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Authors: Mardi Oakley Medawar

Murder on the Red Cliff Rez (10 page)

BOOK: Murder on the Red Cliff Rez
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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.”
“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.
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 responsible 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.
No way would Benny be at the designated meeting place. Not only did he have a long way to walk, he also had a storm to plow through. Both things meant that she had more than enough time to go to her dad's and find out how the hunt for Uncle Bert had been going before the storm hit. Damn, she was really worried about that old man. Why, God only knew. But Uncle Bert was family. And in the Chippewa view of things, family was everything.
 
David dropped Joey and Mel off at the police station, both making beelines for their trucks. Seconds later both officers were roaring out, headed for home and dry clothing. David and Michael badly needed the very same thing.
“Hey,” Michael said, as soon as they were inside David's house, “this is a pretty decent place.”
David didn't miss the note of surprise in the deputy's
tone. Tossing the truck keys on the hallway table, he grunted, “My bedroom's upstairs.” Michael was still looking the place over as he followed David.
 
“Don't you believe in coat hangers?”
David pulled out a clean but heavily wrinkled flannel shirt from a plastic basket, tossing it to Michael, who caught it. “I don't need coat hangers.”
“But,” Michael persisted, “you've got a closet. And there's a pole in there begging for coat hangers. You really ought to think about it.”
David shrugged off his shirt, then peeled the soaked undershirt over his head. Angrily balling up the sopping T-shirt, he flung it against the wall. “Look, man,” David yelled, “don't come into my place telling me how to live, okay?” Michael's gaze was locked on David's bare, very impressive chest. He didn't have much experience with Indians, but a little voice inside his head warned him that getting into an argument about good housekeeping with this particular Indian wasn't entirely wise.
“I was only offering a suggestion.”
David was still riled. “You can shove any and all future suggestions. Got it?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Now hurry up. We've got to get going.”
 
Michael had more suggestions, mainly about just where they should be going and what they should be doing. None of those involved an old rust-eaten Toyota that when running, sounded as if its engine was on its last gasp. The car was now mercifully silent, parked alongside a road with a series of homes and trailer houses in what passed for a
neighborhood. The gale-force winds whistled around the car as rain pelted the roof, sounding like pebbles hitting a tin can. The noise was beginning to give Michael a headache, yet the police chief didn't appear bothered as he sat in the driver's seat chain-smoking, his eyes glued to one of the houses. After five minutes Michael, a nonsmoker, desperately needed fresh air. He was denied this as the window hadn't a crank handle, merely a gaping hole in the door panel where a handle had once been.
He was worrying about having inhaled a year's worth of secondhand smoke when someone wearing a rain slicker came out of one of the houses. The figure hurried toward a truck, hopped in, and took off. Cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth, eyes squinting against the smoke, the Indian cop keyed the ignition while vigorously pumping the accelerator. Eventually the Toyota wheezed into life.
“Is it all right to ask where we're going?”
“No.”
Michael shook his head, then watched as a duck waddled along the edge of the road. The duck was passing them. He glanced back at David. “Think we could go wherever it is we're going just a smidgen faster?”
“This is as fast as it gets, chum.” David flicked ash from his cigarette without bothering to aim for the overflowing pop-out ashtray. Then in a completely deadpan voice he cracked wise. “But hey, if it helps ease your burning impatience, what don'tcha just try pretending you're in an Indian funeral procession with only one set of jumper cables.”
Michael knew there was supposed to be a joke somewhere in there. “I don't get it,” he finally said.
David laughed. “No, don't expect you do.” He glanced
at Michael, then back again to the road ahead. “You kinda a have to be a ragged-ass blanket Indian to get that one.”
 
The windshield wipers didn't work any better than the missing window crank, but the sheets of rain kept the windshield reasonably clear. The thing that made Michael edgy was David's driving without the aid of the car's headlights. Oh, he understood they were tailing someone, but the low-hanging storm clouds and the tall trees lining both sides of the two-lane road had effectively reduced daylight to pitch. Illumination—a weakened flashlight beam, a fired tracer round—would be most welcome in the nearly total darkness. But David kept the Toyota putting along. Finally he slowed the car to a stop and put an end to the engine's misery.
The storm was moving rapidly off to the south, gray daylight leaking through the scudding cloud cover. On both sides of the road enormous trees swayed. The rain beating on the tin-can roof slackened to a steady thrum and the car was only now and again buffeted by a gust of wind. Michael still couldn't see beyond the curve of the car's hood, yet he sensed David could. And David's unblinking stare never wavered from whatever he was watching.
Being left out of the loop was a thing Michael simply could not tolerate. He'd tried nearly all of his moves on David—charm, heavy-handedness, even the “I'm following you, pal” move. All had earned him squat. Digging around for yet another tactic, he came up with cordiality. Michael wasn't good at cordial, but he decided to give it a fling. Clearing his throat, he said, “You guys have many problems with bears up here on the rez?”
“Sure do,” David answered tonelessly.
Well, the two-word answer was better than nothing. Michael tried to keep the banal conversation alive. “You kill many?”
“Not me.” David stirred, shifting his weight, his arm remaining on the steering wheel. He did not avert his gaze from what he was watching. “I'm not allowed to kill bears.”
“Why not?”
“I'm Bear Clan.”
“Oh, yeah. You bet.” Michael hoped that made him sound as if he thoroughly understood. He didn't.
David wasn't fooled. His eyes flicked toward the deputy, then back toward the windshield. “Bear Clan people aren't allowed to kill bears.”
“Oh, yeah, gotcha. But hey? What happens if a bear decides it wants to kill you?”
“In that case, whatever happens is fair.”
Interested now, Michael asked, “Have you ever had to … you know, go with self-defense?”
BOOK: Murder on the Red Cliff Rez
10.47Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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