Raymond Bluejay Wakemup had an apartment on Makwa Street in Allouette. It was a bland, single-story, L-shaped structure of cinder block, painted a faded green, built long ago by the Bureau of Indian Affairs. Originally, it had housed seniors on the rez, but the tribal government had used casino funds to build a new care facility a few years earlier, and the old structure had been haphazardly redone as apartments. There were bicycles and tricycles scattered in the yard near the front entrance. The building might have been secure at one time, but the door clearly hadn’t latched properly in a long time, and Cork opened it without a key. The smell of frying fish was strong in the hallway. The floor was covered with threadbare carpeting, deeply stained. They walked to the last apartment at the end of the L. Stella opened the door; it wasn’t locked.
Cork had expected a scene of disorder, which was how, in his experience, most bachelors lived, especially those who battled issues with addiction. But Ray Jay’s apartment was in decent order, except for the dog hair layered over most of the furniture upholstery. The place had a gloomy feel, maybe because all the curtains were drawn. The air was stale and, even though Dexter had been with the Daychilds while Ray Jay had done his jail time, still smelled of animal. Cork chocked it up to all that shed hair the dog had left behind.
“It’s not too bad,” Cork said.
Stella said, “It smells like Dexter. I don’t know if that’s a good thing for Ray Jay to come home to or not.”
“How would you get rid of it?”
“Burn the furniture,” Stella said. She went to the windows and drew the tattered curtains aside. Bright winter sunlight exploded across everything but didn’t completely dispel the feeling of gloom.
“I’m going to check the bedroom and bathroom,” Stella said. “Marlee, see what the kitchen looks like.”
She started toward the back rooms but stopped when Marlee called to her.
“Mom, somebody’s been here!”
Cork stepped into the kitchen, Stella right behind him. Marlee stood next to a badly refinished dinette table that occupied a corner of the small room. In the center of the table sat a large, round, opaque Tupperware cake carrier. Propped against it was a sheet of paper folded into a tent with “Welcome Home, Ray Jay!” printed in black Magic Marker.
“That’s nice,” Stella said and smiled.
Marlee said, “I wonder what kind of cake it is. Can I look?”
“Be my guest,” her mother replied.
Marlee reached out and lifted the tall plastic cover. Then she stumbled back and screamed.
Because what had been left for Ray Jay Wakemup was not a cake but the severed head of his beloved Dexter.
CHAPTER 22
Stephen found Jenny playing with Waaboo in the living room, throwing a blanket over the little guy, who squealed happily and, each time, dug his way out. Stephen leaned against the kitchen doorjamb and watched his sister’s delight in the child they’d both had a hand in rescuing. He loved Waaboo, too, loved him with all his heart. Which was how he felt about all his family. But at the moment, he was also very confused.
“Got a minute?” he asked.
Jenny looked up from the floor, from Waaboo tangled in the blanket. She clearly hadn’t heard him come in. “Sure. What’s up?”
“I need to talk.”
She caught the gravity in his voice and drew the blanket off Waaboo. She went to a corner of the living room, where a large toy chest sat, and pulled out a little roller device with a clear plastic dome and a handle. She pushed it across the carpet, and colored balls went popping inside the dome. Waaboo cried out happily and stumbled toward it. When he was busy with the toy, Jenny said, “Okay, talk to me.”
They sat at the dining room table, while Waaboo lurched around them, the balls popping like corn kernels in a hot kettle.
Stephen said, “I don’t know if I should tell you this, but I have to tell somebody.”
“I’m listening.”
He explained what he’d seen on Crow Point, the embrace between Skye and Anne.
“Are you sure they weren’t just being sisterly?” Jenny asked.
“That wasn’t the kind of kiss one sister gives another, believe me.”
Jenny studied his face. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I guess. I just didn’t think . . .” He faltered.
“Does it matter, Stephen?”
“I guess not. I mean, she’s still Annie.”
Jenny sat back, looking relieved in a way. “No wonder she was so mysterious about it all. Oh, poor Annie. This has got to be so hard for her.”
“I mean,” Stephen went on, “it doesn’t matter about her being . . . you know . . . gay.”
“Maybe she’s bisexual.”
“Whatever. That doesn’t bother me. That’s, like, up to her. But shoot, Jenny, she was going to be a nun.”
“Maybe she still is.”
“What? No. She can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because . . . I mean . . . well . . . she’s not, like, pure anymore.”
“Pure? Oh, Stephen, give me a break. Nuns, priests, ministers, rabbis, they’re all people first and clergy second. They’re human. And purity? That’s a question of the heart, not the body. Why do you think Annie’s out there on Crow Point? It seems to me that maybe she’s doing her forty days and nights in the desert. And Skye? Well, maybe she’s the voice of temptation.”
“She seemed so nice and all.”
“She is nice and all. She’s human, too. And if what you saw is true, then maybe she’s just trying to get in her bid for Annie’s heart.”
Stephen looked at her, not happily. “You make it sound simple. It isn’t.”
“Not simple, Stephen. But understandable. Don’t leap to any judgments, about Annie or Skye, that’s all I’m saying. By the way, what did you do with her? Skye, I mean.”
“Dropped her back at the Four Seasons.”
“Did you say anything about what you saw?”
“Right. You mean like, ‘So how does it feel stealing away a bride of Christ?’ ”
“Your aunt Rose married a priest,” she pointed out. “You don’t think ill of her.”
“Mal didn’t leave the priesthood because of her.”
“I think he did in a way. And you can’t tell me that the love between Aunt Rose and Mal isn’t a sacred thing.”
Stephen stood up. He’d hoped that talking to Jenny would help him sort things out, but all it had done was muddle everything even more.
“I’m taking Trixie for a walk,” he said.
“She’s a good dog,” Jenny told him with a sad smile, “but she won’t have any easy answers for you either.”
* * *
Deputy Azevedo placed Dexter’s head in an evidence bag and took it out to his cruiser. After that, he began a canvass of the apartment building to find out if anyone had seen anything, knew anything. Sheriff Marsha Dross stayed with the Daychilds and questioned them. She conducted the interview from the dog-hair-covered easy chair in the living room of Ray Jay Wakemup’s apartment. Stella and Marlee sat on the dog-hair-covered sofa. Cork stood behind them. Stella had her arm around her daughter, whose crying had subsided into an occasional sob and hiccup.
Dross finally closed her notepad, stuck the ballpoint in her shirt pocket, and said, “Someone kills your brother’s dog, then has a go at your daughter, then delivers a brutal message here. And you still say you have no idea what this is about.”
As much as he respected Dross, Cork wanted to tell her to back off. She represented white law, and she was talking to an Ojibwe woman. He knew that the tone she was using would get her nowhere.
Stella looked at her, dark eyes unflinching, and did not reply.
“I can’t help you,” Dross said, “if you don’t tell me the truth.”
“See?” Stella turned and looked up at Cork. “They always think we’re lying.”
“Because you’re Ojibwe?” Dross said. “No. Because you’re Ray Jay’s family. An
d families close ranks to protect each other.”
Stella said, “I’d protect Ray Jay if I knew what to protect him from.”
Dross directed her next question at Cork. “He told you nothing when you talked to him today?”
“Said he didn’t have a clue why someone would kill Dexter.”
“The truth, you think?”
“Yeah, Marsha. The truth.”
The sheriff let her gaze hang on Cork a moment, then on Stella, and finally on Marlee. “Something like this doesn’t happen out of the blue. And considering Marlee’s recent experience, whatever’s at the bottom of it is as serious as a thing can get. I don’t have the manpower to protect you. And if you don’t help me understand what’s going on, whoever’s doing this could very well succeed in the next thing he tries.”
Stella said, “I get it. Believe me, I get it. I just haven’t got the faintest goddamn notion of what the hell is going on here. Do you understand?”
Azevedo came in and stood quietly.
Dross said, “What did you get?”
“Nobody saw a thing.”
Dross was clearly not happy with the news, but neither did she seem surprised. “All right. Go on back to your cruiser. I’ll be right out.” She stood up and took her parka from the back of the chair where she’d laid it. “I guess that’s it for now. I’ll talk to your brother. Let’s hope that something comes to him that’ll help us get a handle on all this.” Her tone still seemed to imply that she believed things were being kept from her. “Cork, would you walk out with me?”
He grabbed his own coat and accompanied her into the hallway. Several of the building’s residents lounged in their open doorways, curious. Outside in the frigid air, he stood with the sheriff beside her pickup. Azevedo was already in his cruiser, engine running and the heater on.
“Like talking to a wall,” Dross said.
“She told you the truth, Marsha.”
“And Wakemup told you the truth, too? Then you explain to me how something this serious happens without any motivation.”
“I don’t know. It’s clear to me they don’t either.”
“Really? In my shoes, what would you think, Cork?”
“I’d think that there’s another way to look at this, one we haven’t considered yet.”
“And that would be?”
“I’m working on it.”
“You might still be working on it next time someone drives one of the Daychilds off the road, and maybe that time there won’t be any Studemeyer brothers to pull them out of the lake.”
“I don’t know what else to tell you, Marsha.”
“Yeah.” She took a deep breath. When she exhaled, the distance between her and Cork became white fog. “I’ll see what I can get out of Ray Jay, if anything. I’m just wondering if tomorrow, when we release him, he might try to take care of this himself and not in a way that’ll do him any favors, legally.”
“Tell you what. When he gets out, I’ll have a good long talk with him.”
“You already did. As nearly as I can tell, it got you nowhere.”
“It’ll be different if I’m not talking to him through two inches of bulletproof glass.”
“I hope so.”
She was ready to leave, but Cork held her back a moment with “Ralph Carter?”
“Still at home, still sedated. His daughter’s with him at the moment, but if she has her way, he’ll be in a locked unit at a nursing home soon.”
“Is our county attorney still considering charges?”
“He’s looking at the situation.”
“Anything more on Evelyn?”
“Nothing since we last spoke.” She squinted up at the sun, her face pinched in a way that made it look old. “This county’s going to hell, and I can’t seem to do a thing about it.” She eyed Cork again. “Somebody staying with the Daychilds tonight?”
“I’ll make sure of it.”
A smile came slowly to her lips. “Why did I know you’d say that?”
Dross left in her pickup, and Azevedo followed in his cruiser. Cork headed back inside. Some of the residents were still in their doorways, most of them Shinnobs he knew. They asked him what was shaking—the white cop had been purposely vague—and he told them some trouble for Ray Jay, and they asked if it was true about the dog’s head, and he told them it was. When he returned to Wakemup’s apartment, he found several women gathered around Stella and Marlee, talking in soothing voices. He smelled coffee brewing in the kitchen. He shed his coat, but before he could go any farther, he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“O’Connor.” The voice was deep, graveled in the way of a smoker.
He turned, and his eyes were neck-level with Carson Manydeeds, a man big enough to fill a doorway completely. Manydeeds was in his early sixties, had copper-colored eyes that didn’t blink, and a face as implacable as a bulldozer blade. He wore a red plaid shirt with a quilted lining, unbuttoned, showing the clean white T-shirt beneath that stretched over his broad belly. He jerked his head toward the hallway, turned, and exited. Cork followed. Manydeeds made his way slowly down the hall, walking like a man in pain, which he was. He’d been a Marine in Vietnam, and what he got for his service to his country was a back full of shrapnel, a shattered hip that never set right, a Purple Heart, and a too-meager monthly disability pension. He led Cork to the apartment nearest the front door, which was where he lived. When they were both inside, Manydeeds ambled to the kitchen and came back with two cold cans of Coors Light. He offered one to Cork, who accepted it and popped the tab. Manydeeds opened his own, took a long draw, and sat down in an old recliner whose upholstery had been mended in a couple of places with silver duct tape. A few feet to his right stood a round table on which sat a small, conical artificial Christmas tree, which had been decorated with a chain made of colored construction paper and popcorn on a string and a single set of tiny bulbs. Manydeeds nodded toward a ragged brown love seat on the other side of the tree. Cork was still carrying his coat over his arm. He laid it on the floor near his feet and sat down.
“Saw him,” Manydeeds said.
“Saw who?”
“Son of a bitch brought that dog’s head in.”
“Who was it?”
“Couldn’t tell. All hunched up in a parka. Not a big guy, though. I mean tall. But he looked big up here,” he said, indicating his chest. “Like he lifted weights or something.”
“Shinnob?”
“Didn’t see his face.”
“When?”
Manydeeds took another long draw of beer, and Cork felt obliged to sip from his own.
“Night before last. Two a.m., maybe.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Couldn’t sleep.” Manydeeds gave another brief nod, this one toward his lower back. “Painkillers don’t do nuthin. I was up readin, right here in this chair.” There was a National Geographic lying on a little end table next to the recliner. “Heard the front door scrape open. Got up, peeked out, saw him creepin down the hallway. Figured it was just Ray Jay let outta jail early, so I went back to my readin. Couple of minutes later, heard the front door scrape again. Looked out through my curtains. No moon, and the streetlight don’t work, so I couldn’t hardly see nuthin, but I could make out that he was gettin into a pickup. Knew it wasn’t Ray Jay then. He don’t drive, not since he lost his license with all them DWIs.”
“A pickup? Catch the color?”
Manydeeds sipped and shook his head. “Lucky I could see the truck at all. Watched it pull away. Didn’t think much more about it until the ruckus today.”
“You tell this to Azevedo?”
“Azevedo?”
“The deputy who interviewed you earlier.”
“What is he? Mexican?”
“It’s a Portuguese name.”
“I told him nothing. Figured I’d tell you. Don’t like your beer?”
Cork realized he’d taken only a couple of swallows, and he remedied that. “Anybody you know of got a grudge against
Ray Jay?” he asked.
Manydeeds reclined his chair, set his beer can on the table, and laced his fingers over his belly. He winced at the pain all this caused him. “That man’s been sober going on two years now. Keeps to himself, quiet, good neighbor. Except that dog of his sometimes barked a blue streak. Guess he won’t be doin that no more.” His copper eyes stared at Cork, who couldn’t tell exactly how Manydeeds felt about that particular circumstance.
Cork took a long swig from his beer can, almost finishing the contents. “Anything else worth knowing?”
“No,” Manydeeds said. “But I got a piece of advice for you.”
“And what’s that?”
“Watch yourself with Stella Daychild.” Manydeeds picked up his beer, finished it, and with his great paw of a hand, crushed the can. “Heard you slept over at her place last night.” When Cork didn’t deny it, Manydeeds said, “Holding a lit firecracker in your hand, O’Connor.”
“Meaning?”
“Packaged real pretty, that one, but dangerous.”
Cork picked up his coat from the floor and stood. He put his nearly empty beer can on the end table atop the National Geographic. “Migwech, Carson. Appreciate your help.”
Manydeeds gave a nod and watched without further comment as Cork left the apartment.
Back at Wakemup’s, the women were drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, and talking quietly. When Cork came into the living room, they ceased their conversations and looked up at him.
“I’m taking off, Stella. You and Marlee want a ride back to your place?”
“Thanks.” Stella got up and helped Marlee stand.
Patty LeBeau, one of the women in attendance, said, “Don’t worry about the place, Stella. We’ll get it ready for Ray Jay.”
Cork walked with the Daychilds out to the Forester, and they headed away from Allouette, back to the isolated house on Iron Lake. Cork waited near the front steps while Stella got her daughter inside. She came out a few minutes later, without her coat. She crossed her arms and stood with Cork in the bitter cold. It was late afternoon, and the sun lay low in the sky, and Stella was bathed in a soft yellow glow.
“Will Shorty show up tonight?” Cork asked.
Stella gave her shoulders a shrug. “Probably don’t need him. Whoever’s got it in for Ray Jay took it out on Dexter.”
Tamarack County: A Novel Page 14
