The Plague of Doves - Louise Erdrich [56]
“I don’t think so,” Billy said. “I think you’re describing a federal crime.”
“Well, yes,” said Wildstrand. “But is it really a crime if nothing happens? I mean you’ll be really, really nice to Neve. That’s a given. You’ll take her to a secure out-of-town location, like your house. Keep her blindfolded. Put her in the back bedroom where you keep the junk. Lay down a mattress there so she’s comfortable. It’ll just be for a day. I’ll drop off the money. We’ll time it. Then you’ll let her out somewhere on the other side of town. She may have a long walk. Be sure she brings shoes and a coat. You’ll drive back to wherever and turn in the car. I don’t think we should tell Maggie.”
“Maggie’s gone, anyway.”
Wildstrand’s heart lurched, he’d somehow known it. “Where?” he managed to ask.
“Her friend Bonnie took her to Bismarck, just to clear out her head. They’ll be back on Friday.”
“Oh, then, this is perfect,” said Wildstrand.
Billy looked at him with great, silent, dark eyes. His and Maggie’s eyes were very similar, thought Wildstrand—that impenetrable Indian darkness. They had some white blood and both were cream-skinned with heavy brown hair. Wildstrand felt extremely sorry for Billy. He was so frail, so young, and what would he do with Neve? She worked outside shoveling snow all winter and in summer she gardened, dug big holes, planted trees even. Billy kept shifting the gun from hand to hand, probably because his wrist was getting tired.
“By the way, where did that gun come from?” Wildstrand said.
“It belonged to my mother’s father.”
“Is it loaded?”
“Of course it is.”
“You don’t have ammunition for it, do you,” said Wildstrand. “But that’s good. We don’t want any accidents.”
The Gingerbread Boy
WHEN BILLY PEACE knocked on the door the next evening, John Wildstrand pretended to have fallen asleep. His heart beat wildly and his throat closed as the quiet transaction occurred in the entryway. Then Neve walked into the room with her arms out and her square little honest face blanched in shock. She made a gesture to her husband, asking for help, but Wildstrand was looking at Billy and trying not to give everything away by laughing. Billy wore a child’s knitted winter face mask of cinnamon brown with white piping around the mouth, nose, and eyes. His coat and his pants were a baked-looking brown. He looked like a scrawny gingerbread boy, except that he wore flowered gardening gloves, the sort that women used for heavy chores.
“Oh no, I’m going to throw up,” Neve moaned when Billy ordered John Wildstrand to tie up his wife.
“No, you’ll be okay,” said Wildstrand, “you’ll be okay.” Tears dripped down his face and onto her hands as he tried firmly but gently to do his job. His wife’s hands were so beautifully cared for, the nails lacquered with soft peach. Let nothing go wrong, he prayed.
“Look, he’s crying,” Neve said accusingly to Billy, before her husband tied a scarf between her teeth, knotting it hard behind her head. “Nnnnnn!”
“I’m sorry,” said Wildstrand.
“Now it’s your turn,” said Billy.
The two of them suddenly realized that Billy would have to put down the gun and subdue Wildstrand, and their eyes got very wide. They stared at each other.
“Sit down in that chair,” Billy said at last. “Take that rope and loop it around your legs, not around the chair legs,” and then he gave instructions for Wildstrand to do most of the work himself, even had him test the knots, all of which Wildstrand thought quite ingenious of Billy.
Once Wildstrand had secured himself to the chair and Billy had gagged him, Billy told Neve to get on her feet. But she refused. Even as anxiety coursed through him, Wildstrand felt obscurely proud of his wife. She