Every Cloak Rolled in Blood

Chapter Nineteen

At one in the afternoon I call Spotted Horse on her cell phone and tell her about the little girl in my backyard. “What’s the significance of July 4, 2012?” I ask.

“That’s the day my niece was kidnapped at the powwow in Arlee. She went to get some fry bread. She was found in a garbage dump the next day.”

“You think the little girl in my backyard is your niece?”

“Maybe physically.”

“The little girl had blond hair.”

“My sister married a white man. Both of them died in a car accident, and I took over Mary.” I heard her blow into the receiver. “My little Mary.”

“Miss Ruby, I think I smelled sulfur in the chicken house.”

“Maybe you did. I think the little girl you saw was Eugene Baker.”

“What does Baker want from me?”

“Your soul,” she says.

“Why me?”

“He doesn’t like you. Can you do me a favor?”

“Sure.”

“Don’t call me ‘Miss’ anymore.”

“I won’t.” Then I say it again before I can stop. “Miss Ruby, can I say something personal?”

“Go ahead.”

“I think you’ve had enough grief without the likes of me around.”

“I’ll make the decision about that,” she replies. “We have a bond, Aaron Broussard. Certain kinds of loss are forever. Not many people understand that.”

I believe those are the saddest words I have ever heard. I have another question for her, one that has confounded me since I saw the piece of notebook paper on the cellar floor, but I cannot bring myself to ask her now.

I wait until five in the afternoon before I call again. “Ruby?” I say.

“We’re making progress,” she says.

“The little girl’s visit brings back a question that has more to do with John Culpepper and Sister Ginny than it does with the little girl. Why is it that Culpepper could read the note I picked up on your cellar floor, but McNally could not?”

“I think the note was written by an evil spirit. Evil spirits do not have dominion over one another. Only good people are vulnerable to them. People like Baker and McNally are blind to each other’s iniquity; only good people are caught by their snares. I thought I already explained that. Actually, that’s how it works most of the time in the world of the living.”

“Okay, I buy John Culpepper as a decent enough person in spite of his background with the Klan. But what about Jeremiah? He’s always been a pretty good fellow.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” she says.

“Can you get rid of the mashed potatoes?”

“There’s a rumor. He got it on with a confidential informant when he was with the Drug Enforcement Administration.”

“I never heard that. Also, that’s not the equivalent of original sin.”

“I think he’s also a screw-down, marry-up kind of guy. Put it this way. He cut a wide swath through the res.”

“That’s not the Jeremiah I know.”

“Because you want people to be what they’re not.”

“Hope to see you later, Ruby.”

“Hope to?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s that mean?” she says.

“It means I don’t want to talk about my friends behind their back.”

There’s a pause. “I’m having a hard time handling what you just said.”

“Sorry, I didn’t get much sleep last night. I wanted to tell you about the little girl, and I did. Goodbye.” I hang up as softly as I can.

The sun is already setting and I have no idea where Fannie Mae has gone. The Bitterroot River has taken on the dark green undulating luminescence of a river that could have flowed through ancient Avalon when the world was new and filled with romance, although we think of the Middle Ages as a time of darkness and ignorance. Those who believe that know little about it and usually have no problem with the mass slaughters of the twentieth century. I can almost hear Merlin’s blessing of his people at Stonehenge or young Arthur rasping Excalibur free from the magical stone or the Maid Marian and Robin of Locksley and his Merry Men roasting a boar on a spit while the poor and the abandoned dance and play their dulcimers and flutes and fiddles inside the glorious green-gold glow of Sherwood Forest. Who needs drugs and booze?

The phone rings, breaking my reverie.

“Hello.”

“I’ll hate myself for making this call,” Ruby says. “What you said to me was abusive and self-righteous. I’m really disappointed in you, sir. You don’t know how much that hurt. I hope you have a good life.”

So much for romantic dreams out of medieval times. I want to put my head on a butcher block.