Thirteen
Always a little slow on the uptake, when he was on a bender, Freddy was even slower, not realizing for some minutes that the mood of the Indian commercial fisherman had changed from rollicking to downright earnest. By the time he was fully aware of what was being discussed, it came as a jolt that not only were the Indians speaking of a recent murder, but they were also discussing the very woman he was looking for. Chugging down the last of his beer, Freddy leaned over the top of the bar, his befuddled brain doing its best to absorb some of the words his ears were hearing. A few minutes later, having asked a seemingly innocent question, Freddy was smiling like an ugly ape.
He was only slightly drunk now, the night air too crisp to maintain a good binge. Freddy charged for the cover of yet another tree, his breath fogging behind him. Safe behind the base of an impressive red pine, he could taste the threat of snow on his tongue as he licked his lips just before firing off an entire clip, the rounds finding their way through the windows of the darkened cabin. He’d still had most of his beer high when he’d first shot at the silhouette moving in front of the drawn curtains. He’d been drunk enough to feel gleeful when the shadow had fallen. Then, unexpectedly, the cabin had gone dark. He was sober enough to know that the lights should not have gone out—not if she was dead. So, drat, he’d only wounded her. Well, Freddy wasn’t one for sloppy kills. He began walking toward the cabin, and with each step he fired off a round just for the hell of it. Something of a “Ding dong, the bitch is gonna be dead” motif.
Freddy’s beer sodden jubilation had quickly ended when returning fire came from the cabin.
An old dream was suddenly brought to Tracker’s mind the instant David had complained about her telephone. The dream, nightmare really, had been about an enormous monster prowling through the woods around her cabin. There had also been something about raspberries, but as she sped along the bone-jarring washboard surface of Blueberry Road, she didn’t bother trying to puzzle that last one through. Dream and forebodings aside, she knew for a certainty that there was nothing wrong with her telephone. It was working perfectly and the ringer was set on loud so she would be able to hear it when she was in the workroom at the potter’s wheel. Even all the way in the back of the cabin and over the whir of the wheel, she could hear the ring of that phone. When she’d left them, Michael and Benny were in the front room, the phone approximately four feet away. They couldn’t possibly not have heard it. They most certainly should have answered. That they hadn’t meant trouble.
Big bad monster trouble.
She hadn’t loitered in the Courthouse office merely to bother David with yet another of her hunches. On all fronts she was tired of bothering David. Whatever might be going on out on her land assignment, inside her very own house, she’d handle by herself.
The truck’s windows were rolled up tight and the noisy heater was going full blast, but she still heard gunfire. The truck’s headlights would announce her arrival long before she entered her drive. The only means of extinguishing the Lights on for Safety feature of her practically new Chevy S-10 was to shut down the engine. Doing that left her coasting to the side of the road. She also had to pull the key out so the Key Reminder wouldn’t ding dementedly and to punch the dome light button, thus preventing the interior lighting from shining like a beacon in the darkness the instant she opened the door. Once outside the cab, she could hear gunfire even more clearly. Stomach tight, Tracker raced to the rear of the truck, letting down the tailgate. Climbing up and in, she went for the utility box stretching the width of the truck bed and bolted into either side wall. The moon was giving off enough light for an experienced deep woods dweller, but at the moment, because of the truck’s dashboard lights, she felt as blind as a newly born bat.
Gunshots sounded again as her hands frantically worked the combination lock on the utility box, ears tuned to the soft clicks. Finally the hasp released and she raised the lid, reaching inside and hurriedly feeling through the box’s contents. Her first encounter was with her rolled and tied sleeping bag. She pulled that out, threw it over the side. Next her hands touched the plastic lids of the two large coffee cans containing stuck-in-the-snow survival goodies: instant soups, three candles, and two Sterno cans. The coffee cans quickly went the way of the sleeping bag, the resounding clunk each made as they hit the ground almost as loud as the distant gunfire. She didn’t have time to worry that the noise might carry as she madly flailed through more of the flotsam cluttering the utility box. She was searching for her dad’s thirty-thirty. Then with a groan, she realized she’d given it back. She was about to get back in the truck, highball it for David, when she remembered that there was one weapon at the bottom of the box, buried under the debris. After what felt like an eternity, she touched the curve of the Bear-Whitetail compound bow.
The bow had been a birthday gift from her brother Reggie. He was a rabid bow hunter, the only one on Red Cliff. Reggie badly wanted a partner for bow hunting—hence the gift. Trouble was, Tracker didn’t care much for bow hunting and as a consequence hadn’t replaced the four target arrows in the mounted quiver, Easton XX 75 field tips, with the hunters. The extremely lethal broad-head hunting arrows were at this moment stored safely inside in her gun cabinet. For a heartbeat she felt utterly defeated, was once again ready to make the mad drive back for David.
Then there came another burst of gunfire.
Old Indian Trick Number 37—the hurry-up cure for night blindness. Admittedly this trick plays havoc with one’s depth perception, and it’s particularly dangerous when applying old Number 37 in a run through a forest. Tracker’s one advantage was that this forest was part of her Tribal land assignment and that she knew every tree and stump. Trusting in that knowledge, she kept her right eye tightly closed while making the dash.
The gunfire lessened. Inside a pause, the woods were winter quiet, utterly still. Huffing for breath, clouds of steam billowing from her mouth, she looked like a female Popeye as she armed the bow and waited. Minutes ticked by. The silence of the woods was absolute. And then it was broken by loud and rapid reports, but from a different direction. Either there was more than one shooter, or there was just the one doing a snakelike advance on her cabin.
Tracker was about to bet her very life on the latter.
She’d found him mostly by following the sounds of his rifle, but as the sight in her left eye improved, she’d been able to place his exact location by watching for the small bursts of light thrown by rifle fire. Judging from the noise and then the subsequent light show, the shooter was using a semiautomatic, most probably a Ruger. Questions as to why someone was shooting at her cabin were brushed aside as she pulled back on the bow, opened her right eye, squinted the left shut.
Trick Number 37 had worked a treat. Through the bow’s side-mounted scope she was able with her right eye to see her target. She was gloveless and the bow had a fifty-pound pull. The bowstring bit deep into the tops of her exposed fingers as she strained, brought her thumb to the corner of her mouth. Then, because of modern technology, the pull was suddenly twenty pounds—a weight she could hold without effort for as long as necessary. The shadowy hulk moved little more than a half step to the side. Tracker kept the sight fixed on the center of the huge target, took in a deep breath, held it. The silencers on the hunting bow made the snap of the string sound no louder than a pfffft. Tracker wasn’t even aware she’d released the arrow until the dark woods were filled with an ungodly howl.
When it came to the subject of pain, Freddy understood only that he enjoyed giving it. No one had ever truly hurt Freddy before. Yet now pain had suddenly struck him with such force that it turned his bowels into jelly. Stunned, he reached around to the injured area and felt something long, slender, and metal. He didn’t feel higher along the rod because he was freaked out by the sticky stuff oozing over his fingertips. In the moonlight the stuff looked black, but Freddy the kneecap breaker knew exactly what it was. It was blood—his blood.
Freddy commenced to ho
wl.
Mushy was frantic. The bedroom door was firmly closed. With each gunshot, Mushy barked and clawed at the door, but the snoring old man on the bed, wrapped like a mummy inside the quilt, refused to wake up. When the howling began, Mushy took a more direct approach, doing the one thing his mistress absolutely did not allow.
Mushy jumped on the bed.
Michael and Benny crouched beneath the edge of the blown-out main window. Hearing the unearthly sound, Michael took a chance, raised his head just enough to peer over the window’s frame. The bellowing caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end. He quickly slumped down, sitting with his back against the solid log wall. “What the hell is that?”
Benny, sitting shoulder to shoulder beside him, shook his head. “Could be a wolf. Coyote, maybe.”
“Which one?”
“Hell if I know. I’ve never heard a wolf or a coyote sound like that.”
Michael fumed with impatience. “Then why did you say a wolf or a coyote?”
“You seem so damned spooked,” Benny said dryly, “I wanted to be a comfort.”
Before Michael could respond, the ceiling fan lights flared on. The four bulbs emitted enough candlepower to give a mole unerring sight. And there in the center of the blaze stood Tracker’s old uncle, clad in yellowish long johns that sagged beneath his skinny butt and tented above his knobbly knees. He was holding Tracker’s dog by the collar, the dog twisting and squirming to get free. The old man didn’t notice the dog; he was too busy surveying the damaged front room. Then he looked at the huddled pair accusingly. “What the hell you two been doin’?”
“Turn off those lights!” Michael yelled.
With the aid of the bright lights, Tracker’s deaf uncle was able to read the younger man’s lips perfectly. “I will not,” Uncle Bert huffed.
That horrible howl again echoed through the silent woods. The dog rose up on its hind legs and snarled directly into its captor’s face. Startled, the old man let go. The next thing Michael and Benny knew, a furred belly was sailing over their heads as the dog leapt through the shattered window. They heard the dog land awkwardly on the front porch, then scramble for purchase, nails digging into the front porch’s wooden floorboards. Confused, the old man looked quickly again at the two men huddled just below the window frame.
Michael and Benny hustled to catch him, but the old man was amazingly spry, going for the front door, opening it and rushing out before they had a ghost of a chance at stopping him.
Possibly Old Number 37 wasn’t quite as effective as it should have been, or what was more likely the case, Tracker hadn’t gotten around to sighting in the bow. She knew she’d hit the guy because his bulky form had gone down. But as to just where she’d hit him, she couldn’t say. What she did know was that he was rolling around and baying horribly and he wouldn’t be doing any of that if she’d gotten a clean center back shot. Now her fear was that the Incredible Bulk would still be able to hold and use his rifle. While fleetingly pondering this, she heard Mushy; then she saw the form of her dog speeding straight for the man writhing on the ground. Immediately protective of her mutt, Tracker began to run.
Freddy couldn’t believe the night he was having—first the unspeakable pain and now a wolf blasting out of the darkness to finish him off. He raised an arm just as the wolf came down on top of him. The wolf’s great maw latched on, Freddy able to feel its sharp teeth sinking all the way through the insulated sleeve of his subzero weather parka. The wolf’s snarl was horrifying, its breath hot and foul. Crying like a baby and fighting for his life, Freddy flailed about with his free hand, frantically grappling for his rifle.
Tracker beat Uncle Bert to the spot by a mere second. Doing his best to fight off Mushy, the big man almost had his hand on the rifle stock. Tracker immediately kicked the weapon out of his reach, then picked it up. Recognizing Freddy as the killer of his dogs, Uncle Bert stood over the downed man and the battling dog loudly encouraging Mushy to kill as Tracker hurriedly checked the rounds still remaining in the clip of the Ruger. An instant later Michael and Benny were also there. She tossed the Ruger to Benny, then commanded—over her uncle’s voice, the snarls of her dog, and the screams of the big man—Mushy to release. She yelled “Release!” a second and a third time, but either Mushy was too frenzied to listen or he simply couldn’t hear her. Benny tossed the Ruger to Michael, who horrified by the chaotic scene, caught the weapon only as a means of avoiding being hit by it. Benny jumped in to help Tracker pull Mushy off, and after several desperate moments, Mushy fighting against the combined hold on his collar, the dog obeyed. Benny held on to Mushy by wrapping his arms around Mushy’s shoulders while Tracker spoke to her dog in clear, no-nonsense tones.
Uncle Bert was kneeling by the man on the ground, yelling at him. “You just keep on twistin’ and I’ll have the dog on you again. This time I’ll let him tear your throat out. It’s what you deserve, dog killer.”
Whimpering and shaking, Freddy pleaded with the deaf man. “I didn’t wanna kill your dogs, Mister. I like dogs. But I was told to do it. They made me. Please, don’t let that dog hurt me no more.”
“Speak up, son!” Bert hollered.
Exhaling deeply, shaking her head, Tracker touched her uncle’s shoulder, gestured for him to move away. Uncle Bert was stubborn, but eventually he complied and she was able to maneuver him back. She whistled for Mushy and the dog slunk forward, sitting down close to Uncle Bert’s legs. A modicum of order had been restored. And then Benny started up.
“Ho-le!” Benny cried. He was standing over the man on the ground, clearly able to see the arrow shaft protruding from the big man’s posterior. He looked back over his shoulder to Tracker. In a tone loaded with awe, he said, “What a great shot!”
Since childhood, the moments when she’d earned Benny Peliquin’s unabashed respect were the most precious to remember. Now was not one of those moments. Unable to meet his eyes, she said softly, “I was aiming for the center of his back.”
For a space of seconds everyone was quiet, even the big man. Then Benny burst out laughing and Tracker was instantly sorry she’d told the truth.
“Well, it was dark, ya know?”
Benny doubled over.
Becoming genuinely offended, Tracker hollered, “Shut up, Ben!” But Benny couldn’t. Waving his hands he walked in circles and continued laughing like a loon.
Michael came back to his senses. “Does anybody know this guy?”
Uncle Bert hadn’t heard Michael, but yelling to his niece, he answered the question nonetheless. “I know who that is! He’s the dog killer I was tellin’ you about. The one that killed every one of my baby boys.” He quickly demanded of Michael, “Son, give me that damn gun.”
Uncle Bert’s fervid request was denied. In between Freddy’s shrieks of “Oh God, somebody help me,” and “Don’t let that wolf get me!” Tracker left to fetch her truck. Some minutes later, with all four people pulling and straining in an almighty effort, Freddy was loaded into the truck’s flatbed. Unable to trust either Uncle Bert or Mushy for more than a second in the presence of the wounded prisoner, she stuck those two in the cab with her, consigning Michael and Benny to the flatbed. Then came the wild ride for the Red Cliff Clinic.
Looking back over her shoulder, seeing the strobe lights of Bayfield County sheriff’s cars across the way in the courthouse lot, Wanda’s knees were knocking and her stomach was fluttering with butterflies as she entered the police station. She was expecting to find Ricky chained to something, most probably a radiator, but he wasn’t. He was sitting quite comfortably in a chair, thumbing through a magazine. The two cops and the elderly dispatcher were in an opposite corner, seated in a semicircle and talking among themselves in low tones. Everyone looked up as she came in. She sent Ricky a look that conveyed more confidence than she felt, then proceeded on to the half circle of cops.
“Whatever you think he did, he didn’t do it. He was with me.”
“Huh,” Joey Du Bey said. Leanin
g back in the chair, he caught and then tried to hold on to Wanda’s skittering eyes. It was like trying to catch an eel barehanded. Joey decided simply to stare at the bridge of her nose, allow those flickering eyes to meet his every few seconds.
“Any particular time on this ‘with me’ alibi, Wanda?” Joey asked sarcastically. “Or is this just a one-lie-fits-all kinda deal?”
Wanda became incensed. “You can believe anything you want, Officer Du Bey.” She made his rank and name sound like an incurable disease. “I’ve called an attorney in Bayfield. He’ll be here in an hour.”
“Cool,” Joey replied. He nodded toward Doc Ricky. “Then just go park your butt over there with your boyfriend, and we’ll all wait.”
As Doc Ricky was unavailable, there was no one qualified to give emergency care. Then, too, there was a problem the night nurse pointed out over the wounded man’s highly vocal pleas.
The patient lay belly-down on the gurney, a man so huge that his long legs hung over the end, the toes of his boots scraping flooring. The four wielding the gurney had burst in through the back bay doors, an entrance to be used by medical personnel only. Improper use of the staff door infuriated the pure starch out of Sharon Bear, R.N.
“He’s not a tribal member,” she said without a trace of compassion. “So even if I was qualified to treat him, which I’m not, I still wouldn’t be allowed to touch him.”
“Hey!” Michael yelped. “Bayfield County will cover the tab. Just pull the arrow out, slap a Band-Aid on his ass, and send the sheriff’s office the bill.”
Sharon Bear’s temper swelled. Arms tightly folded beneath her ample bosom, she coldly eyed Michael. “I’m afraid it isn’t that simple,” she replied. “God only knows where that arrow has been, so there’s the high risk of infection. Plus, he could be bleeding internally, which means he’ll need more attention than we, especially at this hour, are able to give. But”—she sighed heavily as if doing her best to yield to unseemly pressure—“what I could do is call the ambulance to transport him to Ashland.”
Murder on the Red Cliff Rez Page 15
