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stood him up and knocked him down.
    After a second of stunned silence, Lila Bluebird began to wail and the older kid, confused, clutched at her leg and began screaming. The radio man called for paramedics. Three cops moved up to Bluebird, their pistols still pointed at his body, and nudged his weapons out of reach.
    The tac commander looked at Lucas, his mouth working for a moment before the words came out. "Jesus Christ," he blurted. "What the fuck was that all about?"

    Chapter 3
    Wild grapes covered the willow trees, dangling forty and fifty feet down to the waterline. In the weak light from the Mendota Bridge, the island looked like a three-masted schooner with black sails, cruising through the mouth of the Minnesota River into the Mississippi.
    Two men walked onto a sand spit at the tip of the island. They'd had a fire earlier in the evening, roasting wieners on sharp sticks and heating cans of SpaghettiOs. The fire had guttered down to coals, but the smell of the burning pine still hung in the cool air. A hundred feet back from the water's edge, a sweat lodge squatted under the willows.
    "We ought to go up north. It'd be nice now, out on the lakes," said the taller one.
    "It's been too warm. Too many mosquitoes."
    The tall man laughed. "Bullshit, mosquitoes. We're Indians, dickhead."
    "Them fuckin' Chippewa would take our hair," the short one objected, the humor floating through his voice.
    "Not us. Kill their men, screw their women. Drink their beer."
    "I ain't drinkin' no Grain Belt," said the short one. There was a moment's comfortable silence between them. The short one took a breath, let it out in an audible sigh and said, "Too much to do. Can't fuck around up north."
    The short man's face had sobered. The tall man couldn't see it, but sensed it. "I wish I could go pray over Bluebird," the tall man said. After a moment, he added, "I hoped he would go longer."
    "He wasn't smart."
    "He was spiritual."
    "Yep."
    The men were Mdewakanton Sioux, cousins, born the same day on the banks of the Minnesota River. One had been named Aaron Sunders and the other Samuel Close, but only the bureaucrats called them that. To everyone else they touched, they were the Crows, named for their mothers' father, Dick Crow.
    Later in life, a medicine man gave them Dakota first names. The names were impossible to translate. Some Dakota argued for Light Crow and Dark Crow. Others said Sun Crow and Moon Crow. Still others claimed the only reasonable translation was Spiritual Crow and Practical Crow. But the cousins called themselves Aaron and Sam. If some Dakota and white-wannabees thought the names were not impressive enough, that was their lookout.
    The tall Crow was Aaron, the spiritual man. The short Crow was Sam, the practical one. In the back of their pickup, Aaron carried an army footlocker full of herbs and barks. In the cab, Sam carried two.45s, a Louisville Slugger and a money belt. They considered themselves one person in two bodies, each body containing a single aspect. It had been that way since 1932, when the daughters of Dick Crow and their two small sons had huddled together in a canvas lean-to for four months, near starving, near freezing, fighting to stay alive. From December through March, the cousins had lived in a cardboard box full of ripped-up woolen army blankets. The four months had welded their two personalities into one. They had been inseparable for nearly sixty years, except for a time that Aaron had spent in federal prison.
    "I wish we would hear from Billy," said Sam Crow.
    "We know he's there," Aaron Crow said quietly.
    "But what's he doinf Three days now, and nothing."
    "You worry 'hat he's gone back to drinking. You shouldn't, 'cause he hasn't."
    "How do you know?"
    "I know."
    Sam nodded. When his cousin said he knew, he knew. "I'm worried about what'll happen when he goes for the hit. The New York cops are good on a thing like this."
    "Trust Billy," said Aaron. Aaron was thin, but not frail: wiry, hard, like