“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.”
“If that’s true, why did they go after Marlee?” Cork asked. “Until we know for sure what’s going on, I think it’s a good idea for you not to be here alone at night.”
She was shivering now, and Cork’s instinct was to draw her close and warm her.
“I’d be willing to come back and stay,” he offered.
She looked toward the low sun, and there was a little flame reflected in her dark eyes. “Folks on the rez are already talking.”
“Talk’s never bothered me much.”
She looked at him and smiled. “Me neither. The truth is that I’d feel a lot safer with you here.”
“I’ll be back before dark,” he promised. “In the meantime, keep your door locked, okay?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she drew her arms from across her chest, reached out, took his face gently in her hands, which were frigid, leaned to him, and kissed his cheek. “You really are unbelievable, you know that?”
Cork said, “Better get inside before you freeze.”
She turned and mounted the steps. Before she disappeared inside, she gave him one long, last, enigmatic look.
Cork walked back to the Forester and paused with his gloved hand on the door handle. He stared at his shadow, which lay across the snow next to the vehicle like a supine man quite comfortable on that icy white mattress. He knew it was a good idea for someone to stay with the Daychilds that night. He knew Shorty was unreliable in that regard. He knew that if he didn’t stay and something were to happen, he’d blame himself. But he also knew that, deep down, Stella’s safety was only part of the reason he would be coming back. The rest of it had to do with how he felt when her cold hands cupped his face and her warm lips pressed his cheek. It had to do with a moment the night before, which he’d chosen to let pass but couldn’t help hoping might come again. Maybe Stella was, as Carson Manydeeds had observed, something dangerous in a very pretty package. Against his better judgment, Cork found himself wanting very much to unwrap that package and find out for himself.
W
hen Cork parked Jenny’s Forester in the driveway and saw that the Land Rover and Bearcat were still gone, a worm of concern began to crawl through his belly. Why hadn’t Stephen returned yet? He hurried into the house through the side door to the kitchen and was relieved to find his son sitting at the table. Waaboo was on the floor surrounded by pots and pans, having a great time trying to fit lids on them and making a hell of a racket while doing so. Stephen looked up glumly when his father entered and said nothing.
“Where’s your sister?” Cork asked.
“Jenny?”
“Yeah, that sister.”
“With the other sister. Crow Point.” Stephen went back to watching Waaboo.
“I thought Annie wanted to be alone.”
“Guess not.”
Cork hung his coat on a wall peg near the door, removed his boots, and left them on the doormat. He went to Waaboo, who stood up and offered his grandfather a lid. Cork accepted it, sat down, picked up another lid, and used them as cymbals, banging out a beat as he sang “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” Delighted, Waaboo dropped onto his bottom and joined him. To Stephen, Cork said, “Everything go okay with Skye?”
“Got her out there and back.”
Cork put his lids down and studied Stephen, who wouldn’t look at him. “You okay?”
Stephen didn’t answer that one. He said, “How’s Marlee?”
Waaboo went on playing, but Cork got up and took a chair at the table. “Pretty beat up,” he replied. “She wants to see you, but she doesn’t want you to see her, not the way she looks right now. Here’s something that might interest you, though. I took her and her mom out to Ray Jay Wakemup’s place, so they could get it cleaned before he gets released tomorrow. Somebody left Dexter’s head in a cake box on the kitchen table.”
Stephen’s demeanor changed in an instant. He looked like a guard dog on alert. “Who?”
“The only person who saw anything was Carson Manydeeds, and he didn’t see enough to be very helpful. Did say that whoever it was drove a pickup.”
“The guy who went after us?”
“That’s where my money is at the moment.”
“So if it’s Mr. Wakemup he’s after, why did he try to run Marlee off the road?”
“From what you’ve told me, it seems like Marlee ran herself off the road.”
“That pickup was definitely following us, Dad.”
“I believe you. But the question is what was his motive. Did he really intend Marlee harm?”
Stephen’s eyes went to the window. Outside, only the thin, bare tree branches seemed to be holding the sun above the horizon. “It’ll be dark soon,” he said. “Is somebody staying with Marlee and her mom tonight?”
“That would be me.”
His son’s face clearly showed the deep desire for the night’s watch to fall to him, but Stephen only nodded and said, “Good.” Then he said, “It’s your turn to fix dinner. What were you planning?”
Cork reached into his back pocket, drew out his wallet, and
pulled from it a twenty and a ten. “I was planning on ordering pizza. Why don’t you give Skye a call and ask if she’d like to join you?”
Stephen seemed reluctant.
“That’s okay, isn’t it?” Cork said.
“Yeah, sure, I guess.”
“Good. I’m going to put a few things together for tonight.”
Cork went upstairs, threw a change of clothing into a gym bag, tossed in a toothbrush and toothpaste. Back in the kitchen, he found Stephen on the floor spinning pan lids like tops, much to Waaboo’s delight. Cork kissed the top of his grandson’s head. “You be good,” he said. He walked to the door, pulled on his boots, and took his coat from the peg.
“Dad, there’s something else,” Stephen said.
“What is it?”
Stephen seemed to wrestle with himself a moment, then shrugged. “Forget it. It can wait.”
Cork snugged on his gloves and reached for the doorknob. “Call me if you need me.”
He walked back into the steel blue light of that cold winter evening. The first stars were visible, and Cork headed quickly out of Aurora. As he drove, he tried to put events together in a way that made some sense. It was clear that someone wanted to send Ray Jay Wakemup a message, a brutal one. If it was the same person who’d followed Marlee and Stephen in the green, mud-spattered pickup, had he intended to use Marlee to send Ray Jay another message, one even more brutal? If so, why? Cork didn’t know Wakemup well. He knew what most folks on the rez knew. Wakemup’s life had been the kind that white people pointed to when they said Indians were hopeless. Like a lot of Shinnobs, he’d grown up in foster care, shuffled from one family to another. At seventeen, he’d gone into juvie for boosting a car. He’d been high on alcohol and angel dust. After that, he was in and out of rehab, in and out of jail, though nothing so heinous that he did hard time. He wasn’t dangerous. He was
just someone who white folks—and most Ojibwe—thought of as shiftless.