Mrs. Thunder shook her head.
Joe dug in his pocket for two business cards and handed one to Mrs. Shoyo and one to Mrs. Thunder. “If she shows up or calls in again, can you let me know? And if she calls, can you please try to find out where she is and when she’ll be back? I’m not asking you to rat on her—she’s not in trouble at all. I just want to make sure she’s safe and knows what she’s doing.”
Both women took the cards and looked at them in the long, contemplative, and deliberate way Joe had noted before in many American Indians.
“Alisha is a smart woman,” Mrs. Thunder said, finally. “I’m sure she wouldn’t do something stupid.”
“But she’s with Nate Romanowski,” Joe said, immediately regretting he’d put it that way.
“How can she be,” Mrs. Shoyo said slyly, “if he’s in your custody?”
“Not you too,” Joe moaned, and both women laughed.
AS JOE walked back down the long hallway toward the parking lot, the bell rang. The hall was suddenly filled with students pouring out of doors, gathering books, chattering, bound for their next class. Rather than swim against the tide, he stepped to the side and flattened himself against the wall. Due to his uniform and sidearm he got his share of inquiring looks. A pack of fifteen- or sixteen-year-old boys passed close by him talking loudly to one another in a staged exchange:
“Benny, are we still on to go poach some antelope after school today?”
“Absolutely, man. I got two guns and a bunch of bullets in my car! We can shoot a whole herd of ’em just like we did last night!”
“It’s a good thing there ain’t no smart game wardens around here, huh, Benny?”
“Yeah, that’s a good thing. Otherwise, he’d know we were killin’ and poachin’ fools!”
“Ha-ha,” said Joe, and the boys broke up into self-congratulatory laughter.
AS THE halls thinned and cleared he found himself looking at the framed photos of the Class of 1991, which had graduated seventeen years before. There she was, Alisha Whiteplume. Her beauty was striking, and intelligence shone in her eyes. But there was another female student two rows up from Alisha who was familiar as well. This girl exuded brash self-confidence. Her eyes seemed to challenge the photographer to take the picture, and she had an inscrutable smile of self-satisfaction. Joe knew her now as Shannon Moore, Klamath’s wife.
“THAT DIDN’T take long,” Mrs. Thunder said when Joe returned to the office.
“I was hoping you could give me some background on another student I saw in one of the photos in the hallway,” Joe said.
“I’ll try,” Mrs. Thunder said. “I’ve been around this place for thirty years. If it’s before that I might not be able to help you.”
“Class of ’ninety-one,” Joe said.
“That”—Mrs.Thunder beamed—“was a very good year. That’s when Alisha graduated.”
Joe nodded. “And the other student I think I recognize. Her name is Shannon Moore now, but I don’t know her name at the time she graduated.”
Mrs. Thunder sat back, puzzled. “Shannon?”
Joe’s heart sank for a moment. Had he screwed up and mistaken one face for another? Then: “Maybe I can point her out to you.”
“Show me,” Mrs. Thunder said, plucking the 1991 high-school yearbook off a shelf behind her and opening it on the counter.
Joe used his index finger to guide him through the photos of graduating seniors. It settled on the one he’d seen in the hallway. As he read her name, Mrs. Thunder said, “So she goes by Shannon now, huh?”
“It says here her name was Shenandoah Yellowcalf,” Joe said. “Do you know her?”
Mrs. Thunder snorted. “Do I know her? She was only the best girls’ basketball player we’ve ever had here. I’m surprised
Joe explained he’d only been in the valley for eight years.
“Here,” Mrs. Thunder said, flipping through the yearbook pages, “let me show you.”
Joe looked at countless photos of Shenandoah Yellowcalf in the activities section of the yearbook. There were action photos of her on the court, at the foul line, and in the lane, another of her cutting down the net at the state championship.
“You’ve never seen a girl play like Shenandoah played,” Mrs. Thunder said softly, caressing the photos with a stubby fingertip as if drawing memories from them. “She had a blinding crossover dribble as good as any great NBA point guard as she brought the ball down the court, and she left her opponents flailing at air in her wake. She made us gasp the way she played. There has never been a player here with so much determination. She was so
Joe read from the yearbook. “She scored fifty-two points in the championship game?” he said. “Good Lord!”
“Oh, she was good,” Mrs. Thunder said, shaking her head. “Alisha was on that team too,” and pointed her out in the team photo.
“Was Shannon—um, Shenandoah—recruited by colleges?” Joe asked.
Mrs. Thunder nodded enthusiastically. “She was offered full-ride scholarships to over twenty universities, including Duke and Tennessee, all the national powers. We were so proud of her.”
“Where did she go to school?” Joe asked.
“She didn’t,” Mrs. Thunder said sadly.
