If I was going to make a grab for it, now would’ve been the time.
It was then that there was an incredible clatter behind Herbert from the other end of the hallway. I fully expected the building to go up, but it didn’t, and we both stood there as I glanced out the window and saw Barrett Long’s truck dragging the doors at the end of a tow strap.
I was right; he did figure it out.
I was just glad the sparks the metal doors were making on the surface of the parking lot were far away and receding.
Our attention was suddenly drawn to the other end of the hall where Lolo Long had thrown herself through the door and had swung both the beam of her Maglite and the barrel of that big revolver of hers toward us. “Freeze. Police!”
She was doing better.
Herbert backed against the desk and looked at me, his thumb still on the wheel of the Zippo.
I shouted as quickly as I could. “Don’t shoot. The entire basement is full of propane; one shot and the whole place goes up.”
She looked uncertain but continued down the hall toward us with her sidearm and flashlight still pointed toward Herbert. It was only when she was about twenty feet away that she noticed the cigar and, more important, the lighter in his hands.
“Holster the weapon, Lolo.”
She ignored me and gestured at him with the barrel of the Smith. “Drop the lighter.”
We stood there with her on one side of the stairwell opening, me on the other, and Herbert facing the creeping gas that continued to seep up from the basement.
“Chief, holster the weapon.”
She looked at me for the briefest of seconds and then did as I’d asked.
I took a breath before speaking again, hoping it wasn’t my last. “Herbert? I sure would hate to think that after all the places we’ve been and all the stuff we’ve been through, that it would all end like this.”
After a moment, his eyes turned to mine.
I pushed off the wall and stuffed my hands in the pockets of my jeans. “You say you’re tired. Well, I’m tired too.” I watched as his eyes shifted, and he studied the lighter in his hands. “My daughter is getting married at Crazy Head Springs in a few days and I sure would like to be there for that, just like I’d think Chief Long here would like to go see her son up in Billings, and I imagine you’d like to be around for Adrian’s first birthday whether it’s through Plexiglas or not.”
He didn’t move, and I wondered for just the briefest of moments what it would be like to be flash fried in the instant it would take for him to roll the thumbwheel on the flint and spark the tiniest of flames in the lighter’s windscreen. The alarms would clamor and most likely the building itself would be lifted off its foundation; the sprinklers would come on, but unlike the movies, reality would dictate water pressure-and the Tribal Headquarters of the Northern Cheyenne would burn again.
We would likely never know it or see it; instead, the force of ignition and instantaneous explosion would carry the three of us through the hallway, through the doors and staircase, and throw us out onto the lawn like pulverized, flame-broiled meat.
But I had faith in Herbert His Good Horse, the man who had brought so much laughter and good will to his fellow man. “Considering what it is you’re thinking of doing, I have to tell you that I don’t see much romance in death. We’ve seen too much of it.” I sighed and continued, figuring that if I was going to die, I was at least going to have my say. “I’ve been in these situations before and can tell you that there’s nothing romantic about it, nothing heroic-dead is just dead.” I slowly pulled a single hand from my pocket and held it out to him, steady there between us, palm up. “What is it that Jimi Hendrix says about love?”
He kept his eyes on me but didn’t move, the words on the lighter pouring out of him like music. “When the power of love overcomes the love of power, the world will know peace.”
His thumb relaxed on the wheel of the lighter. “Hey, a Native American, First Nations Indigenous Person, and a white guy walk into a multicultural drinking establishment…” He studied me with a broad smile. “You don’t like that one? Neither do I. Okay, try this one-two Indians walk out of a bar…”
I waited for the punch line with my hand still extended.
His smile faded. “Hey… it could happen.”
Epilogue
I stood there in my stiff dress clothes and tried not to scratch as I watched the traditional Cheyenne wedding ceremonial procession approach, replete with mounted retinue and my white-buckskin-clad daughter.
As father of the bride, I had been offered a traditional outfit of my own but was having enough trouble with my tuxedo jacket and tie. I stuffed a forefinger into the collar of my dress shirt and pulled it a little looser, trying not to feel like the butler to the Northern Cheyenne tribe.
After a moment, I shifted back to twirling my wife’s engagement ring on my little finger and felt a sharp jab from an elbow. “Stop fidgeting.”
I spoke to her in a low voice. “I can’t help it; I think the last time I wore this was at the Wyoming Sheriff’s Association Ball when I first got elected.”
“I thought sheriffs didn’t have balls?”
“Ha, ha.” I looked down at my undersheriff and sister of the groom. She’d elected to come over to the bride’s side because she liked us better. “I figured we’d lost you to Nebraska.”
“Fuck that.”
The formal procession drew near, and Cady was radiant.
“She looks great.”
I smiled. “Yep, she does.”
“It’s nice that she’s not showing.”
I gave Victoria Moretti a look.
“I’m just sayin’.” Her eye wandered. “Even my two-headed brother looks good.”
I studied Michael, who was about to become my son-in-law. He looked a little dazed and confused, kind of the way that other guy did what seemed like a century ago. Granted, Martha and I hadn’t had the pomp and circumstance; we’d had only that justice of the peace from Miles City and his wife playing the accordion, but it had been enough to galvanize our lives together.
Michael looked like he might run, but there were the three other Moretti brothers to chase him down, and the old man, Chief of Detectives North, who would likely just put a bullet in his leg and then charge the municipality of Philadelphia for his ammunition.
Lena Moretti was lovely, as usual, in a knee-length off-white dress; she was doing her best to look cool and unflappable as her high heels sank into the rich earth of Crazy Head Springs.
We had a motley bunch seated on our side of the aisle-my dispatcher, Ruby, with Dog; my old boss, Lucian; and a contingency of deputies-Saizarbitoria with Marie and Antonio, the Ferg and his wife, and Frymire, Double- Tough having volunteered to man the desk back at the office. Dorothy, who had made the wedding cake from one of Alphonse’s old-world recipes, was seated next to Lucian, as were most of the field office of the FBI, including Agent in Charge Cliff Cly, and even a couple of Philadelphia Police Department detectives of our own, Katz and Gowder. Mary Barsad was there with Juana and Benjamin, and Omar and Lana and Bill and, of course, Doc Bloomfield.
The Cheyenne chief sat in his wheelchair with Melissa behind him and smiled over the pageantry of the approaching bride. His right-hand man, the Cheyenne Nation, stood a little closer to us on the ceremonial bed of white sage. I repeated to myself, over and over- E-hestana Na-he-stonahanotse, E-hestana Na-he-stonahanotse, E-hestana Na-he-stonahanotse.
“Are you chanting to yourself?”
I hadn’t realized I was mumbling. “I’m trying to remember how to say my line.”
She shook her head and spoke from the side of her mouth. “Look, nobody’s going to be paying any attention to you. All right?”
