Picture Perfect (32 page)

Custer flapped about for a moment, taking in the carelessly tossed files and the clutter that defined the little office. Satisfied that she had indeed left last-minute, he shook his head. “We'll get someone from the department to cover for her until the situation sorts itself out,” he said graciously. “Tell her not to worry about it.”

“No,” Alex said. “I'm sure she won't.” He watched Custer leave, and then sank down into the chair behind the desk. Christ, he was
helping
Cassie. He had just smoothed one of the snags in her escape. He stared blankly at the manila folder, at the rough black-and-white photos scattered across the desk's surface. Skulls, and a pelvis, and a series of bones that might have been fingers once. Nothing out of the ordinary for Cassie. She'd been studying things like this since before he'd even known her.

He was up and through the door before he could map out where he was going. Turning through the winding campus roads of UCLA, he made his way to the highway, to Westwood. He remembered which apartment was Ophelia's only because of a stooped palm tree in front of it that Cassie said had always reminded her of an old man.

Alex rammed his fist against the door. “Goddammit, open up, Ophelia. I know she's in there.” He took a deep breath, ready to break down the door with his shoulder, the way his stunt doubles had done in the past.

Ophelia cracked the door, a sliver of darkness. Her cigarette smoke rushed out through the narrow opening. “Jesus Christ,” she muttered. “Looks like I've been granted a fucking audience.”

She unlatched the chain and pulled the door open, standing in front of Alex in a peach chiffon robe that was virtually transparent. Underneath she wore nothing; Alex dispassionately noticed that the shadow between her legs did not match the hair on her head. She blew a ring of smoke into Alex's eyes. “To what do I owe the honor?” she said, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“I've come for Cassie,” Alex said, already pushing past Ophelia into the tiny living room of the apartment.

He felt hands picking at the back of his shirt, ineffectual, like the feet of tiny wrens. “Well, you might want to start by looking in a place where she
is
,” Ophelia said. “I haven't even talked to her since that day at the apartment. I thought she'd be in Scotland with
you
.”

Alex peeked behind the floor-length hanging curtains, peered into closets. “You're a shitty liar, Ophelia. Just tell me where she's hiding.” He barreled into the kitchen, checking the pantry and the floor-level cabinets, knocking over a half-finished bottle of cabernet.

When he turned back to Ophelia, her eyes were so wide Alex could see a ring of white going all the way around her irises. Good, he had her terrified. He grabbed her by the shoulders, shaking her hard. “Did you put her up last night? Did she tell you where she was headed?”

Ophelia let out a little cry, and at that the bedroom door creaked open. Alex released her abruptly, running around the corner and slamming into a man in a flowered silk robe, still groggy from sleep.

“Alex, Yuri. Yuri, Alex.” Ophelia ground out her cigarette against the half of an orange fermenting on the kitchen counter. “See, Alex? I
haven't
been hosting Cassie. I was otherwise occupied.”

Alex didn't even bother to glance at her. “Get out,” he murmured to Yuri.

A dawn of recognition flashed across Yuri's eyes. “Hey,” he said. “Aren't you—”

“Out,” Alex yelled. He propelled Yuri to the door and locked him on the other side of it, still wearing Ophelia's robe.

Ophelia threw herself at Alex, yelling and scratching. “How
dare
you,” she screeched. “You walk right into my apartment like you own the fucking world and—”

“Ophelia,” Alex said softly, his voice breaking, “I can't find her. I looked everywhere. I can't find Cassie.”

Ophelia absently rubbed her hand over her black cast, watching Alex Rivers sink onto her stained couch. Her mind raced through possibilities and places that she was certain Alex had already tried. What would make Cassie leave in such a goddamn hurry? If it was Alex, didn't Cassie know that she would have done anything to help?

Ophelia stiffened her spine and walked toward Alex until she was standing directly in front of him. “What have you done to her?” she said, her voice tight and cold.

Alex buried his face in his hands. “God,” he said. “I don't know.”

 

I
T WAS A TWO
-
HOUR RIDE FROM THE
R
APID
C
ITY AIRPORT TO
P
INE
Ridge, and as Cassie bounced up and down in the rental truck she noticed two things: that the land stretched unmarked so far it could have been a sea, and that the deeper they drove into this swirling red earth, the more uptight Will became.

There was a policeman at the border of the reservation, someone who gave Will a high five and let his eyes slide down Cassie in the passenger seat. “
Hau, kóla!
” he said. He began speaking in a language Cassie did not understand. To her surprise, Will whipped off his sunglasses and started to talk to the policeman in the same dialect, then pulled the car onto a grass trail.

“What did he say?” Cassie asked.

“He said hi,” Will muttered. “In Lakota.”

“Lakota?”

“The language of the People.”

Cassie brushed a flyaway strand of hair away from her mouth. “Is your Sioux name
Kóla
?”

Will couldn't help himself; he laughed. “No,” he said. “It means ‘friend.'”

Cassie relaxed in her seat. If they were back on the reservation and Will had already seen someone he knew well, it was a good omen. “So he's a friend of yours,” she said, making conversation.

“No,” Will said. “He's not.” He ran his hands over the steering wheel, telling himself Cassie had no right to demand explanations about his life and yet knowing that she wouldn't shut up until he told her more. “He's tribal police. We were in the same grade together in school. Once, he got three kids to hold me down and he took dog shit and smeared it all over my face.” Horrified, Cassie stared at him. “Said it would take some of the white out from my skin,” Will said.

“Kids are cruel,” Cassie murmured, feeling she should say something.

Will snorted. “So are Indians.”

Cassie turned her face to the windshield, wondering how Will even knew where to drive. There were no roads, only dirt paths worn through the snow, or little runners like the kind left by cross-country skis. From time to time, Will would take a left or a right. His eyes never flickered from the expanse in front of them. “You know,” Cassie said haltingly, “you might try giving it a chance, instead of telling yourself how much you hate it.”

Will slammed on the brakes until the truck skidded to a stop. Cassie felt herself being strained against the seat belt, then falling back. Instinctively, her hands went to her abdomen. Will stared at her, incredulous, and then with a look of utter disgust he turned away and started to drive again.

It sobered her. After all, Will—who did not really know her—was going out of his way to give her shelter. She had no right to pry into his life, much less criticize the way he lived it. “I'm sorry,” Cassie said.

Will didn't answer, but he gave a terse nod. A few moments later, the empty plain gave way to a little cluster of hovels, some substantial log cabins and others fashioned out of plasterboard and tar paper. Three children were running through the snow in sneakers and short-sleeved shirts, switching at each other with pine branches. “These are your nearest neighbors,” Will said, slowing the truck and pointing to the individual houses. “Charlie and Linda Laughing Dog, Bernie Collier, Rydell and Marjorie Two Fists. Abel Soap lives over the hill there, in that bus.”

Cassie tried to keep the nervous laughter from bubbling up past her throat. A day ago she'd bathed in a green marble tub with gold-plated fixtures. She'd walked on carpets softer than a breath and had wrapped herself in a dressing gown of violet Chinese silk. She had been a little uncomfortable with the scope of Alex's luxury, but this was the other extreme. She was in the middle of nowhere, hidden among people who did not know about running water, who lived in broken-down school buses. She dug her nails into her palms to keep from grabbing at Will's coat and begging him to take her home.

Cassie bit her lip and glanced at Will again, now aware of the pain that he carried, the heavy failure that pulled down the corners of his mouth. What could it feel like to finally leave here only to be dragged back weeks later by someone else's sorry circumstances? When Cassie reached across the seat and squeezed his hand, Will returned the gesture, but not before she noticed the surprise in his eyes.

He pulled the truck into the front yard of a small cement-block house. Immediately, a black mutt that was tied to a fence post began to wail. Will jumped out of the driver's seat and knelt in front of the dog. “Hey, Wheezer,” he said. The dog wiggled its back end so hard it fell over sideways. “You miss me?”

Cassie sat for a second in the cab of the truck, collecting her breath and her thoughts. When she stepped outside, she sank knee-deep into the snow. She shuffled her way to Will and the dog. “Is there always this much snow?”

Will jumped at the sound of her voice, as if he'd forgotten she was there. “Actually,” he said, swinging toward her, “a lot of it's melted. Most winters the drifts are bigger than you.”

Wheezer jumped up and put his paws on Will's chest. His ears flattened; he began to whine. Will looked over the dog's head to the front door of the cabin, which was slowly swinging open.

Cassie watched a man step onto the front porch. He was as tall as Will, but his skin seemed to hang loosely on his frame. His face was the color of walnuts and was riddled by so many wrinkles it nearly appeared smooth again. He came down the steps and stood in front of Will, murmured something in Lakota and embraced him.

Cassie shifted nervously, knocking her feet against each other to clear off some of the snow. Wheezer nuzzled her hand, looking for food. “Sorry,” she whispered. “I don't have anything.”

At the soft syllables, Will and his grandfather looked up. But before Will could introduce her, a woman appeared at the doorway. She had a long white braid pulled over one shoulder; her eyes burned with the fire of stoked coals. Her fisted hands were planted on her hips, ready for a confrontation, and when she spoke in her low-pitched voice, her words were in perfect English. “So,” she said to Will, although her eyes never moved from Cassie. Her glance went from Cassie's hair down to her snow-soaked knees, and then snapped up again, clearly finding her lacking. “You come back from the big city, and
this
is what you bring us?”

 

C
YRUS AND
D
OROTHEA
F
LYING
H
ORSE
'
S HOUSE WAS ONE OF ABOUT
a thousand subsidized by the government for Sioux senior citizens. They'd moved into it only ten years before; Will had done much of his growing up in a log cabin like the ones they had passed on the drive through the reservation. But the government houses were considered plush by Lakota standards. They had running water and electricity, and a toilet that worked some of the time. With the exception of the narrow bathroom at one end of the house, the rest of the building was a single room.

The kitchen area, where Cassie was sitting, was very clean and seemed to have been fashioned out of scrap Formica from the 1950s. The countertops were avocado green with little gold flecks, the table that jutted out from one wall was a fake pink marble. There was one hanging row of unpainted cabinets, missing their doors, but most of the cans and glass jars were stacked below the sink and counter on shelves made of boards and cinder block. There was a refrigerator—the really old kind with a big fan on the top—that gasped and shuddered every few seconds.

The rest of the house consisted of the large living area and the “bedroom,” shut off from the rest of the space by a calico curtain. A mismatched sofa and armchair sat on a rust-colored throw rug. On one corner of the couch was a ball of yarn speared with knitting needles, on the other end a leather purse intricately half sewed with blue beads. A large wooden spool, the kind used for electrical wire by contractors, was now a coffee table, and it was piled high with magazines dated three or four years back.

Cassie hadn't seen the bedroom, where Will had gone to talk to his grandparents in private. She heard them whispering, hissing really, but it didn't make much difference, since they were speaking Lakota. She rapped her fingers on the Formica table and counted to ten. She rubbed her knuckles over the slight swell of her belly.
You know
, she silently said,
I'm doing this for you
.

Will came out from behind the curtain first, his face set. Then came his grandmother, her arms crossed over her chest, and finally his grandfather. It had been more difficult than he'd imagined, since Cyrus and Dorothea had never heard of Alex Rivers, so they couldn't possibly understand why Will had had to bring Cassie all the way to Pine Ridge. He had told his grandparents everything, including the physical abuse and Cassie's pregnancy, but they stood before her now, looking at her as if she were some kind of scarlet woman who'd brought this on herself.

“Cassie Barrett,” Will said, intentionally leaving off her married name, “these are my grandparents, Cyrus and Dorothea Flying Horse. They'd be happy to have you stay here until the baby comes.”

Cassie couldn't help the flush that ran up her stomach and breasts and flooded her face. She told herself it wasn't shame, it was relief. “Thank you,” she said quietly, holding out her hand. “You don't know what this means to me.”