The entire time she was speaking, Benny used his spoon to dig a hole in the soft earth between his booted feet. He set the emptied can inside the hole, covered it over, patted down the soil. “Seems to me this is a fine old case of the pot callin’ the kettle.” He emitted a humorless chuckle, looked her hard in the eyes. “You’ve never listened to me when it came to your love life, so why the hell should I listen to you about mine?”
Tracker tapped her fingertips against her chest as her voice got louder. “Because unlike you, I’m not willing to throw my life away on someone else. I—”
“Live with a dog,” he cut in, his tone dull, weary. “You take care of that ugly hound when you should have a husband and real children.” He locked her eyes with his. “Ya ain’t exactly a spring chicken, ya know. You’re gonna wake up one mornin’ and it’s all gonna be gone, too late to be a wife, way too late to be a mama. Whatcha gonna do then, Track?”
Tracker’s eyes narrowed. She was too angry to answer.
Benny shook a finger westward, saying, “Out there somewhere—if he hasn’t fallen off a cliff and killed himself—is the man you were meant to marry. When something’s meant, there just ain’t no use tryin’ to fight it. An’ that’s how it is with me an’ Imogen. The very same.”
Tracker’s face was bloodless, her voice a croak. “Yeah, you’re right. It is the same. Imogen’s suckered you the same way David suckered me. It’s time we both faced it. The great loves of our lives only used us for all we were worth.”
Benny jumped to his feet, hollering at her. “If you’re just gonna think that kinda shit, I ain’t gonna bother to talk to you no more.” In a sulk Benny picked up his pack and rifle. “I think maybe I’m gonna find David, do my surrenderin’ to him.”
They hiked for an hour without speaking. She’d never walked for so long and through such dense growth without the benefit of zoning. She couldn’t say she appreciated the drudgery au naturel, but as the man who’d taught her to zone was technically her prisoner, she had to stay in the moment. Even if that moment entailed sweating buckets, suffering bug bites, and feeling the ache and strain in every one of her muscles. At some point she decided to make an attempt at conversation. Benny, his feelings still hurt, didn’t respond. At least until she poured out her concerns for her uncle, and in doing so, offhandedly mentioned the recovery barge in Raspberry Bay.
Benny came to a stop and asked her to begin again, to tell him everything as it had happened. Tracker sighed wearily. Her pack felt too heavy and her entire body was clammy with sweat. She did as he’d asked, however, telling him all about Uncle Bert’s trailer and his disappearance, ending with the discovery of the barge.
“An’ it was working?”
“Yeah,” she panted, mouth dry, tongue thick.
Benny mulled, scratching the back of his head. “That just ain’t right, Track.”
She filled her lungs with air, released it slowly through her nose. “Perry Frenchette said the salvagers were too early, but he—”
“No!” Benny shouted. He stepped nearer, agitated. “Look, I know I haven’t been working the boats for about a week, but that don’t mean a whole lot in the salvaging business. For one thing, any operation like that has to have divers come in first. Finding sunken logs ain’t the problem, it’s checking out the markings. The divers have gotta do that because if they see U.S. marks, those logs can’t be brought up.”
“I don’t understand,” she said, shaking her head.
Benny launched into a lengthy explanation.
“Okay, this is how it went back in the olden days when there was plenty of ancient white pines and the harvesting was being done by individual logging operations. Everybody’s logs always got mixed up during the float down to the lake, so to keep ownership straight, before a log was skidded, sledgehammers with different marks on the heads were used to hammer the rightful owner’s imprint into the log. It was kinda like a brand but deeper, and every owner’s symbol was registered. The symbol marking the logs that went to the entire Chippewa Nation was U.S.
“The way the state courts have decided the recovery rights is that any log carrying a defunct logging company mark is up for salvaging grabs, but”—he emphasized the word—“any log with the U.S. mark still belongs to us Shinabes. Which means salvagers have gotta send in the divers first to make damn sure whatever’s down there is something they can keep. Otherwise, all they’re doin’ is workin’ for us. And at their expense.”
Benny shoved his hands deeply into his pockets, rocked back on his heels. “I know you don’t know diddly about boats, but take it from me, barges are clumsy beasts. This early in the season, a good barge captain ain’t gonna take it on the lake just for grins. And a barge is too big to hide even on the Big Lake. It also makes a hell of a noise. So now you answer me this question: How do you suppose diving teams worked Raspberry Bay long enough to check all that out and then give the all clear for the barge to come cutting through our fishing waters without even one fisherman ever noticing?”
That was a long question. And a very good one. After a considerable think, Tracker admitted she had no answer.
Benny nodded. “That’s why there’s something real wrong with everything you just told me.”
They began walking again; this time Tracker was the uncommunicative one. She heard Benny’s voice, but she wasn’t listening to his words. She kept her head down as she tagged after him, concentrated on placing her feet inside Benny’s prints—a little game he’d taught her when instructing her in the ways of the woods. While other little girls were making a game of being careful not to “step on a crack, break your mama’s back,” Tracker was being taught to stretch her little legs to match his stride, walk lightly and place her foot inside the print of his boot. In essence, Benny had been teaching her how to be invisible, to fool anyone following them into believing he was following one person, not two. She’d fallen back into the old game so completely that she stepped on the back of his boots when he stopped suddenly, looking down at the obvious signs. She’d moved back a safe distance when he rounded on her.
“Hey! You didn’t say nothin’ about David havin’ a Chamook with him.”
Now able to see the signs Benny saw, Tracker did a quick study of the four separate courses left through the tangle of growth, her gaze settling on the one that followed too straight a route. “That’s the Bayfield deputy.”
Offended, Benny said peevishly, “Ole Dave sure was quick to get the sheriff on to me.”
She hated having to come to David’s defense. “This is his first murder case, Ben. What was he suppose to do? Wait for his prime suspect to just wander on in?”
“It’s what Elmer would have done.”
Benny was referring to Elmer Crane, a man so inattentive to duty that for years Red Cliff for all intents and purposes didn’t really have a police chief. Eventually Elmer’s lackluster policing methods rubbed the locals’ nerves raw. One of the campaigning promises made by Perry Frenchette was that if he was elected Tribal Chairman, easygoing Elmer would be out. That promise alone won him the election. During his first week as chairman, Perry appointed David the new police chief.
Benny worked up more of a temper about the Bayfield deputy. “This changes everything, Track. I was gonna do this peaceable, but now David can just keep on lookin’ for me until one of us is too old to wiggle. An’ as for you—”
Tracker raised a silencing hand. “If you think I’m going to wrestle you to the ground and handcuff you, you’re out of your mind. For one thing, I don’t have any handcuffs. For another, I think I need you to stay free.”
Benny raised a suspicious brow. “What are you gettin’ at, girl?”
“How long do you think it would take you to get back to where you left your truck?”
Benny’s eyes flared. “Shit! All the way back there?”
“Yeah.”
He looked into the distance, heaving a full sigh. “Couple of hours. But that would mean hauling some serious ass.”<
br />
“Then haul away.”
Benny was incredulous. “You’re really cuttin’ me loose?”
“On your promise you’ll stay low until I come back to get you.”
Benny’s brain was changing gears. She could almost hear the grinding. “My truck—”
“It’s not there.” She quickly put the brake on that hope. “It’s been impounded.”
Benny looked sourly at her. “I might decide to play along with whatever it is you’ve got cooking. But what are you going to say to David?”
“As little as possible.”
Despite himself, Benny chuckled. “Same as always, eh?”
“Son of a bitch!” Michael Bjorke roared.
“Don’t move,” David said, working to keep his tone calmer than he felt. He showed the palms of his hands, pressing them against the air. “You’ve walked into a quick bog. We can get you out, but you’ve got to be as still as possible.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Joey breathed, watching the watery ground rising around the deputy. “He’s sinking kinda fast.”
The bog was climbing up the deputy’s legs, reaching the knees, oozing steadily upward. Watching the bog’s deadly progress, Mel commenced to giggle uncontrollably. Hurriedly shrugging off his backpack, David spoke sharply to his officer. “Mel! You got any rope in your pack?”
“Yeah, boss.”
“Well, get it out!”
When Tracker eventually found them, all four men were sitting on a sandy incline looking as if they’d just barely survived a war. David, arms draped over his raised knees, was wearing his baseball cap backwards, his fully exposed face shiny with sweat. Every bit of his clothing was clinging to him like an outer layer of filth. His eyes nailed her as she slid down the incline on the sides of her feet, came to a stop. Standing over him, she provided some shade from the sun, which was still managing to break through the thickening clouds.
“Had some trouble, huh?”
“You could say that,” he answered tersely. His eyes flickered toward his equally filthy cohorts, then back to her. “Our Bayfield boy walked into a boggy patch. Took every bit of strength we had to pull him out.” David mimicked a Cuban accent. “So, Lucy, how was your day?”
Tracker fought off the urge to smile. David imitated Ricky Ricardo whenever he was positive she’d been up to something. Before she could respond, Joey rose to his feet, came to stand beside her.
“Hey, Track? You pick up any sign of Ben?”
“Yeah.”
Joey became impatient, snapping, “Where?”
“Up a way. But I lost him again.” Tipping her head back, she looked up at the sky. “Figured I’d better quit and find you guys. It’s gonna rain. This would be a bad place to wait out a storm.”
Joey looked up at the building sky as if noticing it for the first time and said under his breath, “Ho-le.”
She felt David’s stare as she and Joey watched the clouds swirl, swallow the sun whole. The entire sky went black, and the air was so thick with building humidity it was well nigh chewable. Forcing herself to meet David’s eyes, she said, “We’re gonna have to hustle if we’re gonna get Golden Boy to safer ground.”
“If you’re referring to me,” Michael said snidely, “I can take anything you or Mother Nature can dish out.”
Tracker looked across to the deputy. Exasperated, she said, “Yeah? Looks to me like Mama almost sucked you down like a piece of candy.”
Half reclining against the sandy knoll, Mel didn’t giggle. He fell against his back and bayed.
Nine
It was beginning to rain, droplets hitting the dingy gray asphalt and marking the parking lot with quarter-sized splotches. Normal Indians never run in the rain, but Perry Frenchette wasn’t a normal Indian. During his dash the low-hanging heavens opened up and the rains began in earnest. Cussing under his breath he shielded his head with his briefcase and sprinted. Reaching his car he climbed inside, slamming the door. The car started up, the windshield wipers doing what they could to sluice fan-shaped openings in the downpour.
Barely three minutes later, the Tribal Chairman left his car parked in the shelter of the hospital’s breezeway and barreled through the glass double doors into the lobby. A good number of people were sitting on the couches and chairs, most of them knowing enough to bring a book to read while enduring a lengthy wait. A crowd of children filled the hospital playroom. Not only could he see them through the glass walls, he could hear their squeals and one or two arguments over the toys. He continued on, passing the reception desk. Two receptionists who knew from past experience that it was useless to try to slow him up glanced meaningfully at each other, rolling their eyes. He hung a quick right after the reception counter, his determined step silent along the carpeted hallway. Five patients dressed in disposable paper gowns sat uncomfortably in plastic chairs as they awaited their turn at being X-rayed. One or two of the men nodded as their chairman steamed on by. The office he wanted was at the far end of the corridor. Reaching the door, he opened it without bothering to knock.
Wanda DuPree glared at him, stepping back from the man seated in a padded swivel chair and closing a patient file folder. Perry, as well as everyone else on the rez, knew that Wanda and her husband were having their troubles. Ralph DuPree was the only mechanic on Red Cliff, and a shade tree mechanic at that. Ralph was a jury-rig genius, a gift he called Injun-nuity. Ralph needed to be a genius in order to keep Indian cars running decades beyond the automotive manufacturer’s suggested life expectancy. Wanda was rumored to have set her sights a tad higher, in fact on the man now peering myopically at the Tribal Chairman.
Frenchette said to the seated doctor, “We’ve gotta talk.”
“I don’t suppose you could wait five minutes?”
“No.”
With a sigh, Ricky gave Wanda a dismissive wave. As she walked by, the overhead lights reflected off the back of her nylon skirt. Frenchette couldn’t help but notice that beneath the uniform Wanda wasn’t wearing a slip. What he did see was a garter belt holding up the pair of white stockings encasing her long, slender legs. Garter belts were such a turn-on. In Perry’s opinion, the guy responsible for the invention of pantyhose should be hunted down and drawn and quartered.
Several times.
On her exit, Wanda closed the door noiselessly behind her. Frenchette moved to the vacant chair and sat down. Coming straight to the point, he said flatly, “I’m having a real problem with that damn Navajo.”
Resting his chin in his palm, Doc Ricky found himself held captive in the throes of one of Perry Frenchette’s diatribes. This had been going on for weeks. Doc Ricky was reaching the end of his tether. Then, in the midst of the discourse, Frenchette said something that caused Ricky to sit up and take full notice. Half an hour later, Perry had blown himself out. Feeling better, he left. Doc Ricky picked up the telephone. It was answered on the third ring.
“Wanda? Come back to my office, would you, please?”
The rains slammed the truck relentlessly as David negotiated the total washout of Big Sand Bay Road. The truck fishtailed just after barely clearing what had once been an annoying chuckhole but was now, under the steady watery assault, an arroyo. They hadn’t managed to reach the shelter of the truck before the rains hit, so as a consequence, everyone was soaked to the bone. They were also shivering because the cab’s heater wasn’t doing all that much. The windshield, because of the foggy breath created by five hyperventilating humans, steamed over again and again. David used his hand to swipe an open space, then went back to white-knuckling the steering wheel.
As bad as the storm was becoming, David wasn’t worried about Benny being caught out in it. A true jack pine savage, Benny was able to go deep in the woods equipped with only a knife and a length of picture wire and come out some weeks later healthier than when he’d gone in. Nope, a spot of rain wouldn’t give Benny Peliquin anything worse than a needed bath. Just at this moment David was more concerned about himself, for not only was he r
esponsible for the well-being of the nearly new tribal vehicle, there were four lives to consider. If he somehow got the three guys killed, sooner or later he’d be absolved of that tiny faux pas, but the death or injury of Tracker would absolutely never be forgiven. All things considered, David began to feel that his suspect was getting the better end of this particular deal, and under his breath David cussed Benny Peliquin.
David didn’t know a relieved breath until he pulled into the driveway fronting Tracker’s cabin.
He yelled to her as she cracked open the door, pushing hard against the wind and driving rain. “As soon as this mess clears out, we’re making another try for Ben.”
Tracker nodded and jumped out. The wind caught the door, closing it so hard the truck rocked. Tracker bent into the wind, struggling forward toward the safety of her cabin. On the porch Mushy was barking at the truck. Finally realizing that the intruder was his mistress, the big dog bolted to meet her halfway. A minute later the two of them were safely inside the warm dry cabin, Tracker more than happy to dump her heavy backpack. It fell to the floor behind her ankles, and as rainwater trickled down her face, she went to peer through the window, watching the headlights as the Dodge Ram steadily reversed out of the drive. As soon as the truck’s lights were aimed down Little Sand Bay Road, she hurried away from the window, creating a trail of muddy boot prints across the hardwood flooring.
Dressed in dry clothing, she was racing again, this time for the mudroom, where she slipped on a rain jacket, flipping the hood onto her head. She grabbed an extra jacket off the wall peg and ran through the cabin again. Mushy bounded right by her side, believing their running through the house was a new game. Doggy high spirits ended on the front porch as Tracker commanded him to stay, then jumped down the steps and sprinted for the truck. Mushy sat down on his haunches, whimpering throatily, as the truck drove out at gravel-flinging speed.
Murder on the Red Cliff Rez Page 10
