That's not good, is it?" He lifted his manacled wrists and propped them on the windowsill. The hills north of the train depot were green and domed against the sky and clumps of whitetail were grazing on the slopes.
"Take good care of Maisey, will you?"
"Doc, you didn't do it, did you?"
He started to answer, then stared out the window silently. His ill-fitting, orange jumpsuit looked like a clown's costume on his body.
By Monday afternoon I had read the homicide investigators' reports on Lamar Ellison's murder and had retraced Ellison's movements of Friday evening back to the tavern on the Blackfoot. I had also managed to interview a bartender at the tavern, Holly and Xavier Girard, and a biker who'd been at the table with Sue Lynn and Ellison.
The biker's name was Clell Miller and he ran a welding business in a tin shed on the west side of Missoula. He was shirtless and wore black goggles up on his forehead, and sweat ran down his torso into the underwear that was bunched out over the top of his jeans.
"What were Lamar and Sue Lynn talking about?" I said.
"It didn't make no sense. Lamar was stoned. Something about kids," he said. "Look, man, I don't want to speak bad of the dead. The Mexican Mafia had a hit on the guy. He ratted out some people inside. So maybe they cooked him. That's their style. They'll Molotov a guy in his cell."
"You think Wyatt Dixon might have lit up his life?" I said.
He shut down the valves on the acetylene torch he had been using. He wiped the sweat and soot off his face with a rag.
"I ain't said nothing about Wyatt Dixon. I ain't even told you he was there."
"That's right. You haven't said a word about him. Where'd you get the Confederate flag on your wall?" I said.
"At the Indian powwow in Arlee. What do you care?" he said, irritably.
"Is Wyatt a bad dude?"
"I know what you're trying to do, man. This all started 'cause your friend's daughter pulled a train. The way I heard it, she invited them guys over and couldn't get enough. Flush it any way you want, chief, you either beat feet or I'm gonna fry up some Texas toast."
He popped his welding torch alight.
When I got back to Doc's place I saw an old sedan parked in the trees, down by the river. Its windshield and headlights had been removed, the body sprayed with gray primer, and two large numerals were painted in orange on the driver's door.
The back door of the house was open. I walked inside and saw Maisey in her bedroom, lying on her side, her back to me. The Indian girl named Sue Lynn sat on the mattress beside her, stroking Maisey's hair. The plank floor creaked under my foot, and Sue Lynn's face jerked toward me.
"What are you doing in here?" I said through the doorway.
"I came to see about the doctor. Is he going to be all right?" she said, standing up now.
"He's in the county jail, charged with murder. Does that sound all right?" I said.
"Don't talk to her like that, Billy Bob. She came here to help," Maisey said.
"She's buds with Ellison's motorcycle pals, Maisey," I said.
"What do you know?" Sue Lynn said.
"I think you're here for self-serving reasons," I said.
"Then sit on this," she replied, and raised her middle finger at me.
She tried to stare me down, then her eyes broke. She hurried out the far bedroom door into the living room and kept going, through the front screen and down the slope toward the riverbank. I went after her.
"Listen to me," I said. "I used to be a lawman. I think the G put you inside the Berdoo Jesters. You know who set fire to Ellison, don't you?"
She was standing in the shade of the trees, and her dark skin was freckled with the sunlight that shone through the canopy.