* * *
On his way back to the rez to report his conversation to Stella Daychild, Cork made a brief stop at home. Stephen hadn’t returned from Crow Point yet. Waaboo was down for a nap. Jenny was at the kitchen table working on a piece of fiction.
“Short story?” Cork asked.
“Who knows?” she replied wistfully. “Maybe the start of my first novel.”
“Mind if I keep your car for a while? I need to go back out to the rez.”
“Stella?” Jenny asked.
Was there something suggestive in her voice? Cork wasn’t
certain, so he answered simply, “Yeah. I need to fill her in on my talk with Ray Jay.”
Jenny eyed him. He wasn’t certain what was going on in her head, but he felt oddly uncomfortable. Finally she shrugged and said, “I’m going nowhere. The car’s yours as long as you need it.”
Cork fixed himself a bologna sandwich, grabbed an apple, and took his lunch on the road.
At the Daychilds’, he reported to Stella, “Ray Jay took it pretty hard.”
“I figured,” Stella said. “Want a Coke or something? Coffee?”
“I’d take coffee, thanks. Black.”
Cork sat at the dinette in Stella’s living room, and Stella brought in two mugs. She placed one in front of Cork, took the other for herself, and sat across from him. She looked tired, and Cork felt his heart go out to her. She had a lot on her plate at the moment and, except for him, it seemed, no help in dealing with these things.
He said, “I thought it might be good to have Jon Bjork talk to Ray Jay. He’s Ray Jay’s AA sponsor.”
“I really thought this time Ray Jay had it kicked. But without Dexter . . .” Stella shook her head and sipped her coffee. “Me, I couldn’t have made it except for my kids. You’ve got to have something, someone, to hold on to. Ray Jay’s got nothing now.”
“Not true. He has you.”
She frowned. “When they put us in foster care, that pretty much screwed up the family ties. Ray Jay and Harmon, they went their ways. Me, I went mine. Maybe if they’d tried to keep us all together.”
Cork understood. In Minnesota, Indian children were fourteen times more likely than white children to be placed in foster care, the widest such gap in the nation. Despite the dictates of the 1978 Indian Child Welfare Act, which required that tribal members be involved in child placement, these decisions usually
remained in the hands of white social welfare workers who often had little understanding or appreciation of Indian families or the traditional roles family members played in the raising of children. The result was that families were often separated and familial ties irrevocably broken.
“Anything I can help you with, just give a holler.”
“Actually, there is something. Could you give me a lift to Ray Jay’s place? I want to get it cleaned before he comes home tomorrow.”
Cork glanced toward a closed door down the hallway at the other end of the house. “Leaving Marlee here?”
“No, she’ll come along.”
“How will you get back?”
“Judy’s driving over to help when she gets off work at the casino.” Stella was speaking of Judy Goodrow, Cork knew. A cousin. “She’ll give us a ride home.”
“Is she staying with you tonight?”
Stella shook her head. “She’s got a date.”
“Anybody staying with you tonight?”
“Uncle Shorty offered again.”
“He was supposed to be here last night.”
“The only offer I’ve had so far.”
“All right, let’s take it one step at a time. Let’s get you over to Ray Jay’s.”
“Thank you.”
Stella went to the closed door and knocked. “Marlee, honey? We’re going to clean Ray Jay’s place.” She eased the door open and disappeared inside.
When Stella came back out, Marlee was with her, still moving gingerly. Stella helped her into her coat, then put her own coat on, and Cork held the door open for them. In the Forester, Marlee sat in back, Stella up front.
As Cork maneuvered out of the yard and up the drive toward the highway, Marlee asked, “How’s Stephen?”
“Worried about you.”
Marlee was quiet a few moments. “I don’t want to see him right now.”
Stella turned and spoke over the seat back. “That’s okay, sweetie. You don’t have to see anybody until you’re ready.”
“I mean, I want to see him. But I don’t.”
“I understand,” Stella said.
“Does he?” Marlee directed this at Cork.
“He’s having some trouble with it, but I think he does.”
“Tell him I’ll call him,” she said.
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.
S
tephen 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. And 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.”