He wore a loose linen shirt—probably to conceal a gun tucked inside his waistband—chinos, and loafers. The only item that hinted at his tribal identity was a bead bracelet worn on the same wrist as a battered old Timex. On his forehead, a hemophilic bandage covered what, I guessed, were no less than a dozen new stitches.
Everyone I met these days had been battered, one way or another.
“Nick.”
“Mike.”
The hand I shook was hard with calluses. The fingertips were stained yellow from nicotine. He settled into the booth across from me, hands hidden beneath the tabletop.
I had always felt uncomfortable around Nick Francis. He seemed to blink less than normal people, seemed always to be staring. But it was his perpetual smile that weirded me out. When his face was at rest, the corners of his broad mouth remained upturned, giving him a catlike expression.
More than other Native Americans I had met, he made me aware of the vast distance between our life experiences.
Don’t presume to know me, those hard black eyes seemed to state.
I tried to affect more ease than I felt. “I have to ask about the bandage.”
“The boy and me had a difference of opinion. I shouldn’t have let it escalate.”
“Your son did that?”
The waitress appeared with coffee, which I eagerly accepted. Nick ordered a Pepsi, no ice.
“I’ll cut to the chase,” I said. “I’m concerned about Charley.”
“Have you contacted the FAA?”
“He didn’t take his plane.”
“That ain’t good.”
“It gets worse. He left me a note telling me not to come looking for him.”
“Seems like maybe you should honor his wishes. Charley has reasons for the things he does. They don’t always make sense to anyone but him, but you need to respect his choices.”
“I would if not for Ora—”
“Charley understood the worry it would cause her. Maybe he reckoned she’d be even more worried if she knew where he was going. It ain’t your business in any case, and you’re smart enough to know that, kid.”
Two Border Patrol agents came in and whispered to the hostess. She guided them to seats in a corner booth. They sat beside each other so each had a clear view of the room. Cops of all stripes have an aversion to sitting with their backs to doors. When I was younger, I had sat against plenty of walls. But after so many close encounters with death, I knew I wasn’t going to die like Wild Bill Hickok, shot by some loser coming through a door with a pistol blasting.
I returned my attention to Nick Francis. “Have you ever heard of a game warden named Duke Dupree? He was a warden back during the Depression.”
“I’m old, kid, but not that old.”
“This Dupree’s badge showed up at the pop-up flea market at the Machias Dike. I’m positive it’s the reason for Charley’s strange behavior, that badge.”
He rested his left hand on the laminated menu before him. Only then did I see he was missing the ring finger. “You’re going to keep working it no matter what I say.”
“You know I will.”
I half expected him to get up and leave. Instead he cracked the first real smile he’d shown me since he’d sat down. “Then we’d better order food so you can start telling the story.”
“You going to talk to that college girl tomorrow?” he asked when I’d finished.
“If I can find her.”
“What street did you say she lives on?”
I told him. I thought he might offer his assistance, but he didn’t.
“You’ve known Charley a long time,” I said. “In his note to me, he mentioned the ‘worst mistake a man can make.’ What do you think he meant by that?”
“Killing someone,” he said matter-of-factly.
“That was my thought, too.”
Suddenly, Nick tilted his head back and looked at the ceiling.
“What?” I asked.
“Killing the wrong someone.”
“That’s the worst mistake a man can make?”
“For Charley it would be.”
“But he never killed anyone—not after Vietnam, I mean.”
Nick’s reaction was to glance at the corner booth where the two Border Patrol agents were finishing their meals with strawberry shortcake and cups of coffee.
“Is that what he told you?” he asked.
“You’re saying he lied to me?”
“I’m not sure why you think Charley owed you the story of his life.”
A thought occurred to me; I couldn’t have explained why. I reached into my pocket and brought out the snapshot Ora had found in Charley’s cigar box, the picture of the bear-faced man. I pushed it across the glass-topped table.
“Where did you get that?” Nick asked.
It was my turn to be the one slowly doling out information. “Do you know who this is?”
“Of course.”
“Well?”
“That’s Pierre Michaud.”
“Who’s Pierre Michaud?”
“The man Charley killed.”
“What?”
Nick reached into the chest pocket of his shirt, removed a crushed pack of cigarettes, and set it on the table. The brand was Natural American Spirit. The illustration on the package showed an Indian in eagle-feather headdress inhaling tobacco from a long pipe.
“You mind continuing this conversation outside? I could use a smoke.”
But I sensed his real motive. He didn’t want to be overheard.
19
The rain had stopped, and a mist was rising from the ashphalt. We wandered off past the chugging eighteen wheelers, past the arc lights, past the drop-off where the asphalt crumbled. We entered a field of wildflowers and weeds. It was too early in the summer for crickets, but I heard other unknown insects clicking from the shadowed ground, and a few fireflies flickered farther out in the tall grass.
“People listen better in the dark, I’ve found,” he said.
“I was listening to you inside.”
He chuckled. “You weren’t listening. You were letting your eyes rest on me while you thought about yourself.”
He had me there.
“You ever hear what happened at St. Ignace?” he said in the brief glow of the Zippo he used to light his cigarette.
“Up
