Another Man's Moccasins

The reception, even in this key part of Powder Junction, was spotty at best. “He what?”

“He beat up my Charger with a baseball bat, but he paid to have it fixed the next day.” There was a pause. I had learned from years of experience to never interrupt the flow. “I’m sorry to hear he’s dead. Was it that piece of shit motorcycle?”

“The new one?”

“New, hell; he could hardly keep that ancient piece of crap running.”

“We’re not really sure.” I decided to keep the details to myself. “Ms. Griffith, would you say Mr. Maynard was given to acts of physical violence as a matter of course?”

“No, not really.”

I thought about it. “But you say he beat up your car? ”

I listened to the silence on the line. “Well, that was kind of my fault.”

“In what way?”

“I beat up his motorcycle first.” It was quiet on the line again, and I listened to or imagined the thousands of relays, switches, and electric impulses within the cellular system. “He wasn’t particularly devoted to our relationship. He had this thing for Asian girls.”

It was only a block and a half from anywhere to anywhere in Powder Junction, so rather than suffer the tin can of a Suburban, we parked at the office and walked to the Hole in the Wall Motel. “So, she said he had this constant stream of Asian women he brought in from Canada? ”

“Suspicious, considering the circumstances.”

“Yes.” We walked past Ethan and Devin, the two young boys who had identified Tuyen’s Land Rover. They were dressed in another set of automotive T-shirts. I waved, and they waved back. “And what about Virgil White Buffalo? With the most recent developments, you cannot still be seriously considering him as a suspect.”

I took a deep breath and felt the hot afternoon air burnish my lungs. “I don’t know what I’m going to do about Virgil.”

Henry stepped in front of me. “Let him go.”

I pulled up and stared at the dirt street. “I can’t do that, and you know it.”

His eyes stayed steady on me. “Why not? ”

“He’s a potential witness to a homicide, and I don’t think he can be released on his own recognizance.” I took another breath but still found it hard to look at him. “Henry, he fought two highway patrolmen and two deputies to a standstill.”

“Trying to stay out of jail for a crime he didn’t commit.”

I sighed. “Look, we can’t be sure . . .”

“He has spent enough time behind bars for one life.”

I finally looked at him, because I was getting a little angry. “If he is a potential danger to himself or anyone else, he becomes my responsibility.”

He shifted his eyes, and they shone like shards of obsidian. “And where does that responsibility end? ”

“It doesn’t.” We stood there, the echo of my voice coming back at us from the empty street, louder than I’d intended. “It doesn’t ever end. Ever.” I spoke softly now. “As long as he’s in my county, he’s my responsibility, and that puts me in line with a lot of other people who might consider leaving a seven-foot sociopath in a culvert under the highway a serious dereliction of duty.”

“So, you are going to keep him incarcerated for the common good?”

“Until I can find somewhere for him to go, yes.” I started to walk around him and then stopped. “Henry, I can’t let him continue to live under the highway. It’s not humane.”

“Neither is keeping him caged like an animal.”

I took another breath, this one even hotter than the ones before, and held it for a moment. “I am aware of that.” I continued on a few steps before turning and looking back at him. "What?”

He stood there for a moment and studied me. “I know you.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean? ” He didn’t move. “What? ”

“I know that the real reason you are holding Virgil is in an attempt to fix his life, and that is beyond your abilities. You look at him and see experiences and directions similar to yours, but badly taken.” He walked toward me. “You cannot correct the path he has chosen; it is his path. The only thing you can do is not punish him for something he has not done.”

“I’m not looking to punish him, Henry, but there’s got to be something better for the man than living under I-25.”

His face remained impassive as he answered. “Perhaps, but that is something for him to discover, not for you to give him.”

We walked along. “Well, maybe I can help.”

The Bear smiled. “I know. This is not the first set of moccasins in which you have walked.”

14

The Bear stood up from his hunter’s crouch where he’d been studying the motorcycle tracks. “They are the same.”

I took the key I’d gotten from the office and unlocked the door to room number 5 and ducked under the SHERIFF’S LINE—DO NOT CROSS tape we’d festooned across the door. At the front desk, I had asked the girl who had one headphone in her ear if she’d heard any motorcycles this morning, but she’d said no.

I asked her if she usually wore both headphones while cleaning.

She said yes, she did.

I asked her if she’d cleaned Tuyen’s room this morning.

She said that she would have cleaned the room, but that he hadn’t been around and they never entered a room without the occupant’s expressed permission.