DU PRÉ LOOKED AROUND Madelaine’s kitchen, not quite believing that he was in it.
She stood by the stove in her robe, her hair undone. They’d damn near broken the door to the house down in their haste to get to bed.
She was frying some bacon and eggs for Gabriel.
She turned and smiled at him.
Du Pré couldn’t quite believe she was standing right there, either.
My eyes are here in Toussaint, Montana, he thought, and my ass isn’t even across the Canadian line.
He looked outside. It was high Montana spring, when the snow turns to mud and the wildflowers erupt.
Benetsee’s head went past the window over the kitchen sink.
“Jesus Christ!” said Du Pré. He ran to the back door in his bare feet.
“You old bastard!” Du Pré yelled. “You come in here now. I got to talk with you some now!”
Benetsee stood by a stone planter filled with prickly pear cactus all in blooms of primary colors. He was rocking on his heels and looking at the flowers.
He turned. His eyes looked very sad and old and deep in his head.
“Du Pré,” he said. He rocked on his heels. “Du Pré,” he said again.
Benetsee followed Du Pré into the kitchen. Madelaine had already poured him a big glass of pink wine. She dished up Du Pré’s eggs and then she began to cook some for the old man.
“I need to talk to you and no one can find you,” said Du Pré.
Benetsee nodded. He seemed quite unconcerned that no one had been able to find him. He looked off out the window, thinking of something else.
“Pretty bad thing that was done to that raven,” said Benetsee.
Du Pré nodded and ate his eggs. He was past wondering how Benetsee knew things he couldn’t possibly know. He just did.
And when he didn’t, he wouldn’t say anything, nothing at all. Not being coy, just not saying anything.
“I saw that man,” said Benetsee, “but I couldn’t see who it was, it was so dark.”
Du Pré ate his eggs. The bird had been mutilated in broad daylight, damn near high noon. But what kind of darkness was he talking about?
Madelaine poured Benetsee some more wine and set the eggs in front of him. Benetsee ate hungrily. He drank the second glass of wine. Madelaine poured him another.
Benetsee looked at Du Pré, unblinking. Du Pré fetched his tobacco pouch and watched the old man roll a smoke.
“I thank you, Madelaine,” said Benetsee. She smiled at him.
“I am lost in this,” said Du Pré. “I was pretty sure I knew who does these things, but it isn’t him, so I don’t know. I’m pretty mad.”
Benetsee nodded. He stood up.
“He wears funny moccasins,” said Benetsee, “they have a soft sole like coat leather maybe.”
Du Pré thought on that, but it didn’t mean anything to him. Catfoot had worn moccasins a lot. He got them from some relations in Canada. Du Pré tried to remember what they were like and couldn’t. So maybe there was a pair or part of one at his house, maybe in the attic or the workshop. Old pieces of leather had uses, if you could get to them before the pack rats did.
Benetsee went outside. Du Pré kissed Madelaine, pulled on his socks and boots, and went after him. The sun was good and warm. He saw a male mountain bluebird flash past, brighter than a clear sky after a rain.
Benetsee was standing by the house, looking at the new leaves on the lilacs. The flower cases would open in a week or so and then the place would be perfumed and the bees would come in numbers.
“You going to play at that music party they have out east?” said Benetsee.
“Guy who runs it don’t like me,” said Du Pré.
Benetsee nodded.
“This man who kills Indians will be there,” said Benetsee.
Christ, Du Pré thought. And fifty thousand other people.
Benetsee put out a gnarled, dirty hand and felt the bark of the lilac. He ran his thumbnail on it and squinted at the spot he’d rubbed.
“I be home now,” he said to Du Pré.
“You want a ride?” asked Du Pré.
But Benetsee was walking away, off toward his house maybe, or maybe he would detour a thousand miles, talk to the coyotes.
Du Pré went back inside, feeling tired.
“Du Pré,” said Madelaine, “you are a long ways from your Madelaine. Now, you want to find this evil person, I think that you had better, Du Pré. It seems he is owning you some. That is what hate does, Du Pré.”
Du Pré started to apologize, but shut up when he realized she wasn’t complaining, just stating simple truths.
I want that bastard dead, Du Pré thought.
Rage burned up in him.
We walk under the same sun and share the same night and it’s too close.
“I am going to go to that music thing,” said Du Pré.
Madelaine nodded.
She had her arms crossed and she was looking down at the floor.
Du Pré went to her and hugged her.
“Thank you,” he said.
“So I pray some more for you, Du Pré,” she said. “I do that a lot, since you don’t pray so much.”
Du Pré nodded, holding her.
“I want to go for a drive and see the wildflowers,” said Madelaine, “I will leave a note for my kids.” Her children, even the younger ones just started in high school, could come home and fix themselves something to eat and do their little chores. Madelaine wouldn’t be back very late anyway, but if she was, they’d be fine. The neighbors watched, too. One of the good things about a tiny town. The only unforgivable sin was making too much money.
They drove off toward the Wolf Mountains. The flowers were coming up, not too many blooms yet. The great fields of clover that would splash yellow and red and lavender across the foothills were a couple of weeks from blooming. But the prickly pear had their waxy flowers popped, sometimes five different bright colors in a single patch.
This was the only time of year when there was a lot of water.
Ducks paddled in ponds near the road. Teal, mallards, wood ducks, and the coots ran over the dead mats of vegetation from last year. Geese honked and flew high overhead.
They saw a peregrine drop on a pair of mallards and clobber the male, who fell down a couple hundred feet and was dead long before he hit the earth. The falcon swept in and landed on its prey.
The wind came up and the dead grass danced.
They drove back to Madelaine’s.
When Du Pré came in after Madelaine, he took one look at little Suzanne’s face and knew.
“This lady called for you,” said Suzanne, handing Du Pré a scrap of paper.
Du Pré looked down at Michelle’s number.