Buffalo Jump Blues (26 page)

M
artha answered the door wearing an apron. Sean had never seen her wearing an apron. He had never seen her cook.

“I'm baking a Flathead cherry pie,” she said, in what he took as a defensive tone of voice.

“What's the occasion?”

“David's coming for the weekend. The roads up in the breaks turned to gumbo, so the dig's on hiatus until the weather improves. He says he's bringing someone to meet me.”

“A girl?”

“It better be. I want grandkids someday.” She led him back to the polished stump that served as her desk. “Take a look at today's flyswatter.”

It was the morning edition of the
Bridger Mountain Star,
the headline above the fold: “Ivy League Athelete Haunted by Buffalo Jump Killing,” the subhead, “Seeks Solace on Madison River.” The reporter, Gail Stocker, had managed to weasel the stern seat on Peachy Morris's pink ribbon driftboat for a float from Lyon Bridge to MacAtee Bridge, a trip that passed directly under the shadow of the Palisades.

“Imagine what it must have been like,” Levi Karlson was quoted as saying. “Runners leading the bison to the brink, the hunting cries of warriors wearing wolf skins. Imagine what it could be today if bison were free to roam on public lands.”

“He doesn't give a damn about buffalo,” Sean muttered.

“Keep reading.”

Sean read aloud:

“Karlson, 21, said that he continues to be haunted by his brother's death on July 15 at the Two Medicine Buffalo Jump on the Blackfeet Indian Reservation. He said that those responsible will pay for their crimes.

“‘They can't hide up there forever,' he said.

“Karlson said he was unable to comment as to the identity of those he considered responsible for his brother's death, as the investigation by the Blackfeet Tribal Police remains open, or to provide further details on the recommendation of his lawyer. A spokesman for the Blackfeet Tribal Police said that the investigation into Karlson's death is ongoing, but would not confirm rumors that they had been contacted by the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

The rest of the article recapped the known events concerning Brady's death, which was week-old news at this point, then switched gears to paint a portrait of a grieving young man who had retreated to the river to find a little solace, albeit, as Sean pointed out, at four hundred and fifty dollars a day paid to Sam Meslik's outfitting business, for which Peachy Morris guided. A photo of Karlson showing off a rainbow trout, his right hand bandaged, Peachy with the net, illustrated the article.

“Nothing like rubbing it in your face,” Martha commented.

“I doubt Papa-san is amused,” Sean said. “The last thing he wants is for his stepson's name to keep coming up in the news.”

“Take this as a lesson, Stranny. Money talks. Assholes walk. The second that lawyer stepped off the airplane, the chances of Levi Karlson going down for assault or anything else became about as good as my chance for reelection.”

“Ah,” Sean said. “I was going to ask about that. How's your little guy doing?”

“My ‘little guy' doesn't live here anymore. When Lucien Drake
came with his warrant, I made sure he was somewhere else. The less you know about that, the better.”

“He's with Harold?”

“Like I said, the less you know.”

“What did you tell Drake?”

“I told him exactly what he told us after Harold brought the calf across in the boat. ‘Sometimes, animals just disappear. It's a fact of nature.' You should have seen his face. It was red as a roadcut on the Musselshell.”

“Where was Harold when this happened?”

“Right beside me. I thought they were going to drop the gloves and go at it then and there, but Drake just turned around and whistled up his lackey, Calvin Barr, like he was some dog you wanted to jump into the truck. I shot him the finger, I'm not proud of it. But it's just a reprieve. The law's on his side and you can't hide a bison calf and a milk cow forever. Even in a county the size of Hyalite.”

Sean couldn't help himself. “About Harold,” he said.

“About Harold, what? You want to know where we stand, it's on the same rung of the ladder where we always are. Nothing so high you can't live if you fell. Same as you and Katie. Same old, same old.”

“I'm not with Katie.”

“Does she know that?”

“Martha.” Sean shook his head. “It doesn't have to be like this.”

“Yes it does. At least for the time being. Let's just see how things play out. I am—look at me—I am very,
very
thankful that you are still in one piece. You're going to stay for dinner and tell me about it. Friends?” She stuck out her hand and he took it.

“No benefits?” He smiled.

So they were back to sparring and innuendo, back on that safe familiar ground.

Sean was helping with the dishes when Martha's cell phone buzzed once, then fell silent. She wiped her hands on a dishtowel.

“This is odd,” she said.

“What?”

“Nothing. I don't know the number. Mine isn't something I just give out.” She worked her chin with her fingers.

“Just call it, Martha.”

She did, raised her eyes, and turned to Sean with her mouth making a shape. “Remember when I left my card under the windshield wiper of Melissa Castilanos's car? Well, that was her voicemail.”

“Do you think her son is staying at the guest ranch?”

“You read the paper. He's in the valley. I'm sure he's still sponging off Papa-san. But why is she calling me at this hour?” She drew the right side of her face up in concentration. “I'm going to call the manager, have him check to make sure everything's okay.” She did. It went to voicemail as well.

She tapped her fingers on the sink counter. Then she walked to the mudroom where her dirty belt hung from a ten-penny nail.

T
he stars had been out two hours when Martha cut the headlights. The old farmhouse that served as the ranch headquarters was silhouetted against the rise of land behind it, all the windows dark, although the guest cabins that fronted Cinnamon Creek showed a few rectangles of lamplight.

“That's the Highlander,” Sean said. He could make out its boxy shape on an apron of grass in front of the cabin that the brothers had shared. No light in that cabin, or in the one rented to the parents. But the BMW with the Washington plates where Martha had tucked her card was there.

Martha placed a hand on the hood, shook her head to indicate it was cool, walked up and knocked on the door.

“Are you home, Mrs. Castilanos? This is Sheriff Ettinger.” No answer. “Your door is unlocked. We're going to come in, we just want to check that you're okay. Are you okay?”

She caught Sean's eye, held up a finger, two fingers . . .

Sean pushed the door open. Martha stepped in front of him with the Ruger in both hands.

“I'm over here,” she said.

She was sitting in the dark, her brandy after dinner voice coming from a sofa facing an unlit fireplace. From where Sean and Martha stood they could see only the back of her head. “I'd really prefer that you not turn on the light,” she said. “I find it easier to talk in the dark. It's like you're talking to yourself. You'll say things you wouldn't if you thought that people were listening.”

“Mrs. Castilanos, are you okay?” Martha said.

“Am I okay?” Out of the silence an audible scratch and the sudden flame of a match. The sound of her inhalation, then the exhalation through her nose and the acrid odor of smoke. “That's a question everybody says yes to. ‘Sure. I'm fine, and how are you? Are
you
okay?'”

Another exhalation. “No, I'm not okay. I haven't been okay since I buried my first husband, since he was alive, I mean. The man who was with him when he died, he said the last thing Squint said was that I should remarry for the boys' sake. That they would need a father. Do you know where I was when he said that? I was having my hair done so I would look attractive to the man I was cheating on him with. That's where
I
was.”

The shadow of her head changed as she looked over her shoulder at them. She dragged at the cigarette. “Sit. Anywhere. I mean, please, don't just stand there.”

“Why did you call me, Mrs. Castilanos?” Martha said.

“I wanted to talk to someone. But I couldn't seem to breathe, so I hung up. I'll quit talking now if you don't put that gun away. I'm not dangerous. Come sit with me. Here, I'll light a candle.” Another match flared, its circle of light dipping, and then the soft illumination of the candle on the coffee table beside her. “These antler candelabras are a nice touch. I bought three of them for gifts at the Blue Heron in Ennis. They went out of business last summer. A pity.”

The two chairs were set at an angle to the couch, so that when Martha and Sean sat down, Melissa Castilanos's face was in profile. She smoked, tilting her head back, gazing at the ceiling. “I'm sorry, I should have offered you a drink. I'm out of cognac but there's a fifth of Macallan on the kitchen counter. ‘Mi casa es su casa,' as they say in Uruguay.”

“We're fine,” Martha said. “You mentioned your first husband.”

“Yes, that I was cheating on him. I cheated on him with a
lot
of men. I guess because I could. I liked the thrill of it and being able to
make men want me. A place like Kelso, there wasn't a hell of a lot of distraction. Do you know what Squint's idea of a romantic weekend was? It was to go off in the truck camper and troll for coho. What was I supposed to do, just sit inside that tin can and listen to the rain? I was from Seattle. I wanted a
life
.

“But don't get the wrong idea. Squint was a good husband and he was a good father. He was a better husband and father than I was a wife and mother. I used to think that if that chain hadn't slipped, if he'd lived longer, at least until they got through high school, that he could have made a difference in their lives. I've thought about it a lot. It's funny how you think about what you can't change. Sad, really.”

She tapped the cigarette out in an ashtray and lit another. She dragged at it, waved it.

“But who am I kidding? Those kids made their own world.”

Sean saw her smile, the kind of smile that isn't. “I'm one of those women who grew up looking in the mirror, because her looks were the sum total of her worth. She's not so pretty anymore, is the fair maiden?”

The smile vanished.

They waited in silence for her to go on, which presently she did.

“Squint wanted to name them Peter and Paul, after the apostles. Thank God I talked him out of it. The only thing those boys ever worshipped was themselves. Anyway, I was about to say something and I've lost the thread. No, I remember. When the twins would misbehave, get rambunctious, Squint would press his forefinger to his lips. His right forefinger. ‘Now boys,' he'd say. ‘It's time to settle down. Your mother needs her peace and quiet.' And I'd catch them mimicking him behind his back, putting a finger to each other's lips. ‘Now boys,' they would say. ‘Now boys.'”

She looked critically at her cigarette and set it down beside the butt. “I haven't smoked this much in months.
Months.
”

“Mrs. Castilanos,” Sean said, and saw Martha glare at him, the minute shake of her head.
Don't interrupt.
But the woman was
looking toward the ceiling again and hadn't seemed to hear. Advancing headlights glanced off the windows of the cabin as a truck slowly idled past. When they could no longer hear the motor, she went on.

“When they arranged him in the casket, the mortician's assistant made it so that his hands were folded for the viewing, so that his left hand covered his right hand. That was so the mourners couldn't see that the first two fingers were mangled. I found the pruning shears in the station wagon. What happened, what I imagine happened, because they were good little liars even then, was that the shears were in the station wagon and they didn't get the idea until they saw them. The casket had been brought out for the viewing the night before, and I'd brought the boys along because I couldn't just leave them alone at home. I was busy with the preacher talking about the memorial service and they were running around the funeral home, like kids do. I didn't think it had sunk in, his death. It wasn't until Morticia, that's what I called her, went to do the makeup the next morning that we saw what they'd done. I mean, I hope that it was spontaneous, that they
found
the shears. They could have sneaked them into the car. That would have been even worse.”

She nodded to herself. “You tell yourself what you have to. ‘Kids, you know.' Their brains haven't formed; they're only seven. They'll grow out of this stage and I didn't want them to be . . . traumatized by it, by the memory. So I didn't make a big deal out of it. I just told them that they shouldn't desecrate a body that way. Is that the right word, ‘desecrate'? Anyway, do you know what Brady said? He said, ‘But he couldn't feel it. He was already dead.' He said that they had taken turns, that they had tried to cut off the fingers but it was too hard going through the bone, so all they got was about half an inch of the tips. I tried telling them that this was wrong another way, but they couldn't seem to grasp what I was saying. After the burial, I asked them where they put the fingers, and they took me into the basement. They'd put them in a jar of formaldehyde with some frogs they'd pickled. Don't think I didn't think of that when Levi came
back here with his fingers blown off. Poetic justice, but I doubt he saw it that way. Anyway, I think that was the first act, how it started.”

She looked directly at Sean and Martha. “Would somebody have a drink with me,
please
?” She held out her glass. Sean took it and poured one for himself while he was at the counter. He cut it with a little water from the faucet without asking.

She took the glass from his hand, looked him up and down. “You're the fishing guide who took the boys out, aren't you?”

Sean said he was.

“They liked you. They went around calling each other ‘Captain' all the next day. What are you, like her sidekick?”

Martha spoke for only the second time since they'd sat down. “Mrs. Castilanos, we're here to listen and to help you in any way that we can.”

She snorted. “Don't be disingenuous. You're here because you think I'll say something to incriminate my sons. Well, you're too late for that, aren't you? None of that matters now. I thought you'd be interested to know how it started, how I
knew
.”

She swallowed her drink.

“I knew as soon as you danced around the subject last week that they were involved in that buffalo jump fiasco, what happened here in the valley. They called that Indian boy's death an accident, that he fell off the cliffs. As a mother, you give your children the benefit of the doubt. But it has an expiration date. Now, my husband, he can't see even with his eyes open. He acts like there's nothing wrong, that anytime the boys are where something bad's happened, that it must be a coincidence. He has that quality of not being able to see people for who they really are. Other men who wanted me, they saw right through those boys and decided to find their milk and honey somewhere else.”

“Where is he now, Mrs. Castilanos?”

“Auggie? He was here a few days after we heard about . . . up on the reservation.” Her voice caught. Her fingers found the cigarette in the
ashtray. She knocked off the long coal and dragged at it and then shook her head. “He's back in Washington on business. He left me to deal with the cremation. What a legal quagmire
that
turned out to be. But then that's Auggie for you. He retreats into his fishing and his work and leaves the messes to be cleaned up by other people. He compartmentalizes, something I've never been able to do. At least that's what a shrink told me. I saw one for a while this winter, after something happened back east when they were in school, and I was trying to rationalize it away.”

“What happened back east, Mrs. Castilanos?” Martha said.

“Call me Melissa. We're all friends here, or would be if someone would have a drink with me. I mean for Chrissakes.”

Sean lifted his glass, drained it, and poured two more for the table.

“Straight up, please,” she said.

“That's better,” she said. “I do like liquor. I find it a requirement for someone in my circumstances.” Her voice was thick. “Where was I?”

“Something happened back east.”

“Yes, the rower. A girl from a crew team was raped and drowned in the Connecticut River. You see, by then, the mere fact that they were in school there, that they were in the same
state,
was enough to make me suspicious. I said, ‘Melissa, be reasonable.' And when I mentioned it to Auggie, he laughed it away. But then a month or so later, the parents of the girl finally talked to some reporter—oh, yeah, I kept an eye on the news—and they said the girl's oar was missing, a detail that the police hadn't released. She'd built the oar, I guess, or turned it on a lathe, or however you make one. Her mother said she'd carved her name on it. And I knew. Just like that, I knew.

“Because they took souvenirs, you see. They wouldn't fly an oar back home on a plane—they weren't stupid—but I'm sure it's back in the woods somewhere where they could visit it. And I'd bet if you looked hard, you'd find
their
initials on it, too, except they'd be in some kind of a code. That's because it was always a game to them. Before, the other times when I thought, ‘It can't be them, that can't
be my flesh and blood that did this horrible thing,' I would never know for certain until something was reported missing. An oar, a violin bow, sunglasses.
Something.
Because that's what they did. That's how I knew they were involved in that Indian boy's death the night the buffalo died, when I heard that arrows had been found, but that the bow was missing. Then this thing last week on the reservation, I knew it had to be related. So when Levi was being held up in Browning, I went to the manager and got the key. Their cabin is just like this one except it's got a moose skull instead of this elk, and there's an old rifle over the mantel instead of these snowshoes. It's like something from the Civil War. That's where the arrow was, down the barrel. It was just an arrow with a broken tip, no point or anything. I had to make a little hook doohickey with a clothes hanger to pull it out. I'm sure they did something with the bow, hid it somewhere, but think of the arrogance, keeping a murder weapon in a rental cabin.”

“Melissa, how do you know it was a murder weapon?”

She canted her head, regarding Martha as if she was a curiosity. “It had blood on it. I took it as a clue.”

She looked back up at the mantelpiece. “So I showed it to him,” she said. “All these years, it's the first time I ever had the courage to confront him like that, either of them. I mean, I knew, but as long as they didn't tell me, there was the possibility I was wrong. Or at least I could go on trying to lie to myself.”

“When was this?” Sean said.

“Last night, when he came back here after feeding that reporter woman a pack of lies. She gave him a ride because his battery was dead and wouldn't jump. Pretty little thing. Someone should tell her there's other colors in the wardrobe besides brown.

Anyway, I thought maybe with Brady dead, if I brought it out into the open, Levi would confess what they'd done. Because Brady was the ringleader and Levi wouldn't be as strong with him gone. But that was only generally true. They fed off each other, built themselves into
more than they could be by themselves. They could even trade personalities. There were times I'd hear them talking and
I
didn't know who was who, and I was their
mother
.”