Baptiste Yellow Knife sat outside Malick’s store in a black LaSalle that didn’t look half-bad. The car door was open and he was sitting on the passenger side with one leg swung out, the kind of stance that told me he possessed more than the car. He’d been picking more than apples. He tossed a cigarette toward me and looked away. I was sick to remember I hadn’t taken care of the floater order on Yellow Knife when I should have. If I couldn’t prove he’d murdered Hemaucus at least I could get him off the reservation. I’d been too lax. Now the weight of Yellow Knife’s return punched me.

“Hello Baptiste,” I said, feeling a little smug in my knowing.

He didn’t answer me. He looked across the street with a stiff smile on his face that told me I shouldn’t come closer. I was reading his signs too well. I hated myself for taking his cue. He was leaner than I remembered. His arms were vein lined and hard muscled.

I drew in my breath. “What are you doing back here?” I asked.

He stretched his arms out in front of him and wrapped them around his chest. He tapped his fingers on his ribs.

“Look,” he said, “let me be.”

I put my hands on my hips, easy, and practiced control. I didn’t know whether I was mad at him or just scared. I thought about calling for backup.

A woman came out of the grocery store. Her hair was black and she was wearing too much Indian jewelry, but she wasn’t Indian. She was carrying a bag of groceries. She wore a nice coat and a smile.

I looked down. “You want to tell me where you been the last couple days, Mr. Yellow Knife.” A statement.

“Ask me straight,’’ he said.

“He’s been with me,” the woman said, standing taller. “We just got here this morning.”

Baptiste Yellow Knife rubbed his cheek.

“You seen your mother yet?” I asked, wanting to ask him about Louise but knowing better. He looked up at me and got up to grab the groceries.

“Hemaucus Three Dresses is dead,” I said without emotion.

He looked off, far off.

I tipped my hat to the woman, but I could see the brutal recognition in her trembling mouth. She had just stepped into a mess of trouble. I opened the back door of my patrol car and motioned for Yellow Knife. It was a signal, a polite gesture to show him I still held respect for him. I didn’t want to nail Yellow Knife with a choke hold I told myself, but I knew my act was cowardly.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Yellow Knife said and hawked spit at my feet. I stood there with my useless gun, wishing I had called for backup even if it meant Railer.