C Box - Blood Trail

THE RECEPTIONIST looked up from behind the counter when he entered the school office. She was oval-faced and kindly-looking, a Native whose eyes showed she’d seen a lot over the years in that school. The name plaque on her desk read MRS. THUNDER. He liked that name and wished his name was “Joe Thunder.”

Because he was wearing his uniform, Mrs. Thunder said, “Okay, who did what?”

“Nobody I’m aware of,” he said.

“None of my boys shot a deer out of season or without a license?”

“Not this time,” he said, placing her because of the way she said “my boys” as the heart and soul of the school, the Woman Who Knew Everybody And Everything. He always felt blessed when he met up with such women because they were generally the key to unlocking the secret doors to an institution.

“Ah,” she said, “that’s good to hear.”

“I was going to ask to see the principal if he’s in, but you can probably help me.”

Mrs. Thunder shook her head, an impish grin on her lips. “I could, but it’s not protocol. You should see the principal and he’s a she. And she’s in. I’ll see if she has a minute. May I ask what you need from her?”

Joe said, “I want to ask about a teacher here, Alisha Whiteplume.”

Mrs. Thunder’s eyes flashed and Joe couldn’t interpret the reaction.

“I’ll be back,” Mrs. Thunder said.

Joe wondered what he’d just done.

In a few moments, Mrs. Thunder reappeared and said, “Principal Shoyo is waiting for you in there,” gesturing to an open door at the back.

Mrs. Shoyo was surprisingly young, Joe thought. She was dressed in a white blouse and business suit and wore a gold medicine-wheel pendant. She stood as Joe entered and they shook hands. Mrs. Shoyo had black hair that was swept back and piercing brown eyes. She was Native. He noted the pin on her lapel, a horizontal piece with a red wild rose on one side and a flag with parallel red and black bars on a field of white on the other side. The pin represented the two nations on the reservation: the rose the symbol of the Eastern Shoshone and the Northern Arapaho flag.

“Joe Pickett,” he said. “Thanks for taking a few minutes.”

“My pleasure,” she said, sitting back down.

He glanced at the wall behind her where she displayed photos of her family: three beautiful dark-haired, dark-eyed girls, a shot of her husband, he assumed, on a knee next to a dead bull elk he was very proud of; her diploma from the University of Wyoming; a certificate naming her one of the “Top 100 American Indian Women Leaders of 2001.”

“Mrs. Thunder said you were asking about one of my teachers, Alisha Whiteplume.”

“Yes,” Joe said.

“What about her?” Shoyo asked, her eyebrows arching, “Did she commit some kind of game violation?”

Joe laughed. “Not at all. I wish I weren’t wearing this uniform shirt right now. No, I’m here because she was last seen in the presence of a friend of mine I’m trying to track down. I was hoping she could help me find him.”

Mrs. Shoyo narrowed her eyes as if to read him better.

“I hope that’s all this is about because Alisha is one of my best, if not the best teacher I’ve got here. She left the reservation after graduating from here and went off and made a success of herself. Then she chose to come back, to help her people. She’s such a role model because she’s bright and attractive and her students always do the best on the aptitude tests. She’s also one of my closest friends.”

Joe now knew why Mrs. Thunder had flinched.

“Then you know of Nate Romanowski,” Joe said.

Mrs. Shoyo smiled gently, but Joe could see that she had placed an invisible shield between them. “Everybody knows Mr. Romanowski,” she said, which somewhat surprised Joe. “But my understanding is he’s in Cheyenne in jail waiting for his trial.”

“He’s out,” Joe said. “He’s supposed to be in my custody.”

“But he isn’t,” she said.

“But he isn’t,” he sighed.

“Are you saying you think Alisha is with him, wherever he is?”

“Possibly.”

“And by finding her you might find him.”

“That’s the idea,” he said.

She raised her hand and fit her chin into her fist, studying him across the desk, making a determination, he assumed, about how much she should tell him and what she should keep to herself.

“Is Alisha in trouble?” she asked.

“No.”

“Why should I believe you?”

Joe shrugged. “Because I’m telling you the truth. I just want to find Nate.”

Mrs. Shoyo nodded as if she’d come to a conclusion. She leaned forward on her desk and showed him her palms. “I’d like to know where Alisha is as well because I’m starting to worry about her. She called in yesterday morning so we could line up a substitute teacher. I didn’t talk with her, Mrs. Thunder did. Alisha told her she might be out for a few days so to try and get a good replacement. I don’t think we did, though. I think we hired a man who spends all his time telling the students how hip and sympathetic he is to them instead of teaching them math and science.”

Joe recalled the man in Alisha Whiteplume’s classroom: it fit.

Joe asked, “Did she say where she was calling from?”

“No, she didn’t,” Mrs. Thunder answered from just outside the doorway, where she’d been listening.

“You can come in, Alice,” Mrs. Shoyo said, doing a quick eye roll for Joe’s benefit. “Nothing goes on in this school that Alice isn’t aware of.”

“I understand,” Joe said, looking over his shoulder at Mrs. Thunder, who came into the room.

“I don’t think she was calling from her house, though,” Mrs. Thunder said. “I could hear the wind in the background, like she was outside somewhere. I assumed she was calling from her cell phone. I didn’t question her. It’s her right to call in sick and she hardly ever has until this year. She’s had trouble shaking cold after cold this year, and she’s missed quite a few days the past few months.”

“Outside,” Joe said. “Could you hear anything else? Background talk? Highway noises?”

“No.”

“And she didn’t call again this morning?”

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!”