Murder on the Red Cliff Rez

by Mardi Oakley Medawar

  Standing on tiptoe, Tracker got right in the deputy’s face. “You’re just all red-hot to have a manhunt, aren’t you?” she cried. “You must think that’s really cool. Well, buster, let me tell you something. Manhunts are low-down, the nastiest business on earth. Outside of the police, you won’t find any man on this entire rez ready to volunteer because hunting another human being just for the thrill is obscene. And one more thing, just while we’re on the subject … I don’t go in the woods with rookies.”

  Michael’s ice blue eyes locked on hers. Craning his head forward, his nose inches from hers, he said sharply, “This is my investigation. And you will go where I tell you to go, do what I tell you to do.”

  Joey Du Bey intervened, wedging himself between Tracker and the deputy, forcing the latter to take a step back. “Don’t talk to her like that. I mean it, man.”

  Michael could tell that he did. The police chief, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, looked as if he would happily join the fray. Two against one weren’t Michael’s favorite odds, yet he couldn’t afford to back down. Speaking crisply, he said, “Let’s all remember that we have a job to do and that like it or not, I am in charge. The three of you will cooperate or I will call in the feds.”

  He was bluffing. David could smell the bluff all over him. Wisconsin, like four other states, was under the jurisdiction of Public Law 280, which in the fifties gave criminal and civil jurisdiction to state governments. Bayfield County police, even more than the Tribal Council, would fling themselves into hell’s fires before relinquishing one shred of this power. But still, the deputy did have the authority to call in outside help if the locals refused to cooperate. And if the deputy did that, Frenchette would pop a major vessel.

  David turned from Bjorke to Tracker. “We don’t have time for a pissing contest, Track. The quicker we find Benny, the quicker we can start looking for your uncle Bert.”

  Tracker’s eyes sparkled with contempt. David roughly grabbed her by the arm and pulled her off to the side for a private confab. “Listen to me, damn it,” he whispershouted.

  Tracker cut him off. “Even thinking I could come to you for help was a mistake.”

  David flinched. Then his pride rushed in and his spine straightened, his features hardening. “But old habits die kinda hard, don’t they?”

  They locked eyes, neither blinking. Before he said or did anything that would only make matters worse, David lifted his cap from his head, arm raked sweat off his brow. “We had one interesting call,” he said. “I sent Mel to check it out. Mel radioed back that the tip was right. He found Benny’s truck right where the tipster said it would be.”

  “Where?”

  David told her. Tracker went a little pale. David shoved his face closer toward hers. “You know where he is, don’tcha?” This wasn’t a question. It was an accusation.

  “Maybe,” she breathed. His face was too close. She stepped back. Able to speak more clearly, she said, “But I do know something for sure.” She glanced in the direction of Michael and Joey. Michael Bjorke dipped his head in an acknowledging bow. She didn’t like the deputy, not at all. She turned back to David and said, “Baby-cakes over there is going to need a change of clothes. The bottoms of his shoes are too slick, and with all that stuff hanging off his belt, he jingles when he walks.” That being the final thing she had to say, she began walking off in the direction of her truck.

  David called after her. “Want us to meet at your cabin?”

  She kept on walking, airily waving a hand over her shoulder: “Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” Before opening the cab door, she yelled at Mushy, commanding him to move over into the passenger seat. The big dog reluctantly obeyed and she climbed in. Once she and Mushy were seated, she started the engine and pulled out without a backward glance at the three men watching her go.

  At her cabin, using the narrow mudroom entrance, Tracker and Mushy wedged themselves in through the door, the dog impatient to get to the water bowl, Tracker in a hurry to catch the steadily ringing telephone. Once they’d cleared the portal, Mushy was off in a run for the kitchen while Tracker raced for the living room. While lifting the receiver, she heard her father’s angry voice.

  “Where have you been? Did you know there’s a stone killer running loose?”

  Now the receiver was against her ear. “Dad—”

  “Everybody’s sayin’ the killer’s Benny. Don’t that just beat the band? Just cause the boy was poongin’ a married woman don’t mean he killed her old man.”

  Tracker gasped loudly. “Are you saying Benny and Imogen Boiseneau … ?”

  Her father cut her off again. “Yeah, I’m sayin’ it!” His voice lowered, became defensive. “But I’m not the only one. Folks have been talkin’ about that for quite a while. It’s sorta old news.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Her father snorted derisively. “Oh, yeah, I’m gonna talk about who’s poongin’ who to my little girl.”

  Tracker bit her tongue. Her father would never change. It did her no good to argue that she was a fully grown woman. She could be facing fifty and her father would still refer to her as his little girl. She took a deep breath.

  “Dad, I went over to check on Uncle Bert this morning.”

  “Yeah? Well, what’s that old fart of a brother of mine up to?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I think he’s in trouble.”

  Tracker hurried to continue. George Charboneau did not interrupt so much as once. Uncle Bert was over ten years senior to her father. The age difference meant that they had never been close as brothers. But none of that made Uncle Bert any less of a brother.

  When her father spoke, his anxiety was evident. “Okay, here’s what we do,” he said, taking charge. “You go on ahead an help out David so’s Frenchette won’t get his BVDs in a twist, an’ me an’ your brothers’ll go lookin’ for that old booger Bert. He’s probably made himself a fish camp or somethin’ and just forgot about those lines of trout rottin’ in his trailer house. He’s old, so that’s something I wouldn’t put past him. You don’t worry your head one minute more about it. You just go on an’ do what you gotta do.”

  “But if you need my help I—”

  “Girl, I was walkin’ these woods before you were even a twinkle! If I can’t walk ’em now without you there to hold my hand, I might as well just go on ahead an’ die.”

  Realizing she’d come perilously close to wounding her father’s pride, Tracker readily surrendered. “I know that if anyone can find Uncle Bert, it’s you. What I meant was, if after I’ve helped David, Uncle Bert’s still missing, I’ll be ready to join the search.”

  Placated, her father turned jocular. “Well, okey-dokey. I’ll keep that in mind, puddin’. I’m just glad to know that I raised you up right, taught you to appreciate that helpin’ each other out is what families do. But I’ll find Bert long before you ever find Benny, an’ I got a twenty that says I will.”

  “You’re covered, Dad.” She heard him chuckling as he put the phone down. Cradling the receiver, she was already running through the list of things that would need doing before David and his posse turned up.

  Taking Mushy along was not an option. True, finding Benny would be faster with Mushy on the scent, but tracking a friend was bad enough. She simply refused to add the insult of using a dog. The issue of using Mushy was moot anyway if Benny’s truck was close to the Sand River, as David had said. The country back in there was buck-wild. A dog would be more trouble than it was worth. David had been right about her knowing exactly where Benny was headed. Once, when she was a child, Benny had taken her to his secret place. It was possible he didn’t remember having done it. On the other hand …

  At any rate, his hiding out around the Sand meant that Benny would be zoning. He would have to. In that particular stretch of wild country, he would need all of his instincts and survival skills. The zone would ensure that his skills were flint-edged sharp. And while he was in that state, no one bogged
in the twenty-first century would be able to touch him. David wasn’t half as woodsy as he thought he was. He had never been taught to zone, most probably had no idea there was such a thing. Benny Peliquin had trusted only one other person with this special knowledge. Someone who’d faithfully sworn to keep the knowledge a secret.

  Benny had passed on this special gift to her.

  Seven

  There was always extra clothing stuffed inside the one and only locker in the P.D., but Michael Bjorke was proving hard to fit. Joey Du Bey came closest to his height, but Michael was more muscular than Joey, especially in the legs. As a result, Joey’s available pair of jeans fit so snugly they looked as if they’d been painted on. The flannel shirt, light jacket, and well-worn boots were David’s. The boots fit well enough, but the shirt and jacket were too big in the shoulders. While David and Joey concentrated on making Michael woods-ready, Elliott Raven made certain the four men going on the jaunt had an adequate food supply for three days.

  Elliott Raven had known Tracker Charboneau before she was even born. He also knew how her father had taught her to think. For George Charboneau, his children’s being able to survive in any and all situations was practically a religion. From the time his kids could walk and talk, George had drilled it into their heads that getting killed foolishly was, for a Charboneau, the one unforgivable sin. Therefore, if the four men preparing themselves to follow Tracker Charboneau ran out of food, they were simply doomed because Tracker would not share so much as a breath mint. Glad that he was old, that he was just the P.D. dispatcher, Elliott packed as much sugary and salty food as each backpack would hold. Sugar, provided by way of candy bars, would keep them going. Salty Ritz crackers would prevent their sweating out vital fluids. The protein in the string cheese and jerky would simply have to pass as a complete meal.

  Melvin Paris would be the fourth man to be taking the hike through the North Woods. In his mid-twenties, Mel was short and solidly built, and because of an overabundance of French blood, his hair was chestnut colored and his eyes were bluish-grey. A police officer only in the spring and summer, Mel usually took orders well. He was an expert marksman, but he was most noted for being the departmental cold trail dog—the term for a hunting dog sent out before the rest of the pack. The type of game Mel Paris easily sniffed out was women, totally disarming them with an ingenuous smile and the cry of “Hey, you beautiful girl, you! Come on over here and give me a hug.” A line that wouldn’t work for any other man alive. Yet when Mel beckoned, women flocked. Far from being jealous, other men had learned to stay close, ready to snag—it was fervently hoped—any stray females Mel couldn’t handle on his own. Not that there were many. Mel Paris was a notorious lover.

  He was also a giggler.

  As Elliott concentrated on the backpacks, Mel was giggling to himself, one gray blue eye sighting through the scope mounted on the bolt-action Winchester Model 70. There were no .308 shells in the magazine, which was lucky for Elliott, because Mel had the crosshairs trained on the back of the dispatcher’s head. Elliott wasn’t aware that his noggin was a target as he snapped the trail packs closed. Mel’s index finger slowly squeezed, the subsequent click loud only to him.

  Grinning like a naughty boy, Mel called out, “Hey, Elliott! Your head’s a pulverized pumpkin, chum.”

  Elliott pivoted on the balls of his feet, eyes widening the instant he saw the weapon deliberately trained on him. For a moment all he could see was the weapon’s dark mouth.

  “Ho-wah!” Finally able to look away from the deadly barrel to the man behind the gun, Elliott felt his alarm turn to anger. “Damn you, Mel. Have you lost your rabbit-ass mind? Stop pointin’ that thing at me.”

  Mel leisurely lowered the rifle, the grin he wore causing Elliott to think of a movie he’d seen once. A movie about a crazy gun-toting kid. Snippets of the film came to him, Technicolor scenes overlapping with reality, the young actor’s face—indeed, his entire outlaw persona—blending into Mel’s. The movie had been about Billy the Kid, and the way Mel Paris stood there holding the Winchester across his chest as he giggled made the creepy impression complete.

  “It ain’t loaded.” Mel’s shoulders shook as he snickered. “Your brains would be everywhere if it was.”

  Elliott’s mouth was too dry to offer a reply. He was saved from any effort when David, glancing their way, said heatedly, “Mel, get the damn packs and wait for me in the Ram.”

  Obeying David’s order meant that Mel came to stand toe-to-toe with the dispatcher. Rifle slung off his shoulder, Mel lifted all four backpacks off the counter. He chuckled at Elliott’s bloodless face, then answered, “Yassuh, boss,” to David.

  Two seconds after Mel was out the door, Elliott turned on David. “That boy’s crazy! Just pure crazy. You better watch him, David.”

  Petty squabbles among the troops were not something David was concerned with just at the moment. Benny Peliquin had been his friend for over half his life. David knew with certainty the type of weapon Benny would take into the bush, would be ready to use if he decided to make a stand. A scope-mounted Savage 110, .270 caliber. The same make Benny had once taught both Tracker and David how to treat with respect and use with lethal accuracy. Tracker still had her Savage. David had since changed—at departmental expense—to an AR15, the changeover coming during the year the budget had allowed the department’s four 9mm Glocks. David had saved the cost of a fifth Glock by staying with his Smith & Weston .38 P/M. Glocks might be the sidearm of choice for most policemen, but David preferred the old Smith.

  Mushy followed Tracker as she emptied water buckets into his outside water trough. He stayed on her heels as she shouldered and carried the fifty-pound bag of dog food up the front porch steps, dropped it with relief, then used the knife sheathed on the left side of her jeans belt to cut a large X across the body of the bag. While she was away, the dog would have food and water. Should it rain, both the dog and his rations would be sheltered under the covered porch. Watching his mistress taking care of his water and food and then dragging his sleeping pallet out left Mushy in no doubt that his mistress was going somewhere without him. Mushy whimpered piteously.

  Tracker ignored him.

  She was still ignoring him minutes later inside the cabin as she hurriedly dressed in loose-fitting jeans, hiking boots, a long-sleeved white shirt, and a green baseball cap. Her camouflage backpack was prepared and waiting on the trestle table next to a spread-out Forestry Service map.

  Her teeth scraped the corner of her mouth as she pored over the map. She liked to remember the Sand’s wild country the way it had been before it had been clear-cut. In those long-gone days the Sand River area had had a wealth of secondary growth white pine and some impressive hardwoods. The loggers had been so thorough that they’d left the area devastated. She’d deliberately avoided that area until last year, when she’d had to go in there after a lost teenager. It hadn’t come as any surprise that the recovering landscape was now a nearly impenetrable thicket of closestanding trees no bigger around than her arm. All in all, a bad place for anyone to be hunting. What made the Sand irresistible to a novice hunter was that deer favored the place. The kid had been easy to find because he desperately wanted to be found and because he’d walked primarily in circles. That had made her job simple without her having to walk too far in.

  Benny wouldn’t be easy to locate. He wasn’t afraid or desperate. And he certainly didn’t want the police to find him.

  A clock ticked away inside her head as she studied the map, the clock representing her uncle’s life. Despite her father’s assurances, he would need her quite badly if he still hadn’t managed to locate Uncle Bert by the end of the day. Which meant that if Uncle Bert was still alive, she would have to join that search no later than tomorrow. She put her mind so wholly to the task of memorizing the map that she didn’t hear, until Mushy began to bark, the vehicle pulling into the drive. Tracker shoved the map aside, grabbed up the backpack, then raced Mushy to the front door.

&
nbsp; Michael sat forward in the front seat of the extended cab, staring through the windshield as Tracker, standing on the lip of the front porch, repeatedly ordered a huge dog to stay. The dog wasn’t inclined to comply. Finally, backpack slung over one shoulder, she came down the steps. Michael then watched her through the side mirror as she tossed her pack into the truck bed with the others. David, hands resting on the steering wheel of the idling rust-red 4 x 4, was also watching her, eyes raised to the rearview mirror. Directly behind them, Mel popped open the cab’s back door and leaned out. “Hey, Track! Get on in here, girl, an’ give me a hug!”

  Tracker climbed in, settling next to Mel on the back bench. Seated on the other side, Joey watched her, his lips thinning as Mel and Tracker hugged. Mel, feeling the heat of Joey’s jealousy building, giggled.

  “Track!” David said abruptly. “Didn’t you kinda forget your rifle?”

  Tracker extricated herself from Mel, took a rapid scan of the armory of the four men. She answered his question with another. “Wouldn’t that be overkill?”

  David fumed silently as she directed him down Allen Road, had him turn on County K and then take a left on Highway 13. Quickly realizing where she was directing him, he yelped, “Hey! I hope you’re not taking us where I think you are.”

  Tracker squirmed on the crowded back bench, pushing off Mel’s attempt at another cuddle. “Yes, I am.”

  David, continually checking the rearview mirror, was sorely tempted to reach back and just pop Mel. Michael, taking mental notes, felt the tension level in the truck steadily rising. The police chief and Du Bey maintained a stony silence, both of them acutely aware of Tracker’s whispered don’ts and Mel’s inane giggling. It came as a relief for everyone, save Mel, when the sign for Big Sand Bay Road came into view. David slowed the truck, pausing on the verge of what was little better than a dirt path.