Page 30 of The Cabinet of Dr. Leng

“Not himself. How, exactly?”

A hesitation. “I’d be grateful if you could pay us a little visit. Just a social call, to say hello. Please don’t tell him I spoke to you. But you know him better than almost anyone—perhaps I’m just imagining things, and you can set my mind at rest.”

“Of course. When?”

Another brief silence, then the tremulous voice asked: “Would tomorrow be too soon?”

19

PARMELEE WAS A WINDSWEPTintersection in the middle of nowhere, dotted with trailers and shotgun houses. A cold wind rattled the weeds and shook the branches of the only tree in sight, dead. A few horses grazed in a fallow field.

Running lived in a typical HUD house, a low, rectangular prefab in gray siding with a Pro-Panel roof and a large pile of wood in front. A reedy stream of smoke issued from the chimney.

“Butt-fuck nowhere,” said Pologna, looking around.

Coldmoon said nothing. It reminded him strongly of the village of Porcupine, where he grew up—and not necessarily in a bad way. People on the Rez were poor, and there was misery and addiction, but there was also warmth and family and a pot of coffee on the wood stove, ready for any guest. And there were horses: that sacred connection to the past. Just to see them around made him feel good.

They went up a dirt walkway and Coldmoon rang the doorbell. A moment later a woman answered, heavyset but with a bright, wrinkled face.

“Hau.I’m Special Agent Coldmoon, FBI—” he showed his badge— “and this is my partner, Agent Pologna. We’d like to talk to your husband, ask a few questions.”

She hesitated, and replied, “Tanyán yahí.” She turned. “Clayton? Some cops to see you.”

Coldmoon heard a grunt from the back. “Okay, bring ’em in.”

She stood aside and they stepped in. Entering the living room, Coldmoon saw it also doubled as a workshop, with a long table down the center. In various open boxes he could see chunks of turquoise and azurite and onyx; sheets and rods of silver; a stack of abalone shells; a bundle of feathers; and beads and polished sticks of red coral. A wood stove, radiating heat, stood in the middle of the room, and—sure enough—there was a speckled blue enameled coffee pot sitting on it.

At the table was a wiry man with a classic Lakota face, wearing a fringed buckskin shirt finely decorated with beads and a red bandanna tied around his head, holding long gray hair in place. He was the very picture of a traditional elder, so much so that Coldmoon was once again momentarily transported back to his own childhood.

The man’s eyes narrowed, looking at Coldmoon. “You Lakota?”

Coldmoon nodded. “Pine Ridge.Wíyuški?ya? wa?chí?ya?ke ló.”

The man rose slowly and extended his hand, returning the greeting in beautifully formal Lakota, and then led them into the sitting part of the room. “Please take a seat.” He gestured. “Coffee?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Coldmoon.

“Sure,” said Pologna doubtfully.

Running picked up the pot as his wife brought in some chipped mugs and set them down on a plywood coffee table. She poured the steaming liquid into both cups. “Cream, sugar?”

“No thanks.” Coldmoon took it and sipped, the burnt taste bringing back still more memories. Just as he liked it. He glanced at Pologna, who was looking with a distaste bordering on horror at the mug he was just handed. Poverty required everything be stretched to the limit, and coffee, one of the most important staples on the Rez, was no exception. Those grounds might have been simmering in that pot for a week, with water and additional fistfuls of grounds added periodically. Dump the grounds once a week and start over—that was the Lakota way.

“Mr. Running,” Coldmoon began, “we’re here to ask you a few questions about Grayson Twoeagle. Voluntarily.”

“Do I need a lawyer?”

“You have that right, of course.” Coldmoon waited. It was not yet time to read him his rights, and he didn’t want to spook the guy.

“Go ahead.”

“I’m told Mr. Twoeagle owed you money.”

“Damn right.”

“How much?”

“Three thousand two hundred and four dollars.”

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