I’m gonna slap you upside the head.”
“And I always knew you had a special feeling for me.”
“Not that special,” I said.
I wondered, though, at what point true friends hook up, how far back does the connection extend? What