Bitter Creek (21 page)

Chapter 41

DU PRÉ EDGED THE SUV
up close to the camp, four wall tents, a solar shower, a truck with a compressor and a huge refrigerator.

“Up there,” said Madelaine, pointing.

They got out.

Halfway up the square butte a pale buttress of stone thrust out, the top a near-blade, so weathered it held jagged notches.

A pole had been stuck there, something black fluttered from it, dancing in the breezes.

It was cold, overcast, a north wind not strong but steady.

“I don't know what it is,” said the professor. He wore pants with a lot of pockets on them.

“Raven wing,” said Du Pré.

“Benetsee,” said Madelaine.

“Two of my crew left early this morning,” said the professor. “They were afraid of … something.”

“They hear cries?” said Madelaine.

The professor nodded. “So did I,” he said. “It was just the wind, though. It makes strange noises in the rocks. …”

Du Pré took his old leather jacket out of the SUV. He put it around Madelaine's shoulders.

“Live here my life,” said Madelaine, “I don't bring a heavy jacket. I see it snow a lot, all months of the year. I don't bring a heavy jacket.”

Du Pré laughed.

Madelaine kissed him on the cheek. They held hands, walked down to the bottom of the watercourse.

“The backhoe operator left two days ago,” said the professor. “He said he'd be back for the machine. We needed it and tried to start it but we couldn't. …”

Du Pré nodded.

Three young people were using garden trowels to dig up yellow soil from deposits between large rocks.

“I think we got it all,” said the professor. “Come over here and I'll show you what we have.”

He led them to the largest wall tent. There were a dozen long tables there, covered in bones, small boxes of cloth scraps at each end.

“We have the remains of thirty-two individuals,” said the professor. “Eighteen adults and fourteen children and adolescents. …”

Du Pré nodded.

“The bodies were dumped at the bottom of the watercourse,” said the professor, “and the bank above caved in on them. All the skulls were crushed; few of the large bones are intact. …”

Du Pré picked up a plastic bag. There was a crucifix in it, on a blackened string of beads. He opened the bag.

“I must ask you not to. …” said the professor.

“Go away,” said Du Pré, without turning toward the man.

The professor fidgeted, then left.

“He thinks these are his,” said Madelaine.

Du Pré nodded.

Madelaine stood with her head bowed. Her lips moved.

Du Pré waited for her to finish praying.

“Bart will be here, little time,” he said, “so then …”

“Poor people,” said Madelaine, “murdered, bodies dumped here, long time gone. …”

Voices came on the wind, muffled by the tenting.

“But we aren't finished!”

“Enough!” came Bart's voice. Very loudly.

Rocks rattled as he slid down the bank.

He came into the morgue tent.

“So,” said Bart, “it was going to be simple. Now, if I let them, they'd dig down to the damned mantle. …”

Du Pré laughed.

“Thirty-two,” said Madelaine, “what Amalie said. …”

“Amalie who wasn't Amalie,” said Bart.

“She was,” said Madelaine. “Other one died, she remembered for her. …”

“There are miracles,” said Bart.

The backhoe fired up, the big diesel popped and boomed. It ran hard for two minutes, then the noise dropped and the rain cap on the exhaust tapped.

The professor came into the tent.

“Could I have a word with you?” he said, looking at Bart.

“No,” said Bart. “You did what I asked. Now kindly pack it up and leave. …”

“If you want the bones properly sorted,” said the professor, “we will have to do DNA tests, and …”

“That takes time and is very expensive,” said Bart. “And the answer is no. We are through here. …”

The professor slumped, walked out.

“My next unpleasantness,” said Bart, “is to not pay him the final twenty grand. …”

Du Pré laughed.

A clattering began, a brief noise, a laugh.

Little Bill stuck his head in.

“Got 'em,” he said. “Cleaned out two hardware stores to do it. I was about ready to go to Great Falls. …”

“We could've used heavy plastic bags,” said Bart.

“Nope. Thirty-five plastic crates with lids,” said Little Bill.

He brought in a stack, the sort of crates used to ship heavy stock to stores, and sent back to main warehouses.

They packed the bones into the crates, settling them in, then set the crates on the ground and fixed the covers tightly.

It did not take terribly long.

Bart went round to each table with a foxtail broom and a dustpan and he carefully swept up chips, dumping them into the last crate.

“Didn't need them all,” he said.

Du Pré nodded.

Bart and Du Pré carried the boxes out of the tent.

Little Bill had moved the diesel backhoe close to the edge of the bank and lowered the broad front bucket.

Du Pré and Bart stacked crates, six on the first load, six on the next, five on the last.

Little Bill lifted the bucket, lowered it, stowing the boxes in one or another of the big green SUVs.

Madelaine had made her way to the top, she waited for Du Pré and Bart to go down the wash to the low place where they could scramble up.

“I am driving your car, Du Pré,” she said.

Both SUVs were full of gray plastic boxes.

Madelaine and Du Pré got in one and Bart got in the other and they drove back up to the country road.

Rudabaugh's sheriff's cruiser was there, lights on, the huge man leaning against the front fender.

Du Pré and Bart stopped the SUVs behind Du Pré's old cruiser.

Madelaine got out and she went to the old car and she got in and started it, turned on the heater.

It was getting colder still.

Rudabaugh chewed his toothpick.

Du Pré walked up to him.

“All of 'em?” said Rudabaugh.

Du Pré nodded.

“Thirty-two,” he said.

“I don't suppose,” said Rudabaugh, “that asshole with the pockets has to stay much longer? He keeps diggin' he's gonna find something else and then he'll stay forever. I would admire, he
left
. …”

“Bart is through, they are supposed to leave,” said Du Pré.

“Good,” said Rudabaugh. “You make it to Seattle yet?”

“No,” said Du Pré. “I meet La Salle there day after tomorrow.”

Rudabaugh nodded.

“I find bein' a sheriff,” he said, “is mostly listenin' to a lot of stories and not repeatin' any don't have to be said in court. That's a word of advice. …”

Du Pré laughed.

“So,” said Rudabaugh, “you buryin' these folks?”

Du Pré nodded.

“Bury them together, the churchyard, Toussaint, there are lots of Métis there,” he said.

“Camped up near that butte once a long time ago,” said Rudabaugh. “I was lookin' for a feller had taken to that country. Heard strange things at night, the wind I guess. …”

Du Pré nodded.

“Well,” said Rudabaugh, “you go to Seattle. …”

“Yes,” said Du Pré, “I let you know what I find out. …”

“Appreciate it,” said Rudabaugh, “though I am pretty sure I know already. …”

Du Pré nodded.

“And Eleanor took up with that Chappie feller?” said Rudabaugh.

Du Pré nodded.

“She should get outta here,” said Rudabaugh. “This story is gonna chap some folks' asses and she would get most of the crap. …”

“She knows that,” said Du Pré.

Rudabaugh held out his hand and he and Du Pré shook.

“I thank you,” said Du Pré.

Rudabaugh nodded. “Have you a good trip,” he said. “The one with the pockets ain't gone by tomorrow, I'll see to him. …”

Chapter 42

DU PRÉ STEPPED DOWN
from the train, carrying his leather bag and his nylon suitcase. His hat began to fall, unsteady on his head. He set down the suitcase and caught his hat. “Sorry that the weather was so bad,” said La Salle, coming to him. “I gather it's supposed to clear, which means we can fly back. …”

“In that tinfoil kite, yah?” said Du Pré.

“Hasn't fallen out of the sky yet,” said La Salle. He led Du Pré out of the station to a parking garage, put his suitcase in the trunk of an old Land Rover. They got in.

“She said eleven,” said La Salle, “so we can just make it.” He pulled out and soon was on a wide street thick with cars.

He slowed and turned, went down a steep incline, drove along a winding lakefront road.

They came to a blinking yellow light, turned left, went up a hill.

“This was as hilly as San Francisco, once,” said La Salle, “but they had those big hydraulic mining cannons when Seattle was being built, so they knocked most of the hills down. …”

The houses they passed were mostly bungalows set well back from the street, thickly held by stands of rhododendrons and trellised roses.

La Salle leaned forward, saw a number, slowed, and turned into a driveway.

A white house with blue shutters.

Du Pré saw a curtain move a little as they walked to the front door.

La Salle was about to press the bell button when the door opened. A white-haired woman in a bright print dress stood there, smiled at them, stepped back, and gestured for them to enter.

“Mister La Salle,” she said. “And this is Mister Du Pré?”

La Salle and Du Pré bowed a little.

“Come in,” she said, “we'll go to the conservatory.” The house was larger than it appeared, set so that the part that faced the street was one-story, but the back portion was spacious, two-storied, set into a hillside.

They went through an archway, to a room with one whole wall of windows looking out on a lake below.

Du Pré coughed. There was a smell of sickness in the house.

The woman poured tea into flowered cups, handed one to Du Pré and the other to La Salle.

She motioned to some wicker chairs set near a glass coffee table.

“Erma!” called someone, voice reedy, weak.

“Just a moment,” said the woman. “My husband is failing and the nurse has gone out for a bit. …” And she went off, through another archway, this one hung with beads, long strings that rattled as she passed through them.

Du Pré got up, looked out at the lake below.

Small sailboats tacked, a windsurfer slid rapidly over the metallic-gray water.

The woman came back, poured tea for herself, joined them. Du Pré pulled out another wicker chair for her, she nodded as she sat.

“I was quite surprised to receive Mister La Salle's call,” she said, “but he did convince me it was important. I left Montana when I was six, in 1935, and I have not ever returned. I remember only how dry and dusty it was. And how afraid I was. I was afraid of horses.” She laughed.

“It was so long ago …” she said.

“Your mother was Henry Hoeft's last wife,” said La Salle. “And you are his only surviving daughter.”

“Yes,” she said. “I'm afraid I don't remember him kindly, any more than I recall Montana kindly. Mother was so very much younger than he. He was an old man, he stank of whiskey and cigars, he was always angry, shouting, I suppose because he was deaf. …”

“But your mother left him,” said La Salle. “Left him and took you and your brother away.”

“Yes,” said Erma, “they had a terrible argument. I remember the day. I don't know what caused it; they had never argued in front of Paul and me before. My mother looked terrible, her face was red, she was crying. …”

Du Pré opened his leather bag, pulled out a plain Kraft paper envelope.

He slid the photograph out.

“I remember this,” said Erma. “It sat on the mantel. I remember that the house was so cold in winter, and I would stand there. The fireplace threw out good heat. I remember that. …”

Du Pré looked at the photograph.

Hoeft, not yet old, his hair streaked but still dark in places, sitting in a chair, a boy of twelve or thirteen standing beside him, in a high white collar, a tie, a Norfolk jacket.

“That day we had gone out to play, and Paul—he was two years younger than I—he was stung by a bee or a wasp. He cried and I took him back inside to get Mama to help. …”

She closed her eyes.

“I heard them shouting. The house was a ranch house, not big, they were in the little parlor, and my mother screamed ‘Murderer!' and then she screamed that again and again. …”

Du Pré waited.

“Mother had married him because she was a poor immigrant girl without prospects in life. There was an agency that matched girls of good character with men. The fact that Hoeft was much older did not matter much …” said Erma. “My mother didn't have much formal schooling, but she was hungry for learning, very hungry. She tried to be a good wife, but she took every moment she could find to read. …”

Du Pré nodded.

Erma looked at the photograph of the old man and the boy for a long time.

“I was very young,” said Erma. “As I've said, I don't recall a lot, but one person I do remember was an old Indian woman. She would come to the back door and she and my mother would go for long walks on the hills near the house, and come back with plants. My mother would use them to make medicines. …”

Erma looked back on her life, was silent for a time.

“I suppose the old woman told my mother. That makes sense, doesn't it, that she would have?” she said.

Du Pré nodded.

“That day when they fought, the only time, my mother screamed
murderer
at my father and he was silent, shaking his head, shaking it like a dog with something in its ear, hard, as though he could make everything go away if he shook it hard enough. Finally, the old man grabbed my mother's wrists, shook her, and he shouted. I can still hear that voice …” said Erma.

Du Pré nodded.

“‘They killed my Oscar,' he shouted. ‘They killed my son.'”

Erma shook her head.

“My father left the house then, slammed out the door, and my mother packed a bag and she had the maid pack our trunks. A man came with a wagon and he took us to the rail station. It was summer, and pretty, I remember the bird songs. …”

Erma looked at her hands in her lap.

“That picture is of my father and Oscar,” she said. “I know that because I remember my father pointing to it and saying ‘That is my Oscar,' but he didn't tell me Oscar was dead. I wondered when he would come home. …”

Erma stopped.

“We came here, I know my father sent money, sent quite a bit, and on time. I never saw him again …” said Erma. “And my mother saw that Paul and I were well schooled. …”

Du Pré pulled another photograph from the envelope.

“Aunt Beth!” said Erma. “She would come from time to time. She wasn't really an aunt, I know, but she would come and stay for a few days. She was a friend of Mother's. …”

Du Pré put the envelope back in his bag.

“Erma!” called the weak voice.

“Where could that nurse have gone!” Erma looked as though she was about to cry.

“Thank you,” said Du Pré, standing up.

“The photographs?” said Erma, pointing at them.

“You may have them,” said Du Pré.

“Thank you,” said Erma. “I have to see to my husband. …”

“We can find our way out,” said Du Pré.

They went out, carefully shutting the door behind them.

It was raining, the fine coast mist.

They walked to the old Land Rover. Du Pré got in and so did La Salle.

“Didn't get much,” said La Salle.

Du Pré nodded. “We can find out the rest, just find where Oscar Hoeft died. …”

“You think the Métis shot him?” said La Salle.

“
Non
,” said Du Pré, “but Hoeft blamed them for his son's death. …”

“Why the troops were there in the first place,” said La Salle.

“Yah,” said Du Pré.

“Mother of God,” said La Salle.