cause you to do things secretly. So I am going to have to appeal to you, Joe. I am going to have to ask you to stop. No more hunting down the attacker. No more clue gathering. I realize it is my fault because I sat you down to read through the cases I pulled. But I was wrong to draw you in. You’re too damn inquisitive, Joe. You’ve surprised the hell out of me. I’m afraid. You could get yourself . . . if anything happened to you . . .
Nothing’s going to happen to me!
I had expected my father to be proud. To give me one of his low whistles of surprise. I’d expected that he would help me plan what to do next. How to set the trap. How to catch the priest. Instead, I was getting a lecture. I sat back in my chair and kicked at the gas can.
Heart to heart, Joe. Listen, this is a sadist. Beyond the limits, someone who has no . . . way beyond . . .
Way beyond your jurisdiction, I said. There was an edge of juvenile sarcasm in my voice.
Well, you understand a bit about jurisdiction issues, he said, catching my scorn, then ignoring it. Joe, please. I am asking you now as your father to quit. It is a police matter, do you understand?
Who? Tribal? Smokies? FBI? What do they care?
Look, Joe, you know Soren Bjerke.
Yes, I said. I remember what you said once about FBI agents who draw Indian Country.
What did I say? he asked warily.
You said if they’re assigned to Indian Country they are either rookies or have trouble with authority.
Did I really? said my father. He nodded, almost smiled.
Soren is not a rookie, he said.
All right, Dad. So why didn’t he find the gas can?
I don’t know, said my father.
I know. Because he doesn’t care about her. Not really. Not like we do.
I had worked myself into a fury now, or planted myself into one with every puny hothouse plant that would not succeed in gaining my mother’s attention. It seemed that anything my father did, or said, was calculated to drive me crazy. I was strangling there alone with my father in the quiet late afternoon. A rough cloud had boiled over me—I wanted all of a sudden nothing else but to escape from my father, and my mother too, rip away their web of guilt and protection and nameless sickening emotions.
I gotta go.
A tick started crawling up my leg. I pulled up the cuff of my trousers, caught it, and ripped it savagely apart with my nails.
All right, my father said quietly. Where do you want to go?
Anywhere.
Joe, he said carefully. I should have told you I am proud of you. I am proud of how you love your mother. Proud of how you figured this out. But do you understand that if something should happen to you, Joe, that your mother and I would . . . we couldn’t bear it. You give us life . . .
I jumped up. Yellow spots pulsed before my eyes.
You gave me life, I said. That’s how it’s supposed to work. So let me do what I want with it!
I ran for my bike, jumped on it, and pedaled right around him. He tried to catch at me with his arms but I swerved at the last moment and put on a burst of speed that put me out of his reach.
I knew my father would call Clemence and Edward’s. The gas station was out for the same reason. Cappy’s and Zack’s parents both had telephones. That left Angus. I pedaled straight over to find him outside, crushing last night’s haul of beer cans. None of the cans were Hamm’s. Angus had a scraped cheek and a fat lip. The fact is, sometimes Star would belt him. And when drunk, Elwin had a sly way of trapping Angus and slapping him up—it just about killed Elwin laughing. We wished it would. Besides that, there was a bunch of other guys who didn’t like Angus’s hair, or something, anything. Angus was glad to see me.
Those assholes again?
Nah, he said. So I knew his aunt or Elwin had done it.
As I helped Angus stomp the cans flat in the rock-hard dirt behind the building, I told him all that I’d overheard my father and Edward say about the priest the night before.
If we could find out that the priest drank Hamm’s, I said. Do priests even drink?