by Jon Redfern
“Inspector Yamamoto,” said Butch to the assembled group. Neither Lilian nor the teenager acknowledged his sudden presence. Clive Erdmann sat on a low stool, large sweat patches darkening his khaki shirt. Another man with traditional pigtails and a large scar over his upper lip moved from the wall. Clive asked the man to identify Woody Keeler and Perry Hill. The man hesitated. Clive spoke slowly but with a firm, loud voice.
“Steve, I’m asking you as a favour. I don’t hold you responsible for these two fellas’ wrongdoings. But you can help Lilian and Wilson by telling us the truth.”
The man pointed first to number six. “He’s Keeler.” Steve Little Plume straightened. Blackfoot words then came from his mouth in a half whisper. Lilian Running Rabbit nodded. Then Steve stepped back: “And number four, he’s Hill.”
“We are positive now, are we?” Clive said, his voice still firm yet betraying no annoyance or impatience.
Steve Little Plume wiped his mouth. Wilson Running Rabbit blurted, “It’s them for sure. The guy with number four, he has the Chevy.” A silence overtook the room.
Clive dismissed the group and asked for another man to come in. “What about you, Ned?” asked Clive.
Billy hadn’t noticed this other man, who had been waiting in the hall. He wore a new black Stetson, a pair of clean pressed jeans, and a green plaid shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons. Ned Wolds cleared his throat. His words came out clipped and short: “That one with the ponytail. Same one hitchin’ a ride I picked up on Number 3 Saturday morning.”
Half an hour later, Clive Erdmann had booked Woody Keeler and Perry Hill on assault charges. Butch took Billy to the RCMP barracks canteen and bought him a coffee and a toasted butter horn pastry. Hot white icing dribbled down Butch’s chin as he spoke: “Woody was talkative this morning. Yelling for legal counsel. Clive and I had a polite chat with him. He denied everything until Clive pulled the red baseball hat out of a paper bag and asked Keeler if he’d stuck the crow feather on it himself. Perry Hill admitted to the drunken fight, but he said he couldn’t remember too much of what went on in the bed of the truck. Maybe he had sex with Miss Mary, but he said he had to sleep off the whiskey for a while before driving into town. All of it a haze. Woody Keeler wasn’t too cooperative walking up to the lineup chamber. He’s now looking at another assault charge, for hitting RCMP personnel, dumb bastard. I also asked him how he enjoyed his visit to Sheree Lynn’s house last Saturday night. His break-and-enter spree. Woody denied it, of course, but he had on him, in his wallet, a credit card — defunct it turns out — belonging to Miss Bird. The night clerk itemizing Woody’s possessions had put it on the list.”
Billy drank his coffee and made some notes in his notebook. “So, for now, we in the city force can only hold Woody for break and enter. He and Perry Hill have solid alibis for Friday night. Which means we don’t need the blood sample on the blanket, and we’re back to square one. We don’t have a firm lead as to who was in that room with Darren.”
“Afraid so.”
Billy remained silent for a long time. “Okay,” he then said. “I’m going to take a ride over to the north side today and call on social services. We need to jump-start this case.”
Butch nodded in agreement. He paid at the register and walked beside Billy through the narrow halls of the RCMP building. Outside, he said, “I’ve got paper pushing to do, so we’ll check in with each other later.” Billy watched Butch stroll to his cruiser. Was it his own fatigue and frustration that made him aware of Butch’s stooped walk?
Driving east of city hall, Billy turned left onto Cutbill and headed north, passing under the railway shunt line that led to the loading docks of the giant grain elevator. It had been a long time since Billy had visited this section of town, once virgin prairie. In his childhood, he’d come here with Granpa Naughton and was shown the sacred burial tree of the last great Blood warrior, Red Crow. He noted now the strip malls and car lots.
The bright yellow social services building resembled a Lego construction. Marilyn Black, the assistant director of the Lethbridge family counselling unit, proved to be elusive and difficult to reach. Her secretary tried phoning her home number again. “It’s the same, it’s her answering machine. Let me try. . . .”
“Here’s my card,” Billy said. “Have her call me at headquarters. The sooner, the better.”
Billy spent the next few hours driving around suburban crescents and past domed hockey rinks and new public schools. He sat for a while by the edge of town and meditated, his eyes gazing deep into the vast flatness of the primal land. The case was slipping away from him, and it was little comfort to admit that his ruminations had brought no new revelations.
By 6:30, he was parked at a strip mall finishing a Coke. He tossed the empty into the garbage. The sun was still bright enough to turn the shade of the cottonwoods an inky black. He was restless and couldn’t concentrate any further, and he began to drive again, soon finding himself on Ashmead, pulling up in front of Satan House. Why? He suspected its very shape might reveal the truth. He locked his car door and walked over the dirt by the tumbled garage and into the backyard. The grass lay brown and uncut. The shingles on the sloping roof over the kitchen and the upper gables curled with age and decay.
Billy went to the back door and looked at the wooden steps, the door with its padlock, and the yellow police tape. The boy entered here. He stepped back. The garden was full of large stones. Wandering around the north side of the house, he watched the evening sun dapple the boughs of the fir with yellow. A light came on in a side room. A figure lifted and moved things. Sheree Lynn Bird. The light went out. Billy returned to the front yard. He ducked under the police tape, went up the steps to the screen door, rang the door chime, and waited. Sheree Lynn said, “Come in.” He pulled open the screen and discovered the inner door slightly ajar.
Billy found Sheree Lynn in the kitchen, packing dishes into liquor store boxes. He noticed first her frayed Nikes, then the light cotton sweatshirt with its sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Cups and saucers and cutlery lay strewn on the counters. When she turned to say hello, she was holding aloft a Mason jar in each hand.
“Inspector. I was right. It was you out there prowling.”
“Evening, Sheree.”
“Is there news?”
“Woody Keeler was arrested by the RCMP this morning for assault and battery.”
Sheree put down the Mason jars. “You mean you charged him in the Darren case?”
“No. He’d raped and beaten a young Peigan girl.”
Sheree Lynn’s face went still. She sighed, wanting the arrest to be for Darren, to clear up the identity of his abuser. “I told you he was violent,” she said, bending over to bring up two more Mason jars.
Billy went on. “The RCMP arrested his buddy, too. A man named Perry Hill.”
“I don’t know him.”
“You realize, Sheree, I’m at a loss here. I have no witnesses. I don’t have any new leads. What I have is your testimony, a body with markings on it, and some indication of hokey Satanic rituals. Other than that, I have a bloodied boom box that tells us maybe one version of the crime, maybe another. I believe you know better than anyone in this case what the problems were, maybe even what was going on with Cody and Darren.”
“I’ve told you all I know. Believe me. I didn’t like that sergeant of yours coming here and sticking her nose into my cupboards. Darren’s clothes are not here, Inspector.”
“You abandoned Darren after Cody’s death, didn’t you?”
Sheree Lynn blushed. “How dare you suggest such a thing?”
Billy shoved his hands in his pockets and stepped closer to her. “You lost interest. You wanted him out of your hair. That’s why you tried to force him to go to another counsellor. It had nothing to do with playing mother or showing you cared. . . .”
“How dare you? He pulled away from me, he. . . .”
“You were the adult, Sheree. And you threw this kid away. And for what?”
> Sheree Lynn stiffened. She turned her back to Billy and walked to the sink.
“Darren was depressed, remember?” Billy felt his voice rise. “The kid lost interest in everything, not just you and your sweet talk. He was really alone after Cody died. What was on your mind, Sheree? What was it, really?”
“Get out of here. You can’t bully me.”
“And what about Cody? He died in your basement while you were upstairs in bed with Randy. How does a lost kid start off dancing naked in your backyard and then two months later end up hanging by a rope in your basement? Just where were your priorities, Sheree Lynn? I’m beginning to think you might be an accessory to something. Somehow, you are mixed up in this. . . .”
Sheree turned and ran at Billy. She had tears streaming down her face. He caught her by the wrists, and she froze, suddenly, her breathing short and shallow like a frightened dog’s. “Let me go.” She ran to the back door and tried to yank it open but then lost control and sank against it, her face pale and her voice hoarse with spent rage.
“Cody took acid. He got it on the street. I couldn’t control him.”
Billy wiped his mouth.
“They were all in a dark world, Inspector. Most of the time I couldn’t reach them. I wanted to. You have to believe me.”
The phone rang, startling Billy and Sheree. “Let it ring,” Billy ordered, but Sheree picked it up and started to talk right away.
“Yes. Yes. Not now. Oh, God. Is he still saying that? Yes. Of course. I gotta go now. Call me after your supper. Nothing’s wrong. No, I have not. Are the students working out? Fine.”
When she hung up, Sheree was still visibly shaken. She walked to the counter, picked up her cigarettes, and lit one. Billy kept watching her, waiting for her to speak again.
“Inspector?”
Billy held her gaze, tilting his head a little to the left to say he was ready to listen.
“That was Randy. He’s tired from the dig this week. I think they’re all done tomorrow.”
“Do you have anything you need to tell me, Sheree?”
“I . . . I can’t. No. I’m tired.”
“Did you like your job at social services?” Billy watched her eyes look away as he spoke to her. There was something she was hiding, but he couldn’t as yet find a way to make her open up.
“You mean, did I like working with clients? With the boys? Yes. Of course.”
“Any problems with the staff? With any co-workers?”
“Not really. Well, there is always a person or two who likes to stake out territory, but other than that, no. I was okay.” Sheree’s voice broke, but she quickly recovered. “Come on, now, Inspector. You know I want to get out of here. Randy and I are planning a trip to the coast, just for a short time, to relax. I have to put this damn chaos in order before we go.”
“You ever meet a young girl named Emily Bourne? She was a friend of Darren’s.”
“No.”
“She claims she phoned you on Saturday morning last. She was asking about Darren. ‘Did they do it?’”
“I don’t know her, I’m sorry.”
Billy decided to let things rest. He pulled in a breath. Sheree stubbed out her cigarette. “When you want to talk to me, Sheree, call. Here is my cell number.”
Sheree walked him to the front door, saying nothing as he went down the front steps. Climbing into the Pontiac, Billy sat for a short time and watched the lights in Satan House, imagining Sheree Lynn Bird alone in the rooms. The contours of her world still remained unknown to him, its regions closed in by a border made of her own insecurities and fears.
Randy Mucklowe read over the fax he’d handwritten and addressed to Robert Lau, China Import Company, Vancouver.
Then he pressed the start button. The white paper glided slowly through the machine, and for the first time that day, Randy felt relief. It had been hot on the mountain; Sam Heavy Hand had been drinking beer and smoking homegrown and sometimes coming onto the dig site, walking over the turned earth, making desultory remarks to Justin and Cara about Native religious practices, his own home life on the Browning reserve, his need to be in the air once breathed by his mighty ancestors. At supper, Sam had dropped his plate of food. When Randy told him to go and sleep it off, Sam had shoved him against the fridge, then slammed the screen door and stomped to his truck, where he eventually fell asleep.
Randy stood in the back of the drugstore dressed in a T-shirt, khaki hiking shorts, heavy hiking boots, and wool socks — the gear he always wore on a mountain dig. The store was closed for the evening, its shelves and counter bathed in a pale blue light from the street lamps on the main street of Waterton village. Caitlin, the owner, had lent him a key and said he could use the fax machine whenever he needed. Sneaking past Sam’s truck had been easy, with Sam drunk and asleep and the sky covered with low cloud, muting the summer moonlight. Tomorrow, the dig would be over. Friday night meant the students would be leaving for their summer vacations. Stipends paid, dig reports completed, the work from a long week in the sun on the side of Chief Mountain done. Only two small amulets and three arrowheads. The site had proven to be relatively barren. But the golden masks — all seven of them — were safe in the cabin, and Sam was under control for the moment. Randy had not enjoyed Sam’s company, except for the nights when they drank and smoked together. Admit it. You feel tired. Randy was frustrated, eager to leave and get on with his plans. Get Sheree Lynn on the plane, fly to the coast to clinch the deal with Lau, and somehow, the means not yet worked out, somehow shake off Sam, take the money, and leave the north forever. . . .
The fax machine clicked off. Randy picked up the sheet and read it one more time to be sure he’d made himself perfectly clear.
Robert, the dig is done, and Sheree and I will be going to the coast this Sunday, arriving at noon. We can take a taxi to the hotel as you suggested and meet you there by two. We will be alone, as promised. I have the seven items. We agreed one hundred K for each, in American funds. These are bona fide, I can assure you. As agreed, all cards and correspondence, including this fax, will be handed to you for your records once the billing transaction has taken place. Randy.
Shutting off the light in the small room behind the store counter, Randy found his way to the phone by the cash register. He dialled out, used his long-distance calling card, and waited for Sheree Lynn to answer.
“Hi, it’s me.”
Sheree’s voice was tired. “Where are you?” she said. “You caught me coming in the door.”
“I’m in the drugstore. Sent the fax to Lau and told him when we’d be in on Sunday morning.”
“What time is it?”
“Around eleven-thirty.”
“Yamamoto dropped in this afternoon. I was with him when you called earlier.”
“What’s up?”
“He says he’s still at a loss about the case.” Her voice sounded nervous.
“Nothing happened, did it? You are all right? Everything under control, I hope.”
“Please don’t start.” Sheree Lynn paused. “The inspector says he isn’t sure the case is going anywhere.”
“That sounds positive, then. For us, at least. You all ready to go for Sunday? You been to the bank?”
“Yes, but I had to pay a penalty on the lease, like I told you. An extra three hundred.”
“Let it go, honey. Lau will have seven hundred thousand American.”
“You really think this’ll go through, Randy?”
“Why not? Lau claims he can sell these babies for ten times our asking price. I don’t care what he claims. Just as long as we get our cash.”
“And Sam? What about him?”
“The goddamn fool insists on coming. I don’t know yet what we’ll do, but we’ll figure something out by Sunday.”
“You home tomorrow?”
“Late. Or, if I need to clean up here, Saturday by lunchtime. I miss you.”
“I miss you, too. I hope you’re safe.”
“I’ll see you soo
n.”
Sheree hung up, and Randy held the receiver for a moment, wondering if this July might be a turning point in their life. Smiling, he hung up the phone, went out the back door, and folded the fax copy into his right pocket. The streets were quiet, only a few cars and pedestrians. The air had warmed, and the cloud cover had lifted. Birches and willows were still, their shapes haloed by the rising moon as clouds scudded leisurely southward over the enormous black curves of Mount Vimy and the pyramid-shaped crown of Mount Cleveland. Walking into the woods by the river, Randy saw two figures by the rushing water. They jumped, startled by his approach. The young man looked frightened.
“Christ, man, you scared the shit out of us.”
Beside him was a young blonde. Her blouse was unbuttoned, and Randy could see the round white softness of her young breasts.
“I’m just passing through.”
Randy thought the young man might strike him, but instead he stood back, helping his girlfriend to her feet, calming her reaction by placing an arm over her shoulder. Randy walked off quickly, his boots cutting through the damp grass. A few moments later, he relished the refreshing cold spray from Cameron Falls. Standing on the wooden foot bridge, he leaned to look into the silver foam that swirled under the curtains and tunnels of splashing water. He turned and saw the couple moving off in silhouette across the moon-bright meadow. A crow cawed in the distance, and he heard laughter from one of the houses on the hill bordering the falls. He wandered down the road to the cabin, taking his time.
By midnight, he was sneaking past Sam’s truck, the snores from the cab underscored by a low warning growl from Sam’s dog, Crow.
“Easy, boy,” Randy whispered. “Easy now.”
Once through the screen door, Randy tiptoed to his bedroom. He pulled a flashlight from his bedside table, walked gingerly back to the living room, bent down, and checked the black plastic bags under the couch. The shapes were smooth under the plastic. He imagined the golden eyes and the small pearl mouths. He smiled to himself, stood, and went back to the bedroom, where he undressed and lay on top of his blanket. He opened a small box and lifted out one of Sam’s joints, lit it, inhaled its sweet smoke, and rolled back onto his pillow.
