Authors: Peter Bowen
Bart shook his head.
Of course, the priest for the poor people, he hate this rich bastard, that’s what poor Bart think. Now, here, something I can do for him.
“You OK to drive?” said Du Pré.
Bart nodded, looked puzzled.
“What I want you to do, favor to me, is follow me over to the priest’s. He’s a very clumsy man, can’t barely walk, shouldn’t swing an ax, maybe hurt himself.”
“I can swing an ax,” Bart murmured. Du Pré had seen him ride, Bart had grace and power in him for physical things.
“You embarrassed to meet our poor priest. You think that he hate you. Well, I don’t know, he got no reason to like you, probably he don’t think about it one way or another. But I drop you off there, he’s at church this afternoon, hearing confessions, or over at the hospital in Cooper. You split his wood for him, then maybe you talk, eh?”
“Hah,” said Bart, “you’re a good shrink. The shrink at the hospital told me I didn’t ever think of anyone else. I didn’t know how. Well, that’s not really true, but you know what is?”
Du Pré waited, Bart was searching for the right words.
“I can give people money. I can send someone to help them. But I never have and don’t really know how to give anything my own self. To go over to the clumsy priest’s and split his wood for him. I can do that, he can help me bind up my soul. But I would never think of doing that, myself. Send money, send someone else. I don’t think that I have any value, you know. That I myself with these two hands can do anything but sign a check, make a phone call.”
Du Pré nodded, waited. I been sad, but this …
“The kind of money I have just poisons,” said Bart. “Poisoned us all. Poisoned Gianni, he has been gone now for twenty-five years. Not a trace, not one. Flew to Denver, walked out of the airport, and no one ever heard anything again.”
Du Pré nodded. Tell me about it.
“I want to get well. Find out what happened to my brother. My own self. Those teeth you found, they aren’t sure. Not enough of them. I want to go back up there, sift that ground you took me to real carefully, see if I can maybe find more, lay poor Gianni to rest, lay me to rest, too.
His own self, thought Du Pré. He could hire specialists, do it right now, but he wants to get well, go up there, sift that earth and find his brother. Hear his brother speak out of the grave. This Bart, he will do all right, if he does it.
I’m pretty sure that I know already, Bart Fascelli, I will in a little while anyway. But I won’t say that now.
Fascelli started up his fancy new pickup, followed Du Pré to the priest’s. The woodpile was covered in snow. There was a foot of white stacked narrowly on the handle of the ax.
Du Pré got Bart a broom from the little entryway to the Rectory.
When he drove away, Bart was swinging the ax, an easy motion.
All them fencing lessons, thought Du Pré, probably that kung fu crap, too. All that time, tune your body, never play a tune on it worth dick.
Me, I got to go feed my cows.
D
U
P
RÉ WAS SHOVELING
hay into the feedrack. His cows were close around the pickup. He didn’t even license the ancient IH truck any more, just used it to do chores on the ranch. The bed of the truck was icy. Du Pré’s feet kept slipping when he shifted his weight.
Some of the cows were pulling at the wisps of hay sticking out of the feedrack. The others were bawling.
They heaved against the pickup, trying to get at the feed.
When I move this pickup, thought Du Pré, the dummies will know where they are again and go around to the other side where there is plenty of room, but right now they are too confused to know where they are.
Sometimes I feel that stupid. Sometimes I wish I was that dumb.
Du Pré saw someone out of the corner of his eye, a man in a tan topcoat wearing cheap hiking boots. The waffle soles so well made to pick up a nice load of cowshit, get it all over your car’s rugs.
“Mr. Du Pré?” said the man. “Jotila, FBI. I wondered if I could talk with you for a minute?”
Du Pré looked at him.
“Sure,” said Du Pré. “We have coffee. I tell you what, you go to the back door of my house, to the kitchen. I don’t got no Dobermans or anything, I got to get this truck out of here so these dumb cows can eat. I will be there in ten minutes.”
“I’ll just wait,” said the FBI man.
So freeze your ass, thought Du Pré. Official business, stand around in the damn cold.
Du Pré forked off the last of the hay, dropped the pitchfork on the hard icy truck bed, struggled over the side and got into the cab. He cranked the old engine, it wheezed to life, he backed it out the open gate. The cows wouldn’t stray from the feedrack so long as there was any hay in it.
The FBI man walked behind the truck. When Du Pré looked back the man was straining against the gate, to drop the loop over the post. Well, good, he’s ain’t hopeless anyway.
Du Pré waited for him to trudge up, led him into the back entryway of the house. Du Pré slipped off his packs. The FBI man struggled with the iced laces on his boots. He got one off, put his foot down in a puddle of icy water. He winced. He took off the other boot. Hit another puddle with that foot.
Du Pré went into the kitchen, the man followed.
“Put them socks on that radiator there,” said Du Pré. It already held a couple of pairs, some gloves drying hard like boards.
Du Pré poured coffee. “You like a sandwich or some soup?” he said.
“No,” said the agent, “I had a lousy hamburger in Toussaint.”
“You still tryin’ to find out who shot that fool Sheriff?” said Du Pré.
The agent nodded glumly. Interview everybody over and over, spread a lot of glue, maybe your fly steps in it. Maybe not even the right fly, but we always get our man, even if it’s the wrong one. Ask Leonard Peltier.
“You went out there after you were called on the radio,” said the agent. He was scribbling in his notebook.
“Yes,” said Du Pré, “they been calling me a long time by then.”
“Do you know why Fascelli wanted you?”
“Uh, he knew me some, I guess.” Drunken asshole Sheriff shows up without a warrant, for Chrissakes, arrest the man, someone outside shoots the Sheriff in the back of the head, the deputies go apeshit and blaze away, you sitting in there with a starter pistol to protect yourself with, you’d want someone you knew, too. Jesus. Shit.
Jotila tapped his gold pencil on the table. Nice pencil, heavy gold, kind you get you want someone to know you own a nice pencil.
“That old cowboy, Booger Tom, he shot the Sheriff, didn’t he?” said the agent.
Du Pré’s eyebrows shot up.
“I don’t know that,” said Du Pré. “I didn’t get there till it was all over. Long time.”
The agent looked wearily at Du Pré. He shut his notebook.
“I have been an agent for fifteen years,” he said, “and I have seen the police fuck up a lot, but this is world-class. When those asshole deputies opened up like they were storming a beach or something old Booger Tom must have blown them a kiss, walked away carrying a torch, mooning the dumb fuckers. Not a one of those nitwits looked behind them, for Chrissakes.”
“They wouldn’t,” said Du Pré. The deputies, they were scared. They had assault rifles, pump shotguns, bang bang bang.
“Why do you say that they wouldn’t?”
“Don’t think they had ever been shot at before,” said Du Pré. “Besides, when the Sheriff fell over backwards, they would have thought that the shot had to come from the house. They don’t know much. Head shot, the body falls toward where the shot came from, if that bullet goes through the skull.”
“How do you know that?”
“I shoot a lot of deer in the head,” said Du Pré. This guy, maybe he wants me to be the killer now. Well, I got six witnesses I was fifteen miles away, so screw him.
“I think I’ll ask Booger Tom to take a lie detector test,” said the agent.
“He won’t do it,” said Du Pré. I’ll tell him not to, Mr. FBI man. That asshole Sheriff killed his own self, far as I am concerned. You be dumb enough, you be dead. It’s the law.
“The Bureau is burning my ass to get something on this case,” said the agent Jotila. “I don’t want to stay in Butte, Montana, the rest of my life.”
Du Pré shrugged. Threaten Booger Tom to me, you prick, I got no use for you at all. I don’t know that he did it, mind you, and I do not care to find out if he did.
“Just one of those things,” said Du Pré.
The agent nodded glumly.
“I’ll go back to beautiful Butte, now,” he said.
He pulled on his socks.
I
T GOT TO BE
Christmas. There was some heavy snow, a lot of wind. Du Pré heard the county road trucks going by. Raymond had got a job with them, the pay was good depending on how much it snowed. Du Pré slipped money to Jacqueline anyway, not in front of Raymond, few years he would have a handle on everything. Not that I ever have, Du Pré thought.
Jacqueline had been four months pregnant when she married her Raymond, girl in her position had to be sure that her man didn’t shoot no blanks, just bullets, thank you. Lucky Raymond. He loved her, looked at her like a sick calf. He give her babies, she love him back. Get his balls shot off, he have to find a new home.
Du Pré grinned. I got me some strong women, here. The old saying, that the strength of the Métis was the men’s humility, but the backbone of the tribe was the women, who gave life itself.
Jacqueline was pregnant again. She was set on having a baby every nine months and one day, as near as Du Pré could figure.
Du Pré heard a truck in his drive, looked out. It was Bart and Father Van Den Heuvel. Since Bart had taken on the task of splitting the priest’s wood while the priest had taken on the task of sticking Bart’s soul back together they had spent a lot of time together. Bart had his first chance at life and the priest wasn’t going to die over some kindling. Lucky folks, Du Pré thought.
Two of them, maybe they ought to get married.
Du Pré, opened the door and the two men came in, stamping the snow off as best they could.
Bart was looking much better. His face had lost watery flesh and now there were some lines that the weather had written, lines of age that had been there but stayed smooth because his body was so soaked in booze. Clear eyes, but very tired.
Can’t sleep much yet. I’ve heard about that, worst thing about the booze, you can’t even die at night a little, get some rest, stop things from running through your mind. Banging doors.
Du Pré caught himself. He was going to ask the priest if a hot toddy would go down good, cold day.
“Give the father a hot toddy,” said Bart, “I’m better now.”
The man needs you to do what he says, thought Du Pré. He made two stiff ones, a cup of strong tea for Bart. They sat, sipped, didn’t say anything.
“Cards?” said Du Pré, finally, eyes twinkling.
“No,” said Bart, “I have a favor to ask.”
Bring the priest to back you up, must be a favor too big for the telephone to carry.
I know what it is.
“I have to find out what happened to my brother,” said Bart. “I don’t know how to go about it, though, and I was talking to Father Van Den Heuvel and he said you were a smart man and knew this place and you could find out if anyone could.”
The priest was looking resolutely away. This was between Bart and Gabriel, he was just here for ballast.
“Why me?” said Du Pré. I know fucking well why me, fate, why me.
“You found the skull, which is probably Gianni’s. The teeth. You must want to know.”
I already know, I think, said Du Pré to himself, under his mustache. But this one, he’s right, I have to know for sure.
Du Pré finished his toddy. He got up, made another one, get this cold out of my bones. He poured Bart some more boiling water, there was still lots of good in his teabag. The priest was only half through with his hot whiskey. Du Pré gave him a little more whiskey, hot water, dollop of lemon.
“I am no detective,” said Du Pré.
“Please,” said Bart. “I can’t do it myself, I don’t know how. I need to stay here, work my ass off with Booger Tom, pray. Sweat at night, take five showers a day. I’m still nearer dead than alive.”
Du Pré looked at the priest. The big man was wiping his glasses so that he wouldn’t have to look at anybody.
“What you want me to do?” said Du Pré.
Bart pulled a manila envelope out of the game pouch at the back of his expensive English hunting coat. Good waxed cotton, breathes, thornproof, keeps out the cold winds. Thousand dollars, probably.
“This is what the private detectives my family hired found. It isn’t much. My brother flew to Denver. He stayed one night at the Brown Palace. The next morning he bought an emerald necklace. He rented a car. And that was the last that anybody ever saw of him. He must have paid cash for the gas, there were no credit card slips from after the day he picked the car up in Denver. He had a lot of money on him. And a necklace worth seventy-four thousand dollars, 1967 dollars.”
“Plenty people kill your brother for that,” said Du Pré.
“Whatever,” said Bart. His hands started to shake, he trembled. His eyes rolled up in his head,
gaaaacking
sounds came from his throat. He was stiff and shaking.
Father Van Den Heuvel jammed a folded napkin in Bart’s mouth. He grabbed Bart in his huge arms and held him till he quit convulsing. He helped him to the living room and laid him out on the couch.
Du Pré stood back, sipping his toddy.
“He’ll be all right in a minute,” said the priest.
Du Pré nodded: One sick man, this.
“Will you do it?” Father Van Den Heuvel asked, looking at Du Pré. “He’ll pay you, give you money for expenses. It might help him.”
Bart stirred weakly. His eyes opened.
“Seizure?” he whispered. He shook his head. “Sorry,” he said.
“Yes,” said the priest. “We don’t mind, Bart.”
“It’s fine,” said Du Pré, setting down his glass. “Even if you fuck up, get drunk or something it’s fine. You got friends here, Bart, you don’t know how to have them but you’ll learn.”
Bart stared up at the ceiling. His eyes filled with tears.