by Muriel Gray
He sighed and turned to walk back into the lodge just as a rusty Toyota drew up and spat out Sam Hunt. The car lot guys were waving their arms and shouting, “Move it!” to the driver. Sam barely had time to wave good-bye as the vehicle slithered away.
Sindon stopped to greet him.
“Hi, Sam.”
He looked up at his boss standing on the concrete steps. “Mr. Sindon.”
“Feeling better?”
“Yeah.”
“They catch you last night, then?”
Sam stared at him with horror. What did he mean? His mouth went tight, and inside his fleecy jacket his heart did a flip. “Excuse me?”
“The cops. They were coming to see you.”
Sam breathed a relieved plume of steam through his nose, and kicked at the snow. “Yeah. They came. Don’t think I helped much.”
“Uh-huh.”
Sam changed the subject, although the subject was all around them, an all-singing, all-dancing murder hunt.
“Am I lodge-side or up at the top station this afternoon?”
Eric took his hands out of his pockets and turned up his collar. “Neither, Sam. We have to talk seriously about a complaint from a customer yesterday. Did you think it would just go away?”
“Guess not.”
“Grab a coffee. My office in five.”
“OK.”
Eric walked into the lodge and left Sam breathing in the cold air, watching him go. A glance to his left, at a brown car pulling up behind the taped area at the incident trailer, told Sam he still had his two companions with him. Let them watch, he thought. They could watch him as he lost his mind, his job and, in his worst nightmares, his family. Enjoy, he thought bitterly, and marched up the steps toward his beating.
The office was still full of RCMPs. Christ knows what they were doing with that trailer when most of them seemed to be hanging around here making calls and scribbling in notebooks. Only one of the cops looked up when Eric crossed the office, and Betsy rolled her eyes to heaven in a call for sympathy as he passed her desk. Sitconski still wasn’t at his. Eric stopped and backed up to Betsy.
“He didn’t show?”
She shook her head.
Eric raised an eyebrow, walked on to his office and shut the door behind him. The absence of their weird office assistant was no sorrow to him, but it was interesting. There was something wrong about Sitconski. Maybe the police should know he didn’t come in. Mind you, they must have grilled him last night, and his disappearance was not exactly front-page material. He seemed to come and go as he pleased. Eric didn’t hire the creep or he’d have kicked his butt out of here on day two, but Pasqual either didn’t notice his erratic attendance or she didn’t care. He knew she just wanted to get into his pants.
So what was it that was wrong about the guy, because wrong was the word that formed itself in Sindon’s mind? Eric sat down on his revolving chair, swung around for a moment and let himself think about that. There was something about Moses Sitconski’s features that bothered him, even from the first time he saw him. They were plain, maybe handsome, but…
He rubbed the stubble on his chin. Yeah. That was one thing, all right. No beard growth. His face looked like it was made of something else other than skin. Crazy. But, yes, that was it. It looked like a pretend face. A kid’s face. And he could never quite remember that face after Sitconski had left. All that was left was a vague impression. Did bland features do that to a person?
And his temperature. That guy just didn’t feel the cold. He never came in with a rosy face or stamped his feet or blew on his hands. Eric didn’t like that. He hadn’t really added all these things up before, and it was making him uneasy. Because there were other things too, and for some reason he didn’t really want to think about them. No, he didn’t. A knock at his door saved him from having to.
“Come in.”
Sam stepped in. Eric waved a hand for him to sit down, and he pulled the chair out, sat down gracefully, flicked his hair back and stared at Sindon. Now here’s a man with a positive personality, thought Eric. Hard not to notice six feet of handsome Indian with eyes that glued you to the wall.
Sindon sat back and swung a little more.
“You first, Sam.”
Sam unzipped his jacket and ran a hand through his hair.
“Look. Mr. Sindon. I’ve been sick, you know? That’s why I just got back from the doctor. The guy was a jerk and I lost it. Now, if you want to step on me, take a number and get in line. I’ve kind of had enough.”
“Some apology.”
“I’m not going to apologize. I should have stuck his skis up his flabby ass.”
“This is the… what is it?… fifth time?”
Sam shrugged.
“It’s a service industry, Sam. We serve the public. You know that. You can’t do your job barking at paying customers like they just kicked your cat.”
“Guess not.”
Eric sighed and leaned forward on his desk. “Look. I know the cops are bugging you ‘cause you were there when the kid was killed, and…”
Sam’s face hardened slightly.
“… and you’re an Indian. Not exactly RCMP mascot material.”
Sam’s face softened again. But not much.
“So I’m gonna let this one go. But I warn you, and I fucking mean this, if you shit on any of our customers again I’ll drag you to the door myself and fire a shotgun at your ass. Understand?”
“So no Happy Smile Staff bonus?”
“Don’t push me.”
Sam shifted in his seat, looked down at the floor and spoke quietly. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
“So top station or lodge-side?”
“Top station. It’s as cold as a whore’s heart up there and it’s all you deserve.”
“Right.”
He got up to leave.
“So, did you see anything yesterday that’s going to help the Mounties get their man?”
Sam looked dolefully over his shoulder. “No.”
Eric made an upward nod, and swung away from Sam on his chair. Sam closed the door softly.
That wasn’t true. He did see something that the Mounties wanted. He saw it every morning when he looked in the bathroom mirror.
He walked through the office and felt eyes follow him across the corridor of oatmeal carpet. There was a small pause as he closed the outer door, then the bustle of noise continued as before, and a policeman got up and knocked on Eric Sindon’s door.
Behind the cash register, Margaret was eating cake. She tucked it out of sight as Katie came through the doors and pushed through the turnstile.
“Hi!”
Her greeting was thick, from the spongy confection sticking to the roof of her mouth.
“Hi, Margaret. Busy?”
Margaret opted for the easy out and just shook her head. It gave her time to swallow. Katie stopped at the counter and tidied a pile of flyers advertising the new Japanese restaurant on Carlisle Street.
“How bad? Two people, three people, or no people?”
The cake was on its way to Margaret’s stomach. She could speak again. “All day we’ve had eight. There’s one woman upstairs. That’s it.”
“Any messages?”
“No.”
“You know, Margaret, it’s a challenge being a high-powered executive, but sometimes the stress is unbearable.”
Margaret said, “Hey,” and put her hands out like a Jewish mama, as Katie smiled and walked away, taking a path through the stuffed bears to get to her office. She opened the glass-paneled door and threw down her bag on the chair.
She was glad the museum was empty. There was a lot to think about and she didn’t have the energy today to introduce snotty-nosed kids to the miracles of fossilization, or phone up the computer contractors for the tenth time to complain about her screen flicker. Katie needed space to start a bit of damage limitation. She went to the window and looked out as she peeled off her coat. There wasn’t muc
h of a view. It looked out onto the yard of a car rental company, but if you looked past their brick wall and chicken wire, you could just make out the big lodgepole pines on Main Street. She dropped her coat on the chair with the bag, crossed her arms and stood gazing at three snow-covered, unrented Buicks.
OK, lady, she thought, let’s get it all in proportion here. Number one. Do you trust Sam?
Yes.
Number two. Will Sam die?
No. Not if I can help it.
Number three.
Will everything soon be back to normal?
Yes.
There. Nothing to it, really. Except she knew that every single one of those black-and-white questions and answers had a million gray areas. Little niggles and twisting implications that would send her spinning back into that pit of confusion and apprehension again. But this is what she was built for. She was strong. Sam Hunt had made her strong when she thought she would break and here she was letting him down when he needed her most, by doubting him and backing off. Not good enough, Katie Hunt. Not by a long way. Kids were weird. Billy could be upset by all kinds of stuff. Nothing would let her believe that Sam would hurt his children in any way. He fathered those kids like they were the last two hopes for the human race.
She decided to do a tour of the museum to clear her head. There was work of sorts on the desk, but it could wait half an hour.
She opened the door and breathed in that hot woody, floor-polish smell that pervaded the museum and made for the stairs to the balcony. They’d catch the guy soon. They had to. She couldn’t bear the thought of those two cops following Sam around like he was a criminal. But if the guy struck again, while they were watching Sam, it would get her husband off the hook.
She paused on the stairs, her hand on the banister, stunned at the evil of her thought. So she would like to see someone else die to clear her husband’s name? Jesus, Katie. This business was turning her into a monster. What if it had been Billy or Jess skiing up there, huh? How’d you like that psycho to cut them up?
She put a hand to her temples and took a breath. Katie didn’t wish anyone dead. What was wrong with her? She pulled herself up the stairs, flushed from her shame.
Katie’s boots made a squeaking noise on the highly polished floor as she moved across to the glass cases. She leaned against the wooden rail running around the balcony, gazed up the fifteen-foot length of the Indian artifact case and sighed. Funny how she had never questioned her happiness before. She thought it had somehow been her right, that she’d earned it after suffering with Tom. But had she suffered? Think of the parents of that kid. Think of Estelle Reader. That was suffering. She’d never really suffered at all.
Something caught her eye, moving on the edge of her vision, through the glass of the case. She turned her head in curiosity.
Katie’s mouth opened and blood beat in her ears.
For one fraction of a second, a beat in time, Katie Hunt thought she saw something reflected in the end panel of glass. A ridiculous illusion. It was the fragmented image of something horrible, something dark and fluid and insubstantial that seemed to have nothing but jaws and teeth… and…
A woman in a dark coat stepped out from behind the far end of the case. Katie blinked at her, dazed by her foolish misinterpretation of the play of light and shadow in this cluttered, reflective balcony.
The blond woman seemed unaware of Katie’s fright, and flashed her a smile as she moved on slowly down the case, hands in pockets, looking at the Kinchuinick religious artifacts.
Katie walked away from the balcony and stood where she could see the whole length of the case from the front. The blond woman turned around and smiled again, looking Katie quickly up and down with two pale, ice-blue eyes.
“Good display.”
Katie’s mouth was still dry from fright. She moistened it. “Thanks. It needs some attention, though.”
The blond woman, tall and pretty, took her hands out of her pockets and crossed them in front of her. “Well, then! You work here?”
“Yeah. I’m the curator. Glad you’re enjoying it.”
The woman turned back to the case and pointed, tapping the glass. “This is great. These things are really old.”
Katie took the cue and walked over to join her customer, looking into the case where she pointed; medicine bundles, animal bone amulets and some sacred hides painted with the symbols of animal and bird spirits from an eighteenth-century sweat lodge.
“They are. Most are Kinchuinick, but a couple of the bone amulets are Cree and Assiniboin. Much, much older.”
“How’d you get ‘em?”
Katie laughed, relaxing now, and enjoying the interest of a visitor as she always did. “With great difficulty. I negotiated with a Kinchuinick elder for months to get a lot of this. It was just rotting away in a rug chest in the guy’s cabin. When he finally agreed we brought him here and he blessed the display with some prayers. It was neat.”
The woman, still smiling, shook her head and said, “A wonderful thing, faith.”
Katie smiled warmly, gazing into the case. “Yeah. It is, isn’t it?”
“Are you the Indian specialist here, then?”
Katie laughed again. “Kind of. Take my job so seriously I married one.”
There was a subtle and sudden change of air pressure around Katie, that movement of oxygen that can be felt when you stand inside a building beside a revolving door. Not enough to ruffle the hair or lift the corner of a stray newspaper, but enough to caress your cheek with its progress. Katie noted it and ignored it. It was gone as swiftly as it came.
The woman was fixing her with a huge grin, her head cocked to one side—the kind of grin that Mormons turn on like a switch when you open the door. The aquamarine eyes were crinkled in that smile but her smooth skin was devoid of wrinkles. Lucky gal, thought Katie. Try raising two kids and see if you’ve still got time for a moisturizing routine.
“Fabulous! I’m Marlene Sitconski, by the way. Pleased to meet you.” She held out a pale hand.
Katie felt somehow that she didn’t want to touch that hand. But manners always overcame inhibition with her and she took it and shook it lightly. Cold. Really cold. Get some gloves, lady.
“Right. Pleased to meet you too. Katie Hunting Wolf.”
Marlene Sitconski’s eyes flashed with some enigmatic emotion for a second and then the light in them was gone. Katie stared at her. What on earth did she say that for, for Christ’s sake?
Hunting Wolf? Who did she think she was? Kevin Costner? But it was her name, really, wasn’t it? Whether Sam wanted her to know or not, it was her name. She felt light-headed and a little sick. This whole afternoon was becoming too weird to handle. Maybe she was getting ill too. That’s all they needed. Katie wanted to go and sit down quietly somewhere and stop seeing shadows and feeling drafts and telling strangers she was someone she wasn’t.
“That’s a very romantic name.”
“Yes. I think so,” said Katie weakly. There was a buzzing in her head, and she put out a hand to lean on the case.
“You know, it’s amazing how these people’s dignity and nobility has survived. We owe these people a debt we can’t repay.”
Katie was feeling giddy now, and her hand was leaving a cloudy greasemark where it was pushing against the glass. Was that her father who just said that? It sounded like him. No. No, don’t be stupid. It was this Marlene woman who’d said it. This visitor she was talking to. That was her job. Talking to visitors. How they sucked you dry, these visitors. Sucked and sucked, like hungry, black, pulsating leeches, until they had everything inside you, and still they sucked until your core was bone-dry and you crumbled like dust.
What? What the fuck was she thinking about?
Katie put her free hand to her hot head. “I’m sorry. You’re going to have to excuse me. I’m feeling a bit faint.”
Marlene Sitconski looked concerned, said, “Oh,” and put a hand out to Katie’s elbow. Katie stepped back before the hand could to
uch her sleeve.
“I’m sorry.”
She turned and lurched away, fumbling for the banister as she stumbled down the wooden steps. Marlene Sitconski watched her go, standing motionless until she heard the door of Katie’s office bang shut, then she turned back to the case and put her cool hand on the glass with a smile.
34
Calvin’s chest was heaving with the effort of staying alive. Inside the sweat lodge, the temperature was that of a furnace, but the atmosphere was not the agent of his imminent destruction. It was the presence of this rogue spirit who was finding him unworthy. He groaned a prayer, begging for the strength to endure the onslaught, and writhed in his torment as the pressing on his torso became unbearable. A rib was on the point of snapping. He felt it bowing under the pressure, and arched his head back in agony, concentrating on staying conscious. To swoon now would be disaster. He cried out, bellowing like a bull, in a voice that would have chilled any who heard it. But there was no one to hear it at all. No one for at least fifteen miles.
Then, like the first sounds of rain on a roof, the beating of wings came, softly at first, then building until the noise filled the lodge, thrumming against the canvas, the air moving under their phantom flapping, and the weight was lifted from Calvin’s chest like a stone being rolled off a cliff. His eyes flew open and he fought back the bile that was rising in his throat.
“Thank you,” he whispered, coughing as he lay on his back staring through the steam at the tight blue canvas roof above the willow branches.
He had passed this new test, and now the trick was to stay conscious long enough to welcome the Thunder Spirit formally, whose invisible wings were beating so loudly now that Calvin felt his eardrums move with the pressure.
The shaman tried to sit up but his head was as heavy as an anvil. He must sit up and put more water on the hot stones before the temperature dropped. He tried again, and this time managed to raise himself onto one elbow, grunting at the effort, and feeling the stab of his bruised rib cage as he bent his body.