Free Deadman by Jon A. Jackson

about it, old friend,” Humphrey said, patting the burly Yak on his shoulder. “But if you hear anything . . . By the way, how does Mrs. Sid take this? She must be going crazy. She loved that girl.”
    The Yak shook his head grimly. “It ain't right, Mr. DiEbola. First Sid . . . dies . . . which she almost died herself from grief. Then Liddle Helen just runs off.”
    “Kids,” Humphrey said, despairingly, “they break our hearts.” He, of course, had no children. He had never married. He hadn't been interested in the opposite sex since he was about seventeen. He was quite comfortable about this by now. He had a benign if obscured view of women: He didn't really see them, in a way, but they seemed to be all right. Still, he had seen Helen since she was a baby—he had gone to her christening, in fact—so he didn't think of her the way he thought of women. She was more like a niece, a favorite niece. She used to bounce on his knee and make him give her horsey-back rides. She used to call him Uncle Umberto—"Unca Umby,” at first. He had seen her grow up and become considerably less interested in him, but he hadn't minded. They were still pals, at least up until the time that her father was killed. In fact, she had called him a few weeks after, tearful and outraged. He had tried to console her, but it was impossible. She wanted him to do something about Carmine.
    “What can I do, honey?” he'd said. “It's the way things are. Your daddy knew that.”
    No, no, she insisted, it wasn't the way things were. He must know that. He must do something about Carmine.
    “You can do something,” he'd said, quietly. He had surprised himself by saying it and he didn't really know what he meant by it, but perhaps Helen had known.
    Humphrey suppressed this thought now, this whole conversation. He hadn't really said any such thing to her, he decided. But now Helen had done something, he knew it in his bones. Helen and Joe. It bothered him that Helen would make herself so . . . well, how could you put it? So like a man. It wasn't right and it bothered him.
    “Is Mrs. Sid all right for money?” he asked the Yak.
    “Oh, sure,” the Yak said. “We got the household account. There's plenty. Sid allus had plentya money.”
    “That's good, that's good,” Humphrey said, “but if you need anything, don't forget who to call.”
    This information too went to the councils, and soon the loathsome Mario was back in town. He poked around and this time he got poked around, by the Yak. Roman had caught him nosing around the house, actually in the house. For this he got some loose teeth and some deep bruises. But no hard feelings, he just took off and business went back to normal.
    And then one day in October, Humphrey's inside man in the police department called: Mario Soper had been identified in Montana. He'd been found, shot to death, in an irrigation ditch. Mulheisen was investigating.
    Not long after, the Yak called. He was not eager to talk about the family, but he trusted Humphrey. Mrs. Sid had received a postcard. All it said was, “Ma, I'm so sorry I haven't written. It wasn't possible. I'm all right. I'm fine. I'm very happy. But I can't bear for you to be unhappy. Are you all right? I'll contact you again, soon. Love, Nelly.”
    “Nelly?” Humphrey said.
    “Mrs. Sid allus called her Nelly,” the Yak explained.
    “Oh yeah.” Humphrey remembered. “So what's the return address?”
    “Liddle Helen didn't put no return address,” the Yak said. “It's got a pitcher of the Holy Mother, standin’ on a mountain. It says it's Our Lady of the Rockies, Butte, Montana.” He pronounced it “Butt-tee.”
    “Butt-tee?” Humphrey got him to spell it. “And it's postmarked when?” The Yak didn't know about postmarks, but Humphrey told him about the little circle stamped on the card. When the Yak finally figured out that it had been mailed in Montana on September 5, Humphrey wanted to know how it had taken so long to get to