“Just let me get my coat.” She’d thrown the parka over the back of an easy chair in the hotel lobby. She lifted it and laughed. “Every time I put this on, I look like I’ve gained a hundred pounds.”
At the Land Rover, which was parked in the hotel lot, Skye eyed the trailer where the Bearcat sat. “We’ll need that?”
“Yes,” Stephen said.
“What is this Crow Point exactly?”
“A special place. It’s kind of isolated. You’ll see.”
“Jesus,” she whispered and shook her head.
Stephen drove south around the tip of Iron Lake and began up the eastern shoreline toward Allouette on the Iron Lake Reservation. Skye asked questions, a million of them, like a schoolgirl introduced to a new subject that fascinated her. Stephen happily obliged, answering and easily elaborating.
“The Ojibwe call this lake Gitchimiskwasaab,” he told her, “which
basically means big ass. We have a story that tells of it being created by Nanaboozhoo, who’s kind of the trickster in our legends. See, Nanaboozhoo tried to steal the tail feathers from a great eagle, but the eagle took flight. He flew really high, and Nanaboozhoo finally had to let go, and when he fell to earth, he landed here. His butt cheeks made the indentation for the lake. The fall hurt him pretty bad, and he cried, and his tears filled the indentation with water.”
“You say ‘we,’ when you talk about the Ojibwe. Annie doesn’t.”
“The O’Connors are more Irish than Anishinaabe,” Stephen said.
“Anishinaabe?”
“Another name for the Ojibwe. A lot of people know us as the Chippewa. Some of us prefer one name, some another. Sometimes we just call each other Shinnobs. For me, it’s the Ojibwe part of who I am that’s most important. I can’t tell you why exactly except that I’ve always felt that way. For Annie, her relationship with God has always been the most important thing.”
“Yeah,” Skye said, not pleasantly. “God.”
They came to the place where the 4Runner had slid onto the ice and had broken through. The hole had frozen over, but Stephen knew where it was, and he tried not to look long because the memory hurt him like a fresh wound. And while he negotiated the icy curve of the road there, he drove very, very carefully.
They entered Allouette, a small town that, when Stephen was young, had been a community of dilapidation and neglect, the result of too little money, too few employment opportunities, and too long a history of wearily battling the government bureaucracies and the hopelessly complicated policies and the stereotypes believed by too many white people. Things had turned around a good deal on the rez in recent years, the result, in large measure, of the Chippewa Grand Casino south of
Aurora. Gambling income had underwritten the cost of street improvement and repair, new water and waste systems, a new, large community center with its own health clinic, new tribal offices, a new marina. Enrolled members of the Iron Lake Band of Ojibwe received apportionments from the casino income as well. The money wasn’t always wisely spent—many homes on the rez were stuffed with all kinds of unnecessary crap—and it didn’t mean that someone who’d let his place go to hell before kept it up now. Still, conditions on the rez had undeniably improved.
They left Allouette behind, and Stephen drove northwest on an old, snowpacked logging road. Four miles outside of town, he pulled off onto a wide area where the snow was crisscrossed with tire and snowmobile tracks.
Skye looked at the thick wall of forest all around her. “We’re here?”
“Not yet,” Stephen said. “From here, we take the snowmobile.”
He lowered the trailer ramp, climbed aboard the Bearcat, kicked the engine over, and carefully off-loaded the machine. Skye stood by, watching his every move intently and with a look that Stephen interpreted as admiring. He let the snowmobile idle, went to the Land Rover, and took out two helmets.
“You’ll need to wear this,” he said, handing one of them to Skye.
She fit it on herself and gave her head a little experimental shake.
“Feel okay?” Stephen asked.
She grinned and gave a thumbs-up.
Stephen pulled on his thick mittens, and they were off toward Crow Point, following a trail already well broken and hard-packed through the deep snow.
The snowmobile was a troubling concern for Stephen. On the one hand, the noise of its passage was a violation of the quiet that he understood ought to have dominion in the forest. On the other hand, it was a kick to ride. Not only that but it got him to isolated Crow Point ten times faster than skis or snowshoes. It
was nearly two miles, but on the snowmobile they were there in less than ten minutes.
Anne must have heard them coming. She stood outside Rainy’s cabin, in a large area in front of the door that she and Stephen had cleared of snow, shading her eyes against the sun’s glare with her hand. She wore a bulky red sweater but no coat. Stephen pulled the Bearcat to a stop a dozen yards away and dismounted. He turned to help Skye, but she’d already climbed off and had sunk knee-deep into the soft powder off to the side of the packed snowmobile track. She laughed, a lovely, mellow bell-like sound. Annie’s hand dropped to her side, and Stephen saw clearly the look of deep concern its shadow had hidden.
“Hi, Annie!” Skye approached Anne with graceful, bounding strides, kicking up powdery clouds of snow in her wake. She wrapped Stephen’s sister in her arms as if they’d been separated for years. Then she stepped back, looked around her, and said cheerfully, “Your own little convent at the North Pole? Hoping only God and Stephen could find you here, I bet.”
Anne’s eyes sought her brother, who’d remained near the Bearcat, and he saw in them a kind of pleading that he didn’t understand.
“You must be freezing out here,” Skye said. “Let’s go inside, where it’s warm and we can talk.”
Anne turned dumbly, opened the door, and went inside. Stephen started to follow, but Skye said to him, “Just the two of us alone for a while, would that be all right?”
Stephen said, “Sure. I could leave and come back.”
“No,” Anne said quickly. “Stay. We won’t be long.”
He sat on the Bearcat. The air was still, the sun off the snow blinding, the quiet oddly unsettling in a place where quiet was the norm. In his gut, Stephen felt that something was not right, but from what he’d observed, he couldn’t wrap an understanding around what the trouble might be. He liked Skye, genuinely liked her, yet he’d seen fear in Anne’s eyes. It was fear, wasn’t it?
But what could a friend—and it was clear that Skye was a friend—bring to Anne that would make her so afraid?
He looked at the other cabin on Crow Point, Meloux’s. He wished the old Mide were there now. Whatever it was that troubled Anne, Meloux would know and would know, too, how to help her. Stephen hopped off the Bearcat and made his way through the snow to Meloux’s cabin. He spent a couple of minutes clearing away the deep drift that lay against the entrance. He knew the door wasn’t locked, and he opened it. Inside he caught the wonderful fragrance of the place, the smell of Meloux’s long existence there, of the sage and cedar the old Mide kept for smudging, of the herbs with which he scented the ticking of his mattress, of the succulent stews and fry bread and wild roasted meats that had, over the decades, soaked into the logs of the walls and floor. Despite the familiar look and smell of the place, he felt alone, abandoned in a way. Meloux was always around when he was needed, but not this time. Stephen thought how Meloux had urged him to dream, to try to have a vision. He hadn’t had a chance yet, but he would. Maybe tonight.
Stephen left the cabin and closed the door behind him. He waded through the snow, which came well above his knees, back toward Rainy’s. He approached from the side, where there was a window facing south. Anne had pulled back the curtain that covered the window, probably to let in as much light as possible. As he came near, a big cloud crossed the sun, and the glare off the windowpanes vanished. Through the glass, he could see clearly inside. And what he saw was Skye holding Anne in her arms, their lips pressed together in a long, passionate kiss.
He stood dead still and remembered the day he’d spent sitting in the meadow and how, in every moment, his world had changed, and he understood with a deep and abiding clarity that in the moment of this kiss his world had changed again.
C
ork sat in Jenny’s Forester in the parking lot of the Tamarack County Sheriff’s Department. The engine was running, and he had his cell phone out. He speed-dialed Rainy, put the phone to his ear, and realized his heart was racing. Not with excitement, but as if he were afraid. The phone at the other end rang several times, then he heard her voice.
“This is Rainy Bisonette. I can’t take your call right now, but leave me a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.
Migwech
.”
He waited for the signal tone and said, “Hey, Rainy, it’s me. Cork.”
He paused, trying to decide what he should say next. When they’d been together, talking with Rainy had been so easy, so . . . good. He thought about how close he’d felt to her after making love, how full, how complete. Then she’d left. Because her son had needed her. He understood that. What he didn’t understand was that open-ended parting she’d offered him in their final moments together on Crow Point:
I don’t want to make promises I can’t keep, and I don’t want that from you either.
No promises? What was that about? Had he asked her for any? Did she feel trapped? Was she giving him some kind of signal, some desire for distance that was about more than just the miles she intended to put between them?
“Got a favor to ask,” he blundered on. “Annie’s home and is dealing with something pretty hard. She wants some time to herself. Henry offered his cabin, but Annie doesn’t feel comfortable there. Would it be all right if she used yours for a while? Give me a call and let me know.”
He hesitated. What more was there to say? That he loved her, maybe?
“I hope things are going well out there in Arizona. Feels a little like you’re on Mars.”
He realized his heart was beating as if he’d run a mile and his throat was dry.
“Okay, guess that covers it.”
He hung up, feeling pretty lousy, feeling like he’d screwed up with Rainy in ways he couldn’t even begin to imagine. At the same time, he was pissed at her for making him feel this way.
“More than half a goddamn century old,” he said to himself, “and you still don’t have a clue about women.”
He holstered his cell phone, killed the car engine, and went inside the sheriff’s department to have a conversation that he was looking forward to about as much as he looked forward to athlete’s foot.
Fifteen minutes later, he sat in the visitor’s booth of the county jail. Raymond Bluejay Wakemup, wearing an orange jumpsuit, was escorted to the other side of the glass. Wakemup was in his mid-thirties, gaunt in the way of some people who chronically battle addictions. His black hair was cut short. The blue-green head of a tattooed snake crawled out of the top of his jumpsuit and up the left side of his neck. He was clearly puzzled by Cork’s presence. When Cork reached for the phone, Ray Jay did the same, but warily.
“
Boozhoo,
Ray Jay,” Cork said.
“Boozhoo.”
Only a single word, but it was full of questions. He said no more, simply waited. Very Ojibwe. No need to talk until talk was necessary.
“Stella asked me to come,” Cork said.
Now Ray Jay looked truly confused. “She’s coming tomorrow.”
“There’s something she wants you to know before that.”
Ray Jay fell silent again, his dark eyes intense as he waited for Cork to go on.
Cork leaned nearer the glass. What he knew from his years as a law enforcement officer was that when you had bad news to deliver, you got right down to it. “Dexter’s dead, Ray Jay.”
Ray Jay’s head snapped back, as if Cork had hit him squarely in the face with a baseball bat. “You’re lying.”
“Honest to God, I wish I were. But it’s true. I’m sorry.”
The gaunt Shinnob sat a moment, stunned. Finally he managed to say, “How?”
“Someone killed him. And it wasn’t an accident.”
“They killed him on purpose?”
“Yes.”
“Why? He was just a lovable mutt. Who’d want to kill him?”
“I don’t know. Is there somebody who might have a grudge against you?”
“I haven’t done nuthin to anybody. I’ve been clean and sober for almost two years. No fights, nuthin.”
“Then it might be that somebody used Dexter to send Stella a message. Or it might even have been meant for Marlee.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Maybe so, but there it is.”
Ray Jay’s chest heaved as he gulped air, like a drowning man. “How’d they kill him? How’d they kill Dex?”
“As nearly as I could tell, they cut his throat.”
“They had to get close to him for that.”
“So a friend? Somebody he knew?”
Ray Jay slumped in his chair, shoulders fallen, the hollows of his face sunk even deeper. “Hell, coulda been a stranger. Dex, he was always too friendly with everybody.” Now there were tears, big drops rolling down Ray Jay’s high cheekbones. “That dumb dog. That dumb, sweet dog. Jesus, what am I gonna do?”
Cork looked at him and figured he knew exactly what Ray Jay
would do. Ray Jay would get himself drunk for the first time in almost two years. And Ray Jay would slide right back into the alcoholism that, before Dexter came into his life, had threatened to destroy him.
“Who’s your sponsor, Ray Jay?”
“Jon Bjork.”
“I’m going to have Jon come over and talk to you. Would that be okay?”
“I don’t want to talk to nobody right now.”
“I think it would be good to talk to Jon.”
“I said nobody.”
“All right, your call. You need anything?”
“Yeah. Dexter back. But that’s something you can’t do. Not you, not nobody. So why don’t you just get the hell outta here and leave me be.”
Ray Jay slammed the phone back onto its cradle, drew himself out of the chair, and vanished from Cork’s sight.
Cork understood why Stella had asked him to cover this chore. It had been tough. For someone who cared about Ray Jay, it might have been damn near impossible.