The Spider's Web (19 page)

She unzipped the backpack and pulled out the Colt. She jammed the magazine into place. Gripping the gun hard, she scooted below an outcropping of rocks and pressed herself into the irrigation ditch. The smells of moist earth and rotting bark plugged her nostrils. She could feel the faint tremor in the earth as the truck circled above, Dwayne still shouting and thumping the door, as if he were beating a drum. She was a little girl again, in a sleeping bag inside her family’s tipi. Aunt Martha snored softly beside her, the drums beat into the night. She had felt safe then. She listened to the truck coming closer. Then the truck turned away, and the noise subsided. They would see her car. They would figure she had run for the ditch.

She struggled to her feet, flung the backpack over her shoulder and, crouching low, started running down the ditch. She had gone a half mile, not stopping, scarcely breathing, when the ditch emptied into a culvert under the road. They were told to stop here, the kids, but they never did. They would plunge into the culvert, drawn forward by the dark, damp mystery. They could hear their voices echoing around the corrugated metal sides.

Roseanne stayed low, almost bent in half as she edged past the rounded opening. Rust hung off the metal, and the smells of roots and rotting branches were so strong that she thought she might throw up. She had to slow down, wading through the black water that pooled around little piles of plastic bottles and cups. Then she was out in the open again, still bent in half but picking up speed. By now they would have guessed where she’d gone. She had a couple of minutes, that was all, before the white pickup came down the road over the culvert. She could almost see Dwayne and Lionel getting out, sliding down into the ditch, running behind her.

She crawled up the bank and swung the backpack over the lip of hard dirt, her fingers stiff around the pistol. Finally she managed to pull herself over the top. She was like a bird, she thought, perched among the willows, watching and listening just like when she was a kid, only then she had imagined herself a cougar or a great brown bear, afraid of nothing. The road was empty. Across the field ahead was a white house surrounded by parked cars and sheds and a silver trailer. She ran all out for the house, then slowed down, crouching low, trying to blend into the field.

She glanced back. A cloud of dust rose at the far end of the road and moved toward the culvert like a rolling brown tumbleweed. She started running again, her eyes straight ahead on the white house, the silver trailer beaming in the sun. She reached the trailer, ducked past the sheds that leaned sideways as if they had been blown by the wind and hurried down the side of the house. The road in front was empty. She crossed to the borrow ditch on the far side and ran south. She had gone a half mile when she spotted the ranch-style house, half brick and half green siding. A truck was parked in front. She stumbled out of the ditch, made her way to the truck, and dropped down in front of the hood. She had a good view of both directions. Her heart pounded against her ribs; her mouth tasted of dust. She braced herself against the hard ground and tried to fight off the sense of unreality that came over her. She set her cheek against the cool, hard metal of the bumper, a real thing.

Out on the road, an engine revved up. She peered around the truck’s bumper. A gray-colored sedan sped past, a woman at the wheel, two kids in back. She shifted back and gave herself another moment before hoisting the backpack and heading back to the borrow ditch. Gripping the pistol at her side, she ran as far as she could, then started walking. The pastel village was ahead now. She could see the houses arranged around a grid of streets, a few trees limp in the sun, cars and pickups parked about. “Go to the second street,” the man with the key had told her. “Third house from the corner. Pink siding, gray roof. You can’t miss it.”

Roseanne took the long way through the area, circling the block, checking the house from the front and the rear, before she was satisfied no one was around. She headed down the side of the house to the rear door, fumbled in the backpack for the key and let herself in. The house had a closed-up feeling, the faint trace of cigarette smoke in the stale air. She locked the door behind her and crossed the long, narrow kitchen with empty counters and a dripping faucet into the living room. A sofa, a couple of chairs, and a television on a table beneath the front window. The curtains were drawn, and the dim light gave the room an otherworldly feeling. She went down the hall and checked the bathroom, the two bedrooms, the closets. She was alone.

She dropped the backpack on one of the beds and set the pistol on the lamp table. Then she slumped down onto the linoleum floor, leaned against the side of the mattress and stared at the wall. Sooner or later she would have to get her car on the Sun Dance grounds. But not for a while. They would be watching. Then they would get bored, start thinking she had called the cops, and leave. She would go back as soon as it got dark. Ned’s wake was tonight, and she intended to go. For Ned, she thought. The last thing she could do for him.

She reached up, grabbed the pistol, and studied it. She knew so little about guns. The thought of holding a pistol on someone, pulling a trigger seemed like a bad dream, a story that might happen to someone else. The gun was heavy and warm in her hands. She would have to use it. The truth of it struck her like a physical object. Unless she did the very thing that Dwayne and Lionel intended to prevent her from doing: tell the fed where they were hiding.

“I SAW NED last night.” Ella Windsong balanced the bowl of stew on her lap and glanced at the mourners milling about Great Plains Hall. Father John noticed that she hadn’t touched the stew. They had taken two vacant metal chairs in the corner away from the crowd around the food table. Ned’s casket was at the far end of the hall. The wake would begin as soon as everyone had eaten.

“You had a dream about Ned?” Father John said.

“He can’t find any peace,” Ella said. Her black hair was wound tight, close to her head. She had a blanched, sleep-deprived look. “His spirit is wandering around. He needs justice.”

Father John set one hand on top of hers. He could feel her pulse pounding beneath the cool skin. “Ned is with God,” he said. “He has gone to the ancestors. It’s our spirits that are unquiet. We’re the ones who want justice.”

Off to the side, he saw Marie and Jerry Adams walking over, carrying bowls of stew and mugs of coffee. Jerry hooked the leg of a chair with his boot and dragged it close to Ella. Marie dropped her bulky frame onto the seat while her husband went after another chair. “You eaten anything, honey?” Marie leaned toward her sister. Then she turned to Father John. “She’s hardly eaten a bite since Ned’s murder,” she said as Jerry sat down beside her. “I been telling her, she’s gotta eat to keep up her strength.”

“I been dreaming about Ned,” Ella said.

Marie shifted back toward her sister. “What’s he saying?”

“He’s gotta have justice.” She glanced at Father John. “He wants to go to the ancestors, but he’s stuck until they get his killer.”

“Killers,” Jerry said. He had placed the coffee cup on the floor and was about to take a bite of stew. “You know those two bastards killed him.”

“Why?” Ella fixed the man with a hard look. “That’s what I don’t know. The fed came around asking all kinds of questions about what Ned was doing with those guys. Was they breaking into houses? Stealing stuff? Did they have a disagreement? Was Ned holding out?”

The questions hung in the air a moment. No one said anything. It was inevitable that Ella would find out about the burglary ring, Father John was thinking, but a part of him had hoped she might be spared.

“What did you say?” Jerry said. He held the half-empty bowl of stew beneath his chin and scooped in another spoonful. The fluorescent light glistened on his bald head.

“Lies,” Ella said. “People like to believe lies. I hear the way they stop talking soon’s I walk by. Look at them over there.” She nodded in the direction of the food table. “Berta and that no-good kid she looks after.”

Father John glanced over. Berta Oldman and her nephew, Mervin, were moving along the table, bowls of stew balanced on paper plates piled with slices of bread. The woman looked over, as if she felt someone watching her, then went back to spooning something onto the plate. Behind her in the line, Vicky was nodding to the grandmothers on the other side of the table. He looked for Roseanne, but he couldn’t spot her.

“They got a nerve coming here,” Ella said. “Berta’s the one let Dwayne and Lionel come to the parties out at her place. I bet she’s been passing around the rumor Ned was mixed up in some burglary ring, and it’s a damn lie.”

“What proof does the fed have of any so-called burglary ring?” Jerry said, working on the coffee now, the empty bowl on the floor.

“Nothing,” Ella said.

“Look, Ella,” Father John said. “Gianelli has to follow every lead.” The woman’s eyes were black slits of denial.

“Listening to gossip is what he’s doing,” Ella said “Whole rez is filled with gossip and rumors that don’t amount to anything.”

“Father here is right,” Jerry said. “Fed’s going off in a lot of directions, hoping he’s gonna stumble on something. There’s no proof of any burglary ring. Don’t worry about it.”

Father John studied the man a moment, wondering if he knew the truth and was trying to protect his wife’s sister, or if he was also in denial. He must have heard the rumors. Yet Jerry was right. There wasn’t any evidence that Ned had been involved in a burglary ring. Roseanne had her suspicions, but suspicions weren’t evidence.

Marie leaned over her sister and patted her hand. “You should try to eat. Here, you want me to help you?” She spooned some stew and lifted it toward Ella who pressed herself against the back of the chair and shook her head. Marie dropped the spoon into the bowl and shot a sideways you-see-how-I’m-trying? glance at her husband.

“It’s all that girl’s fault,” Ella said.

“What girl,” Father John said, but he knew who she was talking about even before she said the name: Marcy Morrison. The white girl, the outsider.

“She’s the one started the rumors,” Ella was saying, “making it look like those guys had reason to kill Ned, so the fed would go chasing around, asking folks a lot of stupid questions. She’s the one the fed oughtta be talking to.”

“Honey, we’ve been over this,” Marie said. “What’d’ya think? The white girl shot Ned, beat herself up, threw the gun out the window, or something? The cops would’ve found the gun if it was anywhere around that house. She didn’t do it, honey. You gotta accept reality.”

Ella stood up so fast that the bowl of soup on her lap spilled across the linoleum floor. Jerry started peddling his chair backward away from the brown puddle of chunks of beef, potatoes, and carrots that crept toward his boots. “You believe the lies!” Ella leaned over her sister. “Ned was your nephew, too, our own brother’s son. How can you believe he’d ever hang around with the likes of that trash and break into people’s houses?”

Father John got to his feet and placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Take it easy,” he said. He was aware of the heads craning in their direction, the sudden halt to the drone of voices in the hall. At the far end, two men had begun setting metal chairs into rows. Donald Little Robe and two other elders were standing at a small table near the coffin, preparing for the ceremony. The wake would start soon.

“Maybe I seen the real Ned,” Marie was saying. She tilted her head back and looked up at Ella. “He wasn’t perfect, like you always made him out to be. The perfect boy, here to take the place of our brother. Our brother’s dead, and nobody can take his place. Ned wanted things like everybody else. He wanted a better life. So what if he—”

“Enough, Marie.” Jerry jumped up and clamped a hand on his wife’s shoulder. Father John could see his fingers digging past the woman’s cotton blouse into her flesh. “Leave it alone.”

Ella placed her hands over her ears. “I won’t listen to any more lies. My own sister!” She turned to Father John. “That white girl come here?”

“No, Ella,” he said. “She’s not here.” The crowd had begun flowing past, filing into the rows of chairs. The sounds of metal scraping the floor mingled with the hushed tones of conversation. He felt a wave of relief that Marcy Morrison wasn’t anywhere around. In a way, it wouldn’t have surprised him if she had changed her mind and shown up. He wasn’t sure the girl could ever be believed. “The wake’s about to start,” he said, but Jerry Adams had already taken hold of Ella’s arm and was nudging her along the side aisle toward the chairs in front.

“I’m sorry, honey.” Marie stumbled after them. “Just forget what I said, okay? You know I loved Ned.”

Ella glanced back, ignoring her sister. “You gonna say a prayer, Father?” she said.

“Yes, of course,” he said. He and Donald Little Robe had already talked about the wake. He would begin with a prayer, then turn everything over to the elders. Always two sides, he was thinking. The Christian and the Arapaho. There would be both ways of praying this evening but only one Creator, as Donald had reminded him several times.

Father John followed the little group to the front row set aside for relatives and close friends and waited while Marie and Jerry sat down on either side of Ella, Marie patting her sister’s back. The coffin was opened, and he could see the familiar face, the broad forehead and black hair slicked back, the squared jaw of Ned Windsong. And yet the young man was not there. In his mind, he saw the gangly-legged kid sprinting for home, head high in victory.

He realized that Ella was sobbing quietly. He waited a moment before he walked to the front of the center aisle. The hush of voices, the noise of shuffling began to subside. “Let us pray,” he said, bringing his palms together. “For Ned Windsong, our brother and friend, that his soul may rest in God’s everlasting peace and love. Our Father,” he began, waiting a beat for the people to join in the familiar prayer, voices hushed and reverent and out of sync, running past one another. When the prayer had ended, he said, “Let us remember Ned the way he was, a man with a good heart and an easy smile, always planning and hoping for the future. Let us remember the good things, and not forget his name or forget to tell his stories, so the memory of his generous spirit will live on with us.”