this morning.”
“On the mountain?” Walt said sarcastically. “At sixty bucks a day? Taylor Crabtree? He’s doing four hundred hours of community service for mounting a webcam in the girls’ bathroom of the Alternative School. You really think he’s spending a lot of time on the mountain, Elbie?”
“He hit a tree. That’s good enough for me. He does afternoons for me. Kids this age . . . a boy like this, basically on his own. You know how it is in this valley, Walt. Hell, a guy with a real job can’t afford to live here anymore. A kid like Taylor? It’s not easy.”
Crabtree sneaked a look in Walt’s direction. Walt read all sorts of things into that look, among them avoidance and fear. But there was something else as well. A searching expression, as if Crabtree wanted to talk to him.
“Listen,” Walt said. “Do you have any ink or oil or something that would give me a print of this tire’s tread pattern?”
“I probably have a picture of it in one of the books.”
“Could you give a look for me?”
Elbie glanced from Walt to Taylor and back again. “Go easy on him. That’s all I ask.”
As Walt crossed the garage, Crabtree lowered his head and tried to look busy. Up close, Walt could see that the bruised eyes and split lips were clearly not the work of a tree. There were no scrapes; he’d been hit, once, real hard.
“Take a break with me out back,” Walt said.
Crabtree set down his tire iron and followed like his boots were two sizes too big. Once outside, Walt checked for anyone within hearing range. The effort won Crabtree’s attention.
“How many hours are left on your community service?” Walt asked.
“Two hundred eighty-two.”
“But who’s counting, right?” Walt said. He’d hoped to win something other than a scowl but failed. “I could use your help with something, maybe cut back some of those hours.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Have you heard about any recruiting going on after school?”
The kid shrugged, avoiding eye contact.
“They call themselves the Samakinn,” Walt said. “It’s a Blackfoot word for ‘spear.’ Word is, they want to recruit high school kids to do their dirty work. Get someone else to commit the felonies. Guys like that, they talk about the Mexicans having ruined everything. Taken all the jobs. Crowded the schools. Get someone mad enough, they’ll do about anything. You know anything about it?”
Crabtree’s eyes met Walt’s. His were swollen and bruised, and Walt knew what kind of a blow it took to leave that kind of damage.
“Maybe they’ve roughed up kids that disagree with them.”
Crabtree shrugged.
The Idaho Bureau of Investigation had put out an alert on the Samakinn for central Idaho. It was said to be a small but determined cell.
“You and I might disagree on a lot of stuff, Taylor, but no one wants this kind of thing around here.”
“Don’t know nothing about it.”
“This is nothing but a small group of bozos, hiding behind the Blackfoot’s good name. There’s no proof they’re even Native Americans. They want their manifesto heard, make a name for themselves. They think violence—sabotage—is going to get them heard. They’re said to be interested in recruiting kids your age. Get them hooked on meth. Get them to do stuff for them, like dropping power lines, blowing up bridges. Stuff like that. Front-page stuff. That if they do enough of that, people will listen.” He gave this a moment to sink in. “Maybe they beat up the ones who won’t play along?”
Crabtree lit a cigarette. He played the scene deadpan.
Kids saw too many movies, Walt thought.
“Thing of it is, Taylor, I could probably convince a judge to cut that two hundred eighty-two hours in half, if you were to give me something that led me to these guys. If we got a conviction, he might make that time go away completely.”
Crabtree stared at the scuffed toes of his winter boots. He flicked the long ash off the cigarette and finally
“On the mountain?” Walt said sarcastically. “At sixty bucks a day? Taylor Crabtree? He’s doing four hundred hours of community service for mounting a webcam in the girls’ bathroom of the Alternative School. You really think he’s spending a lot of time on the mountain, Elbie?”
“He hit a tree. That’s good enough for me. He does afternoons for me. Kids this age . . . a boy like this, basically on his own. You know how it is in this valley, Walt. Hell, a guy with a real job can’t afford to live here anymore. A kid like Taylor? It’s not easy.”
Crabtree sneaked a look in Walt’s direction. Walt read all sorts of things into that look, among them avoidance and fear. But there was something else as well. A searching expression, as if Crabtree wanted to talk to him.
“Listen,” Walt said. “Do you have any ink or oil or something that would give me a print of this tire’s tread pattern?”
“I probably have a picture of it in one of the books.”
“Could you give a look for me?”
Elbie glanced from Walt to Taylor and back again. “Go easy on him. That’s all I ask.”
As Walt crossed the garage, Crabtree lowered his head and tried to look busy. Up close, Walt could see that the bruised eyes and split lips were clearly not the work of a tree. There were no scrapes; he’d been hit, once, real hard.
“Take a break with me out back,” Walt said.
Crabtree set down his tire iron and followed like his boots were two sizes too big. Once outside, Walt checked for anyone within hearing range. The effort won Crabtree’s attention.
“How many hours are left on your community service?” Walt asked.
“Two hundred eighty-two.”
“But who’s counting, right?” Walt said. He’d hoped to win something other than a scowl but failed. “I could use your help with something, maybe cut back some of those hours.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Have you heard about any recruiting going on after school?”
The kid shrugged, avoiding eye contact.
“They call themselves the Samakinn,” Walt said. “It’s a Blackfoot word for ‘spear.’ Word is, they want to recruit high school kids to do their dirty work. Get someone else to commit the felonies. Guys like that, they talk about the Mexicans having ruined everything. Taken all the jobs. Crowded the schools. Get someone mad enough, they’ll do about anything. You know anything about it?”
Crabtree’s eyes met Walt’s. His were swollen and bruised, and Walt knew what kind of a blow it took to leave that kind of damage.
“Maybe they’ve roughed up kids that disagree with them.”
Crabtree shrugged.
The Idaho Bureau of Investigation had put out an alert on the Samakinn for central Idaho. It was said to be a small but determined cell.
“You and I might disagree on a lot of stuff, Taylor, but no one wants this kind of thing around here.”
“Don’t know nothing about it.”
“This is nothing but a small group of bozos, hiding behind the Blackfoot’s good name. There’s no proof they’re even Native Americans. They want their manifesto heard, make a name for themselves. They think violence—sabotage—is going to get them heard. They’re said to be interested in recruiting kids your age. Get them hooked on meth. Get them to do stuff for them, like dropping power lines, blowing up bridges. Stuff like that. Front-page stuff. That if they do enough of that, people will listen.” He gave this a moment to sink in. “Maybe they beat up the ones who won’t play along?”
Crabtree lit a cigarette. He played the scene deadpan.
Kids saw too many movies, Walt thought.
“Thing of it is, Taylor, I could probably convince a judge to cut that two hundred eighty-two hours in half, if you were to give me something that led me to these guys. If we got a conviction, he might make that time go away completely.”
Crabtree stared at the scuffed toes of his winter boots. He flicked the long ash off the cigarette and finally
Similar Books
