Chapter 5

Valerie Boren-Odell, 1990

Mystery surrounds the death of little Ledice Stechi, girl millionaire, as she lies buried in the silent hills of McCurtain County.

—Gertrude Bonnin, 1924, research agent, Indian Welfare Committee, General Federation of Women's Clubs.

"Look, buddy, the sign says only thirty-seven more miles to Paris. That's not so bad, huh?" I glance over at Charlie, securely buckled into his booster seat. "I always promised your dad we'd bring you to Paris. That's where your dad and I fell in love, you know? Paris."

The highway sign refers to Paris, Texas, so it's kind of a lame joke, but seeing the word pulls threads of memory. Joel and I were wild child one and two, pals in Paris celebrating the end of our military careers and embarking on a couple weeks of backpacking and rock climbing in Europe before going our separate ways. We ate French food, got sauced on French wine, looked at one another under the soft civilian light of a Paris moon, and got married.

"Kenneth or my real dad?" Charlie's face turns far too analytical for a boy newly graduated from the first grade.

"Your dad." Suddenly I'm uncomfortable in my own skin. In my fog these last few years, I've been unfair to Kenneth, Charlie, and Kenneth's teenage sons. I let Kenneth quietly slide into the stepdad role for Charlie, the five of us living as back-fence neighbors and functioning as an unofficial blended family. Little League games, movie nights, Fridays at ShowBiz Pizza. Charlie has no memories of Joel, other than whatever misty impressions can be retained from birth to three, or learned from stories I told him early on. At some point, I let the door drift shut on that history, because it was easier.

Charlie looks out the window, a trail of brown freckles scrunching beneath his curly blond mop. "Paris, like in the Aristocats movie?"

"That's the one." Finally, he's perking up after being fetched from daycare just in time for a ninety-minute car ride. Given Roy's warning about my photos of the gravesite, a one-hour photo store far from home seemed the best option for developing my film. Hence the road trip to Paris, Texas.

"Could we buy Aristocats?" Charlie senses an opportunity to make it worth his while.

"We'll see. Depends if the Walmart Supercenter has it and how much it costs."

He snorts a noisy sigh, which brings to mind the girl at the overlook this morning, Sydney. I want to track her down tomorrow and find this Granny Wambles, the one who knows everything about everyone and all things in the Winding Stair area. The sooner I begin networking locally, the sooner I can be effective in my job.

I have a lot to prove here. I was in park law enforcement in Yosemite. This is my chance to get back in the game. A study of the photos and some back-channel archaeological consulting could help me contribute to solving the mystery of the bones.

Unless having the pictures developed blows up in your face.The thought hits like a sudden slap. Get caught snooping around someone else's investigation and you'll end up dealing with skunks in dumpsters, vandalized pit toilets, and other noxious situations for the next six months—every bit of it meant to remind you to keep your nose to yourself.

A few more miles spin by as I mentally review contents of the film roll—the rental cabin at Lost Pines, me in my uniform (taken by Charlie), the two of us by a Horsethief Trail sign.

The film tells exactly who I am. Then it ends with three sets of bones, frozen in time.

What if the photo machine operator isn't just running batches through in a rush? What if that person actually looks at the photos?

This drive to Paris is a bad idea.The reality asserts itself as we pass the final turnpike exit. I hit the off ramp toward Hugo, Oklahoma.

"Hey…Mom?" Charlie protests. "It's Paris, that way. The sign…"

"I know," I admit as we merge from the exit onto the rural highway. "Let's go to the little Walmart in Hugo today. There's no one-hour photo in this one, but we'll get the film developed some other time."

"Cool!" Charlie is all for a shorter trip…until he isn't. "But we were gonna send Gigi and Gram pictures of the cabin and stuff, remember? You said."

The kid is too smart for his own good. He has sensed the family strife caused by our move, and he's eager to show his grandmother and great-grandmother that we're having loads of fun here. "How about you draw pictures of the cabin for them? They'll be thrilled to get those in the mail."

Charlie's face sags, taking his body with it. "When're they comin' to visit us?"

Guilt stabs. I don't know how to fix the mess I've made of these past few years. "Tell you what, since we're not getting photos printed today, how about we grab film for your Cool Cam, and you can take instant pics to send to Gigi and Gram?"

"Radical!" Charlie loves the neon-colored Polaroid camera, an extravagant birthday present from Kenneth and a reminder of the lifestyle he could have offered us. I love-hate the camera because the refills are pricey.

But it does have a flash, and the film doesn't require developing.A new approach to the cave bones solidifies as we park at Walmart and exit the car. Charlie threads his fingers through mine, propelling our arms in a happy, wide arc while we walk. He's not the least bit embarrassed to be holding hands with his mother in public. It's so sweet, I hate the fact that I'm about to drop a mom-bomb. I hold off until we're in the camera section.

"So, I need you to save four shots on the roll for me to use, all right?"

"Mom. That's…" He finger-counts while I grab a box. "That's, like…half. We could buy a double."

"Have to conserve our funds, bud, remember?" My NPS salary here, even with nominal upgrades for law enforcement, coroner, EMT, and critical-incident counselor certifications, isn't a spendy level of income. "So…all right, then, let's say…three pictures for me?"

"Ohhh-kay." He turns the cart, filled with a few snacks and household necessities, over to me, so he can work the fingers and count out loud, "Eight, take away three…" That keeps him busy until we've picked up Aristocats and are headed toward the cash registers.

"Hey!" His boisterous greeting surprises the middle-aged checkout lady. The boy will talk to anything that stands still long enough. It's one of the quirks I love and an issue that set him uncomfortably apart from Kenneth and his kids. Charlie's nonstop questions drove them nuts. I found myself constantly trying to tone Charlie down.

In the Hugo Walmart, I'm relieved that I haven't shushed the life out of my little boy. He's curious and unbounded like his father. That's okay. In fact, it's beautiful.

"What's eight minus three?" he asks the cashier.

"Five." Her accent stretches the word, fi-i-ive.

"But if the counter starts at ten, but the first and last are blanks, but you gotta save three for your mom"—eye roll—"is it still five?"

I palm my son's curly head like a basketball, steering him toward the bagging area. "The Polaroids are for his camera. We're sharing a pack."

"I getcha." The cashier focuses on Charlie. "Then, yep, still five, lil' man." Bagging the film separately for him, she winks and says, "I'd do some negotiatin' with your mama, though, being as it's your camera and all. That's almost half."

"See!" Charlie protests as I hand him a sack and we depart, weighed down like pack mules.

A weird feeling slides over me when we exit the store. I'm being side-eyed by a handful of men gathered around a rusty pickup truck in the loading zone. At first I think they're gawking at my uniform—preparing to offer up some unwelcome lady ranger jokes. Then I realize I'm not in uniform. Normally I enjoy the anonymity that comes with civilian clothes, but just as I move out of earshot, the words ranger and Thief Trail and fed drift by me, and I glance back. A guy with his boot hitched up on the bumper and his elbow resting on his knee catches me looking and tips his ball cap.

The others jostle and tease. He tells them to cut it out, only not in such polite terms.

I hurry on, reluctant to engage, but I can't shake the feeling I should know who he is…or that he, at least, knows who I am. It's unsettling, because I have Charlie with me, and if any law enforcement guff is going to come my way, I don't want it to involve my son.

I hustle him into the car and he hugs his new videotape, smiling blissfully out the window as we leave Hugo and the miles roll by, first on the turnpike, then on the two-lane past Antlers. The drive at sunset is stunning, the peaks of the Kiamichi Mountains and the Potato Hills sketching torn-paper lines against the sky.

Near Talihina, we pass the Sardis Shores Café, which I've caught mention of at work. The lopsided sign out front offers a $4.95 catfish special. Charlie and I can split that and it sounds so much better than frozen pizzas.

As I veer into the parking lot, Charlie perks his curly little head, showing signs of almost having drifted off, which makes the stop an even better idea. If he naps now, bedtime will be rough, and tomorrow won't be pretty, either. In the morning, I want to get back to the gravesite to snap my three Polaroids before anyone else is out and about.

"Hey, catfish special tonight." I nod toward the ramshackle building. "Let's grab a bite, and then head on home."

Charlie licks his lips and murmurs, "Mmmm," as we exit the car and walk hand in hand, taking in the shimmering waters of Sardis Lake. A rust-spotted pickup truck rattles into the lot and parks next to the café's front door. I ignore it until we run into the truck's passenger and driver at the entrance.

"Y'all got here first," one of them says. I glance up, but he's backlit by the light overhead. Was that the truck from Walmart? Are those the same guys?

Charlie and I slide past with a quick thanks.

Not until we're inside checking out the menu do I hear one of the guys drumming absently on his tabletop, then catch a side view of him as he removes his ball cap. Finally, the mental connection comes through. Emerald Vista overlook. The tribal police officer. Maybe he stared at me in the Walmart parking lot because he was piecing together why I looked familiar.

After each putting in our supper orders, he and I end up at the salad bar together.

A curious, overly studious look comes my way, like he's still figuring me out. I save him the time and say, "I met you at Emerald Vista overlook. Tribal police, right?" Laying a splay-fingered hand on my chest, I add, "Park Service."

"I know." He has a nice smile. Friendly, genuine…I think. "I figured it out. The little spud threw me off at first." He nods toward Charlie in our booth.

"That's my second-shift backup."

He chuckles, deep-chested and melodious. I don't want to like it, and I sure don't want to seem warm to it, but it's…well…easy on the ear, and I'm looking to build rapport around here. In law enforcement, relationships will take you further than any other investigative tool.

"Looks like he could do the job." A speculative glance flicks Charlie's way.

"Future ranger. His dad was a ranger, too." Way too personal. I push forward, fast. "Hey, speaking of kids, I was wondering if you could tell me where to find the girl from the church field trip at the overlook—Sydney, right? Before you drove up, she'd mentioned that her granny—was it Granny Wambles?—knew everything about the families around here and the history of the area."

"Granny Wambles?" he chokes out. "Unless you're looking for gossip or whatever happened on the soap operas this week, she won't be much help."

"Well…Sydney said her grandmother…"

"Ahhh." He takes a plate off the stack and extends it to me like I'm a houseguest. "Sydney probably meant her real grandmother, Budgie Blackwell. Budgie was a state representative for years, so she kept up with everyone and knew their business. She'd give you her opinion on it, too. Only a certain kind of woman earns a nickname like Budgie, you know?"

"I can imagine. I'd love to look her up, maybe chat a little. Get more acquainted with the area." Someone with long-term knowledge might lend context to the bones in the cave. Was there ever a town near there, a lumber mill, a mine, a church, a house?

The tribal officer focuses a curious look. "Doubt that'll work out. I heard Mrs. Blackwell's not been well, and she couldn't raise those grandkids anymore. They're not Choctaw, so they're not eligible for any services through the tribe. Didn't have much of a safety net, I guess. Sydney ended up at Mrs. Wambles's foster shelter, and Sydney's older brother was living with a family friend and working for him, last I heard. Braden's seventeen, maybe close to eighteen? A high school senior next year. They were good kids, far as I ever knew. That's to Budgie Blackwell's credit, because Jade, their mama, had issues. Really rough for Braden and Sydney to lose their grandmother. That was all they had."

I feel a pinprick for lousy situations children end up in through no fault of their own. "Oh." Loading up the salad plate, I rethink potential avenues for understanding the burial site in the cave. "Is there a historical society around here?"

"A historical society?"

"Or a museum? Or library? Someplace that would have records from this area? Maybe old newspaper archives?"

"Hmmm…" He follows me along, laying claim to nearly everything I leave behind. The teenager coming our way with a plastic tub will have light work breaking down the salad bar. The officer's plate needs sideboards. He also likes ranch dressing. A lot. "Pushmataha County or Le Flore or McCurtain?"

"Either. Maybe all three."

"There's the museum in Poteau, and the Push County Historical Society in Antlers Depot, and the train museum in Hugo. Libraries, too, of course. You looking for old Choctaw Nation era or after statehood?"

"Not sure."

We lock eyes, then, and I wonder if he knows what's on my mind.

In a dusty file somewhere, is there a newspaper story about three missing kids who were never found?

It's not impossible.

With our salad plates filled, I feel the window of opportunity closing. "How did you know about the bones?"

His eyes, a deep walnut brown, dart away, then back. "Caught a little scuttlebutt."

"Why did you tell me about it?" Is he trying to clue me in…or trying to use me to start trouble between tribal authorities and the park?

"Mom!" Charlie beckons as the server delivers our order.

"Hey, Curtis," the guy at his table calls. "Food's here."

Curtis,I remind myself just before he catches my gaze and says, "I figured you should know."

The atmosphere feels strange after we part ways. The café staff cleans around us while Charlie and I wolf down a mountain of fish, then wait for a to-go box. The tribal PO and I share a clumsy wave as he passes by on the way to the door.

I study the exit for a minute after he's gone.

The waitress, a solidly built young woman who's maybe twenty, sets two Styrofoam containers on our table. "Watch out for him," she says, then darts off without further explanation.