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“Who?” she said.
I repeated the name, my eyes on hers.
“I don’t know who he is,” she said.
“His girlfriend was Cindy Kershaw.”
“Those kids who were killed? I read about them in the paper. But I didn’t know them.”
“I think Seymour wore a cross just like yours. I’m almost sure of it.”
I could see the confusion and nervousness in her face. “I don’t know what you’re saying. Sister Jamie gave me this cross. I think you can buy them at that religious store in Missoula.”
“Why are you bothering my granddaughter? Who the hell are you?” said the man in overalls.
“Nobody is talking to you,” Candace Sweeney said to him.
It was not the way I wanted to conduct an interview. “Thanks for the information,” I said to the Indian girl.
But it was about to get worse. Candace Sweeney’s friend, who had been showing a photograph to congregants on the opposite side of the tent, reoccupied his chair, then leaned forward so he could see past Candace and look at me. A lateral indentation, a concave wound of some kind, ran from below his right eye to the corner of his mouth, and the muscles didn’t work right when he tried to smile. He still seemed oblivious to the fact that his every movement was being watched by the man named Quince. “How you doing?” he asked.
“Pretty good,” I said.
“You a fan of Ms. Wellstone, too?”
“I’ve heard a couple of her songs. I always thought she was pretty good.”
I could see the edge of the photograph sticking out of his shirt pocket, and what appeared to be gauze and white tape at the top of his chest. He slipped a toothpick in his mouth and seemed to take my measure. His hands were broad, his fingers splayed on his knees, the backs of his forearms covered with fine, reddish-blond hair. Upon first glance, he seemed likable, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his trim physique and neat appearance suggestive of a confident man who had no agenda and didn’t need to prove himself to others. “You from down south?” he asked.
“How’d you know?”
“I’m from West Texas, myself. I’m looking for a guy. Haven’t had any luck, though.”
“Who’s the guy?”
He put his fingers on the edge of the photo in his pocket as though preparing to show it to me.
“You picked the right fellow, Troyce. Dave’s a cop,” Candace Sweeney said.
“You vacationing in Montana?” Troyce said, his eyes flat, the way people’s eyes go when they have no intention of allowing you inside their thoughts.
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“Fishing, mostly,” I replied.
I waited for him to hand me the photo. But his fingers didn’t move from his shirt pocket. Instead, he straightened the flap on the pocket and buttoned it. “I’m helping settle an estate down in Texas. I’ve got some money for this guy, but I don’t think he’s here’bouts. The money comes from a church trust the guy’s family was involved with. That’s why I was hanging around here. Big waste of time. I think the guy got drunk and fell off a freight-car spine outside Billings. Candace, I think we need to get us a chicken-fried steak and some Indian bread up at the café. What did you say your name was again?”
“It’s Dave Robicheaux.”
“It’s good meeting you, Mr. Robicheaux.”
We shook hands. His handshake was neither firm nor soft but neutral, just like his expression and his eyes.
Candace Sweeney was staring over her friend’s shoulder at the aisle. “Troyce, there’s a guy burning holes in your back.”
“Unshaved dude, greasy black hair, blue shirt buttoned at the throat without a tie?” he said without turning around.
“You got it,” she said. “He walked past me a while ago. He’s got a serious gapo problem, like it’s ironed into his clothes.”
