Wolf's Gambit

by W. D. Gagliani

  A wall of flesh—the good citizens of Vilas County.

  Whenever the council met, they did so in this glass-and-chrome conference room at the tip of the four-story glass-and-chrome building they had incongruously planted in the middle of nowhere. It was more than a traditional “big lodge.” And decidedly less.

  The chairs were sleek leather and chrome, and if you leaned back you could disappear below the table’s lip. The conference table would have been worthy of the Round Table knights—thick, rich mahogany with a ceramic inlay portraying tribal life. It was striking—a work of great beauty. But its cost could have sent a reservation kid to Harvard.

  Whenever Sam sat at council meetings, he inevitably thought back to Thunderball, one of his favorite Connery Bond movies. This table was remarkably similar to that at which SPECTRE met. A member to be punished, an electrical jolt, a flash and smoke, and a member executed in his chair, which then dropped through a trap door to be replaced by an identical, corpse-free chair. Meeting continued as if nothing had happened.

  A chair sat ominously empty now.

  Sam had often wished something would happen. Now, almost a year after the initial vote in favor of building a casino, shit was surely about to hit the fan. The council spent most of its time preening, some members erecting virtual monuments to themselves and their decision to build the Great Northern Casino and Entertainment Center. They hoped the convention facilities would trump other nearby Indian casinos, siphoning business from those older cash cows.

  God, he had fought it. He had wheedled, cajoled, begged, intimidated, pleaded, shouted down, and eventually folded after convincing several members to stand with him against this monstrous progress the tribe didn’t need. Sam and his group of holdouts had circled the wagons (yes, he was fond of mixing his Native American and White devils metaphors, but who cared when you sat at SPECTRE’s table?) against the assault of the money-grubbers.

  Led by the aging but not done (oh no, not done by a long shot) elder Thomas Eagle Feather, the council had started to believe the hype about the flood of cash that would come pouring down on the tribe. Thomas Eagleson, his name off the rez, had painted a vivid portrait of prosperity and pride, happiness and honor. The old man had made a convincing case and his side embraced it from the beginning. The final vote left Sam and his hold-out enclave in the cold. Defeated, Sam had withdrawn from the council as much as possible. He knew that with big money would come big problems.

  The Martin Stewart affair had interrupted his involvement in the casino planning, but he’d been okay with that.

  Then they had brought in slick moneyman Jimmy Blackthorn, he of dubious Indian heritage and hazy legal status, and voted him an honorary council member. He had promised much, snake-oil salesman style, and managed to deliver enough investors. Sam was surprised. The project moved forward, breaking ground as soon as winter’s hold slipped.

  Sam disliked the sleazy Blackthorn on sight, but he had certainly never expected he’d come to such an end. Rumors were already flying, the nature of which had drawn Sam back to the council meetings he had mostly boycotted in the last few months.

  But now there would be more to discuss. Jimmy Blackthorn’s brutal death would have some effect on the council, even though he had no familial connection to the rez.

  Again Thomas Eagle Feather called the meeting to order, but the remaining members continued to whisper and chatter over his reedy voice. He pounded on the conference table, and they quieted down.

  “Council will come to order!” His eyes glared at those few members who had not been cowed by his pounding. Slowly, their voices faded as they realized everyone else was looking at them. The council had grown to fifteen with Blackthorn’s membership, based on the tribe’s original fourteen clans.

  One voice was strong enough to question him. “Thomas, what of this murder? Stop trying to run a meeting with Rob-ert’s Rules and give us the information we all need.” Bill Grey Hawk was not one to shrink before Eagleson’s great ego, or his power.

  Others assented. Sam watched with interest as his own group of hold-outs seemed to join this rebellion against the council’s most powerful man.

  “Bill, everybody, we need to stay calm,” Thomas said. “I’ve spoken with Mayor Malko, and he has assured me that Sheriff Arnow is fully apprised and able to deal with this investigation.”

  “So he says, but what happened? I’ve only heard rumors so far.” This was Hector Sandy, another of Eagleson’s dubious core of supporters. There had been accusations that some “Indian” ringers had been appointed to the council just to get the vote passed. It made for bad blood. In theory, their heritage had been checked by someone at the National Indian Gaming Association, then signed off on by the Bureau of Indian Affairs, which had to approve all new casino gaming projects.

  “I heard Jimmy was torn apart,” said Alfred Calling.

  “Oh, my God.” Clara Kee Walters was the only female on the council, easily seventy and generally unflappable. But now she looked sick. She brought her hand to her lips. “The poor man.”

  “I’ve heard the same, and it gives me great pain. Jimmy was a good friend.”

  Sam almost spit. Daniel Bear Smith rarely called anyone a friend. Besides, Blackthorn was so oily-sleazy people said rain bounced off him. Nobody had much liked him. Now Clara, that was different. He half smiled in her direction.

  “Thomas, what do you know of the facts?” Rick Davison was the least native looking, but everyone usually deferred to his superior knowledge of tribal history.

  Eagleson steepled his fingers. “I’ve spoken to the county supervisor and the mayor, as I said. Arnow has opened an investigation, and Dr. Hawkins, whom we all respect and admire,”—he looked at Sam squarely—“will be performing an autopsy on the remains.” He paused, leaving the air pregnant with expectation. “I’m told it will not be a normal autopsy.”

  The murmuring resumed, and Eagleson let it go.

  Daniel Bear Smith turned to Sam, his wide features pained. “Has our so-called defender gone rogue?” He kept his voice low, but Sam saw that a few heads turned to note his response.

  Sam cleared his throat and spoke softly. “I don’t believe we have anything to worry about.”

  “Yes, but how do you know?”

  “I guess I don’t.”

  “I’m ready, in case it is him. I’ve never been convinced having some sort of monster guardian is healthy for our people.”

  Sam wondered what he meant, being ready.

  Eagleson interrupted the chatter. “We’ll need to vote on ways around Jimmy’s loss, and we will have to release a statement that reflects our pain, but reasserts our commitment to finish the project on time.”

  That’s it, Sam thought. About as much pity as Jimmy could expect.

  “How long will the site be closed down?” Davison asked.

  “It’s a crime scene right now. Arnow’s got good credentials. I assume he’ll do a good job. Our sheriff’s department has no great experience. Maybe they’ll learn enough to handle their own investigation. But given the, uh, victim’s affiliations and the overall sheriff’s jurisdiction for the county surrounding a portion of our reservation lands, I’m not making any waves against the sheriff. Let him do his job.”

  “And Malko seems convinced?”

  “Yes, Bill. Mayor Malko expressed full confidence in his new cop on the beat. County Supervisor Burns is away on a trade mission, but I spoke to him on his cell, and he’s on board with letting Arnow handle it. Now I suggest we get down to the business at hand. We want construction to resume without delay.”

  Bill Grey Hawk nodded reluctantly, stroking his beard nervous ly. His tall, thin frame seemed wedged into the chair, and his usual calm shattered by the events.

  Sam allowed his mind to wander. It was as if SPECTRE had burned one of its own, and now the meeting moved on as if Blackthorn’d never been there. Sam hadn’t liked Blackthorn, but he expected at least some sort of offi cial mourning period. It appeared th
ere would be no such thing. The empty chair was all the monument the guy would get.

  His thoughts rolled around to Nick Lupo. What he’d been asked was bothersome, because it had occurred to him, too. The tribe knew something roamed the woods during the full moon, but they’d allowed themselves to be convinced it was benign, if not actually protective of their people. Only he knew the truth. Only he and Dr. Jessie Hawkins.

  “Hope you’re handling this the right way, Jessie,” he muttered under his breath.

  Arnow

  He threw himself into his leather chair, exhausted. The crime scene was secure, the photos shot, the body—well, the remains—carted away, and the lovely Dr. Hawkins had watched him lose to that television anchor. That very annoying tele vi sion anchor.

  The office was empty. He’d left Jerry Faber guarding the scene until Morton came on shift, and Arrales was already canvassing other businesses. It was easy given the remote location of the crime. Somebody had questioned Sabin, the head of security for the construction company, but he swore he’d seen and heard nothing—nothing but the storm.

  Arnow formed a picture of Jessie in his mind. She reminded him of that model Cindy Crawford with darker hair and minus the mole. But something about her attracted his attention besides her looks. Maybe it was her lack of ego, her unyielding sense of what was right.

  For instance, deferring on the autopsy was actually a smart and appropriate move. A larger and better-equipped lab would have to assess the kind of damage done to that Blackthorn guy.

  Arnow chuckled. He’d really wanted to be able to work with her, to have to visit her office, her clinic, her lab. As often as possible.

  But then there was Heather Wilson.

  Arnow shifted in his chair. In the near dark, he pictured the tall television reporter.

  She gave Jessie a run in the looks department for sure. And she was spunky, all right. Had outmaneuvered him a little, right there at the scene. By the time he’d put together a statement of sorts, Wilson was looking at him out of the corner of her eye with the same disdain one shows a cockroach that dared the light. He expected her to crush him at any second. In a manner of speaking, she had.

  Her live report had been quick and succinct. And his statement had been halting, misconceived, and ultimately hokeysounding. The usual prattle about “leads being followed,” “clues being analyzed,” “the department having been placed on full alert,” whatever that was. His delivery had lacked conviction and confidence. Wilson’s look of contempt had swallowed him up but good.

  The phone squealed shrilly.

  Here goes, he thought.

  “Sheriff Arnow, this is Marty Stanton from Green Bay TV-6. Could I have a moment of your time—”

  “No,” Arnow said, hanging up.

  The phone rang again.

  “I said no,” he snarled into the receiver.

  “Sheriff, this is Mayor Malko. You know, your employer, technically.” There was a chuckle on the line. “I guess your phone hasn’t stopped ringing, eh?”

  “Actually it just started, Mayor. Sorry about that. What can I do for you?”

  “Well, I hope you’re doing well and all,” Malko said, “but this is an official call, I fear.”

  What did he fear? “Yes, Mayor.”

  “Call me Ron, Sheriff.”

  “Sure.”

  “Sheriff, it’s not my way to barge into police work or your job, specifically…”

  That wasn’t what Arnow had heard, but he let it go.

  “But in this case, given the situation with the casino project and our status as a vacation getaway…Well, you see what I mean.”

  “No, I don’t.” Arnow decided to make it harder for him.

  “Well, Sheriff, if I have to speak plainly I will. This crime’s going to play for all it’s worth when television gets hold of it.”

  “TV already has gotten hold of it,” Arnow interjected.

  “What? Who?”

  Arnow thought he heard the mayor sputtering a little. Probably needed to wipe the phone now.

  “Lady from Wausau television, whatever station. She’ll be airing anytime now. I gave a statement.”

  “You gave a statement?” Rage seemed to leak from the headset. “Who gave you permission to make a statement? What did you say?”

  “I said very little. And my job gives me the authority to make a statement. It’s in the contract and the manual.”

  Arnow wasn’t sure there was a manual, and if it was in the contract, he’d never seen it. But it sounded good.

  “Be that as it may, you should have cleared it with me. Or the county board.”

  “I didn’t have you on the line, Burns is gone for a month, and I had a news van full of equipment in my face, messing up my crime scene. I had to say something. Otherwise they make up shit to go along with their pictures.”

  The mayor grunted.

  “Mayor, I may be new here, but I know what I’m doing.”

  “I know, Sheriff, I know. Just catch our perp and get this over with, as soon as possible. Pretty soon you’re going to have the spearfishing problem. You can’t handle that and a murder investigation.”

  “Actually I can,” Arnow said quietly.

  “No, you can’t. Sheriff, a word to the wise. Do you understand?”

  “Perfectly.” But the mayor had already hung up.

  Shit.

  Looked like the mayor was going to be a dick about things.

  Arnow waited for the night shift guys to come in, then headed home to sort out what the next day would look like.

  Jessie

  She glanced at her watch. Barely time for a shower before preparing dinner. She felt gritty after walking in the mud of the construction site. Oh yeah, and she felt gritty because she’d just seen the mangled remains of someone who had been—

  Just say it, okay?

  —someone who had been partially eaten. Consumed.

  Ultimately, that was what had made her queasy. She’d seen most everything—hunting arrows drilled through skulls, gunshot wounds in which the victim’s head resembled a deflated skin balloon, sliced off genitals (rez girls were tough, that no one could argue), and even self-mutilation that threatened to haunt her nightmares. And, of course, her own nightmarish flashbacks about being kidnapped by the Stewart gang and what they’d almost done…

  Anyway, she’d seen a lot, but human flesh as food was new.

  She stepped into a hot shower and soaked under its needle spray for a long time, stripping the smell of violent death she imagined clung to her. When she finally stepped out into the steamy bathroom, she wiped the mirror and stepped back. Not to look, but to assess.

  In her line of work, she was constantly reminded that the body was a temporary vessel. She remembered seeing her father in his casket, a shell, a mere reflection of what he had been. She tried to avoid the line of thought. Yet it was hard to pretend she would live forever or even look this way forever. She cupped a full breast with her right hand and tried to see herself as Nick Lupo saw her.

  For the first time since she’d come home, she managed to smile. For the first time, she felt the thoughts of death slipping away. Her breath came slower, more regular. Suddenly she realized that she’d been as tense as a clenched fist. What was going on with her? She pictured Nick in her arms and instantly felt the arousal build.

  I’m a weird chick, she thought, winking at herself. I must be all about sex and death.

  And rock and roll.

  She took a long time dressing and applying her light makeup, keeping a picture of Nick in her mind the whole time.

  Nothing like a little naughty thinking to get oneself back from the depths of depression.

  In the kitchen she set out two steaks and two potatoes, then tossed a salad and put it in the fridge. A chilled bottle of Chianti came out to breathe. Supposedly it was heresy to chill Chianti, but could she help it that she liked it that way? She set the table in her tiny alcove. The food was ready for the broiler and the micr
owave. She looked around and decided her everyday clutter was just fine. With a home office taking up most of the living room, she couldn’t expect a pristine environment. The space in front of the stone fireplace was, however, nicely empty of clutter and furniture. A deep shag rug gave the wood floor a warm touch. Fresh wood lay in the hearth.

  The cottage was one of four in a small double cul-de-sac her father carved out of pristine pine woods and developed many years ago. These four homes were the only ones left after he had sold tiny parcels of the land piecemeal in order to finance his own schooling and, later, hers. Three of the four cottages fronted on a channel between two sizable lakes that were part of the long chain of waterways, and the fourth was a bit more secluded in the still-wooded environs of Circle Moon Drive.

  Her longtime tenant, Nick Lupo, had occupied one of those that faced the water, but after the Stewart case (she made a face even as she thought about it) he had chosen to move to the more secluded structure, a two-room log and clapboard house with a screened porch and a narrow deck overlooking a steep ravine that circled the house proper and led down to the channel in a roundabout way. Her own cottage was a two-story structure built on the hill itself, a natural path joining the ravine and meandering down to the pier. When it was quiet, she could hear the water down in the channel lapping at the pier supports and sliding her boat back and forth in a gentle arc.

  Even though she loved the sound, she turned on the stereo and let a little Tingstad, Rumbel and Lanz seep into her life. She’d never really tired of the semi-acoustic New Age that reminded her of the woods surrounding her. Now that the label “New Age” was passé, she felt she enjoyed it even more. Maybe she’d just grown up.

  She glanced at her watch.

  Nick, she couldn’t help thinking, get here soon.

  Arnow

  Restless, he had a quick meal at the local Albanianowned diner in the center of town, but his heart wasn’t in it. The look of Jimmy Blackthorn’s mangled body parts had a way of coming back to him just as he was about to rip some chicken meat off the bones. After a few valiant attempts, he gave up on the food and sat back to enjoy the coffee, which was better than it had any right to be. They kept his mug filled, and he was grateful. A chill had crept back into the spring air, and he was already feeling cold.