Murder on the Red Cliff Rez

by Mardi Oakley Medawar

  No way would Benny be at the designated meeting place. Not only did he have a long way to walk, he also had a storm to plow through. Both things meant that she had more than enough time to go to her dad’s and find out how the hunt for Uncle Bert had been going before the storm hit. Damn, she was really worried about that old man. Why, God only knew. But Uncle Bert was family. And in the Chippewa view of things, family was everything.

  David dropped Joey and Mel off at the police station, both making beelines for their trucks. Seconds later both officers were roaring out, headed for home and dry clothing. David and Michael badly needed the very same thing.

  “Hey,” Michael said, as soon as they were inside David’s house, “this is a pretty decent place.”

  David didn’t miss the note of surprise in the deputy’s tone. Tossing the truck keys on the hallway table, he grunted, “My bedroom’s upstairs.” Michael was still looking the place over as he followed David.

  “Don’t you believe in coat hangers?”

  David pulled out a clean but heavily wrinkled flannel shirt from a plastic basket, tossing it to Michael, who caught it. “I don’t need coat hangers.”

  “But,” Michael persisted, “you’ve got a closet. And there’s a pole in there begging for coat hangers. You really ought to think about it.”

  David shrugged off his shirt, then peeled the soaked undershirt over his head. Angrily balling up the sopping T-shirt, he flung it against the wall. “Look, man,” David yelled, “don’t come into my place telling me how to live, okay?” Michael’s gaze was locked on David’s bare, very impressive chest. He didn’t have much experience with Indians, but a little voice inside his head warned him that getting into an argument about good housekeeping with this particular Indian wasn’t entirely wise.

  “I was only offering a suggestion.”

  David was still riled. “You can shove any and all future suggestions. Got it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. Now hurry up. We’ve got to get going.”

  Michael had more suggestions, mainly about just where they should be going and what they should be doing. None of those involved an old rust-eaten Toyota that when running, sounded as if its engine was on its last gasp. The car was now mercifully silent, parked alongside a road with a series of homes and trailer houses in what passed for a neighborhood. The gale-force winds whistled around the car as rain pelted the roof, sounding like pebbles hitting a tin can. The noise was beginning to give Michael a headache, yet the police chief didn’t appear bothered as he sat in the driver’s seat chain-smoking, his eyes glued to one of the houses. After five minutes Michael, a nonsmoker, desperately needed fresh air. He was denied this as the window hadn’t a crank handle, merely a gaping hole in the door panel where a handle had once been.

  He was worrying about having inhaled a year’s worth of secondhand smoke when someone wearing a rain slicker came out of one of the houses. The figure hurried toward a truck, hopped in, and took off. Cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth, eyes squinting against the smoke, the Indian cop keyed the ignition while vigorously pumping the accelerator. Eventually the Toyota wheezed into life.

  “Is it all right to ask where we’re going?”

  “No.”

  Michael shook his head, then watched as a duck waddled along the edge of the road. The duck was passing them. He glanced back at David. “Think we could go wherever it is we’re going just a smidgen faster?”

  “This is as fast as it gets, chum.” David flicked ash from his cigarette without bothering to aim for the overflowing pop-out ashtray. Then in a completely deadpan voice he cracked wise. “But hey, if it helps ease your burning impatience, what don’tcha just try pretending you’re in an Indian funeral procession with only one set of jumper cables.”

  Michael knew there was supposed to be a joke somewhere in there. “I don’t get it,” he finally said.

  David laughed. “No, don’t expect you do.” He glanced at Michael, then back again to the road ahead. “You kinda a have to be a ragged-ass blanket Indian to get that one.”

  The windshield wipers didn’t work any better than the missing window crank, but the sheets of rain kept the windshield reasonably clear. The thing that made Michael edgy was David’s driving without the aid of the car’s headlights. Oh, he understood they were tailing someone, but the low-hanging storm clouds and the tall trees lining both sides of the two-lane road had effectively reduced daylight to pitch. Illumination—a weakened flashlight beam, a fired tracer round—would be most welcome in the nearly total darkness. But David kept the Toyota putting along. Finally he slowed the car to a stop and put an end to the engine’s misery.

  The storm was moving rapidly off to the south, gray daylight leaking through the scudding cloud cover. On both sides of the road enormous trees swayed. The rain beating on the tin-can roof slackened to a steady thrum and the car was only now and again buffeted by a gust of wind. Michael still couldn’t see beyond the curve of the car’s hood, yet he sensed David could. And David’s unblinking stare never wavered from whatever he was watching.

  Being left out of the loop was a thing Michael simply could not tolerate. He’d tried nearly all of his moves on David—charm, heavy-handedness, even the “I’m following you, pal” move. All had earned him squat. Digging around for yet another tactic, he came up with cordiality. Michael wasn’t good at cordial, but he decided to give it a fling. Clearing his throat, he said, “You guys have many problems with bears up here on the rez?”

  “Sure do,” David answered tonelessly.

  Well, the two-word answer was better than nothing. Michael tried to keep the banal conversation alive. “You kill many?”

  “Not me.” David stirred, shifting his weight, his arm remaining on the steering wheel. He did not avert his gaze from what he was watching. “I’m not allowed to kill bears.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m Bear Clan.”

  “Oh, yeah. You bet.” Michael hoped that made him sound as if he thoroughly understood. He didn’t.

  David wasn’t fooled. His eyes flicked toward the deputy, then back toward the windshield. “Bear Clan people aren’t allowed to kill bears.”

  “Oh, yeah, gotcha. But hey? What happens if a bear decides it wants to kill you?”

  “In that case, whatever happens is fair.”

  Interested now, Michael asked, “Have you ever had to … you know, go with self-defense?”

  David held up a hand with two fingers upraised. “Twice.”

  Michael’s eyes bulged slightly. “Hey! No shit? How’d that work out?”

  David cupped his hands around the Bic, lighting yet another cigarette. Blowing smoke, he said, “Pretty good.”

  Michael was rapidly beginning to realize just how much he loathed Indian humor.

  The silence returned and time dragged on. This, Michael determined, was the worst surveillance duty he’d ever pulled. Not only was he not told who they were tailing, they’d done most of the tailing in a car that couldn’t outrun a duck. Now here he was stuck in the woods with bears lurking behind every tree. What really began to gnaw was the mounting certainty that his chain-smoking Bear Clan Indian companion wouldn’t necessarily feel compelled to jump in should a bear decide to maul anyone other than himself.

  Oh, yeah. This is great duty. Mama, give me more.

  Michael sat up straight the instant he saw the small distant glow; it lasted only one or two seconds, then was gone. As if this was the cue he’d been waiting for, David zipped up his jacket and opened the car door. The Toyota, along with its many other minuses, didn’t have interior lighting. As David stepped out, he made a throwaway comment about bears looking for lunch. Then he was gone.

  Benny was drying his hair with a hand towel and Tracker was so intent in what she had to tell him that when the passenger door suddenly opened, both of them started. Her eyes were as wide as saucers as David slid in, causing Benny to move further along the bench, squeeze in against Tracker.


  After quickly closing the door, David said, “So how’s it goin’, eh?”

  For several seconds, Tracker didn’t remember to breathe. When at last the need overwhelmed her, she swallowed a great gulp. “Where did you come from?” she cried.

  David used his thumb to point behind him, through the rear window. “Little ways down the road.”

  “You followed me?” She sounded mortified.

  “Yep.”

  “Alone?”

  “Nope. Super deputy’s with me. But not to worry. He’ll stay put. I think our boy’s kinda afraid of the woods.”

  Benny stared down at the damp towel in his hands, his expression utterly defeated. In a small voice he asked, “You gonna put the cuffs on me, David?”

  David and Tracker made eye contact over Benny’s bowed head. Without breaking that contact, he said, “I was thinking maybe we’d have a beer first.”

  Benny immediately perked. “I’m starvin’, ya know. Think maybe we could have that beer over in Cornucopia?”

  David considered the request, thinking about the bar called Fish Lipps. Shaking his head he said, “Don’t think that’s such a good idea. Too many folks we know hang out in the Lipps.”

  “What about C-Side?” Tracker suggested.

  David put the kibosh on that one, too. “Naw, Chuck and Sig took off again for Delta. That means C-Side’s gonna stay buttoned up for a couple of weeks.”

  Benny was no longer meek natured. “But, man, I’m hungry. And I mean belly-snappin’-at-my-liver hungry.” He lip-pointed to Tracker. “This here girl not only ate most of my lunch, she had me hauling my sorry butt over some real bad ground in the middle of a mother of a storm. If you don’t feed me, David, I’m gonna file a cruel and unusual on ya.”

  David laughed. “Tell ya what, I’ll spring for a big plate of nachos over at Jack’s.”

  Benny shook his head woefully, heaved a huge sigh. “I was hoping for a plate of bloody meat.” He sighed again. “But if all you’ve got is Jack’s nachos … well, I guess I am your prisoner.”

  “Hey!” David laughed again. “Ya think?”

  Tracker started the truck as David hopped out. Just before closing the door he yelled, “Don’t drive too fast. I’ll be following in the rollin’ wreck.”

  Nodding that she understood, Tracker slid the gears into first, setting off at a snail’s pace for Washburn.

  Michael was never so relieved to see anyone in his entire life. During the eternity he’d had to wait, he’d heard all kinds of noises beyond the Toyota’s thin aluminum walls. Noises that had nothing to do with the lessening wind and rain. They were sounds made by mammals—big suckers, and every last one of them equipped with pointy claws and long sharp teeth. Michael now knew exactly what it felt like to be a slab of Spam in an easy-open can.

  “Where the hell have you been?” he cried.

  Sliding in and closing the door, David keyed the ignition. “Steady, boy. I’m here now, you’re saved.” He took a quick look at the deputy. “You sound like you could use a drink.”

  “Damn right I could,” Michael snorted.

  “Will a beer do ya?”

  “A six-pack would be better.”

  David turned on the headlights as the car began its sluggish roll. “Then you just hang in there, chum. Tonto knows just the place.”

  Michael didn’t recognize Tracker’s parked truck as they passed it, David maneuvering the Toyota up the sloping dirt-and-gravel parking lot behind the Cantina del Norte bar. Michael had never been inside the Washburn watering hole simply referred to by the locals as Jack’s. Until this very minute, Michael hadn’t felt any deep inner longing to rub elbows with the locals. All he’d wanted was to serve his time in law enforcement hell, then run like a scalded dog back to Madison. But today had been a pip. He hadn’t been kidding about needing a six-pack. Seconds after David parked the car under a leafless tree—its branches clawing the top of the car like fingernails screeching down a chalkboard—Michael leaped out and slammed the door, going for all he was worth up the hill that ended at the bar’s back door.

  Ten

  Tracker chose the table near the kitchen doorway. The bar was an honest-to-God ship’s bow, complete with a carved wooden masthead—a woman in eighteenth-century dress, skirts billowing behind her, standing on the crest of a wave. Jack, the owner of the Cantina del Norte, had placed a black sombrero on the woman’s head. Somehow the thing made her look, well, jaunty. As was usual for this time of day, the bar was packed. Jack, in his mid-forties and rakishly good looking, was behind the bar under the mizzenmast, standing in his typical pose: one leg raised, foot resting on the cooler. He was wearing a green Packers T-shirt, tan Bermuda shorts, and gray yachting sneakers. The weather just outside the barroom windows was cold and blowing, but the calendar on the wall above the cash register read spring. Jack preferred to believe in the things he read rather than in the things he actually experienced.

  His smile seemed genuine, but his eyes were empty as he continually flicked the ash off a cigarette. From the other side of the bar, the pub babble flowed. A longtime bartender, Jack knew just when to give a consoling nod during an all-too-familiar sob story, just when to laugh at a well-worn joke. At the moment the object of conversation in the bar was a retriever, the dog’s owner taking a poll on whether the dog should be put down. Differing opinions were flying as Tracker and Benny slipped in through the back door, made their way along the curve of the bar and into the darker area of the barroom. The only soul to notice their entrance was Jack, his blue eyes coming alive with mild surprise as he lifted his chin—Jack’s way of saying hello.

  At the table bolted against the wall, Benny, still wearing his hood up, hiked himself into a chair. In the murky light provided by the long Miller Lite bottle lamp hanging over the only pool table, Benny looked like a ghoul. Just as Tracker sat in the other chair, Lois, a longtime employee of Jack’s, poked her blond head out of the kitchen doorway, about to yell at Jack. Before Lois could let fly, Tracker hurriedly ordered a large platter of del Norte’s infamous black bean nachos and two regular Millers. Lois signaled the okay on the nachos, but she testily yelled the beer order over to Jack. Without so much as a turn of his curly head, and still managing to seem immersed in the discussion about the dog, he drew out the cans of brew, popped the tops, and walked to the end of the bar. Setting the cans on the counter, he hollered, “Here ya go, Track.”

  She left Benny at the table, going to fetch the beers just as Jack sauntered back to his place. Tracker wasn’t what anyone would call a del Norte regular, and whenever she deigned to put in an appearance Jack ordinarily would give her his full attention. But at the moment he was concerned about the retriever’s owner. The man was getting loud, drowning out the three TVs and the jukebox (on which someone had punched the gravelly voiced Rod Stewart). Not even combined could the Weather Channel (first TV), a CNN talking head’s account of some disaster or other (second TV), an announcer baying, “Emily Hewitt, come on down!” (third TV), and Rod screaming and shouting his juked sexual excitement for Hot Legs equal the din created by one thoroughly inebriated Wisconsin duck hunter.

  “Fuckin’ dog! Cost me three hundred bucks an’ all the damn thing does is dig up gophers and chipmunks, leaving me to beat off the mean and the quick ones. What I oughta do is shoot the sucker, then go after the little bastard that stuck me with him. Kinda teach both of ’em a lesson, ya know?”

  Jack kept a baseball bat under the counter but preferred diplomacy over the St. Louie swing. “Hey, I’m widchew, chum.” The man sipped his beer, anger momentarily cooling, and Jack, foot once again propped on the cooler, watched him.

  The hood pushed back against his shoulders, Benny assaulted the platter of nachos, shoveling loaded tortilla chips into his mouth at high speed. Tracker took a long pull on her beer. A million questions banged around inside her head, but she knew Benny wouldn’t be ready to talk until he’d eaten himself full. Then, too, it was best to wait for David. Being in the del
Norte and waiting for David struck her with such a sense of déjà vu that her stomach began to pitch like a herring boat caught out in a Superior squall. This little table in the Cantina was exactly where it had all happened: their fight, the big bust-up.

  Non-Indians labor under the misconception that a male Indian’s war cry is a bloodcurdling whoop. Indians know better. Know that any male Indian finding himself stuck in deep do-do bellows the fabled four words: Baby, let me ’splain! David had done a lot of explaining that night, most of it down on his knees begging her to believe him. Tracker hadn’t then, still didn’t now.

  As she was thinking of the devil, he walked in through the back door; trailing after him was the Bayfield County deputy. David paused behind the bar, speaking to Jack. Evidently he was asking about her because Jack, with a toss of his head, indicated where she could be found. David mouthed his thanks. As he came toward her, time blurred. Tracker was struggling to breathe when he came to stand in front of her, both hands shoved deep inside jeans pockets. Then he was asking a question she’d heard many times before.

  “You okay on smokes, babe?”

  Tracker could only stare up at him, shake her head. David turned, going to the cigarette machine. She watched, eyes misting, as he fed the machine quarters, punched her brand. Meanwhile, Michael, on the other side of the table, slid into the vacant high chair, nodding to the man beside him.

  “Hey, how’s it going?”

  “Everything’s all right.” Benny shoveled more food into his mouth.

  David went to the bar, retrieved two cans of Leinenkugel, came back to the table, edged into the chair next to Tracker, and shoved one of the cans across to Michael, who picked it up and proceeded to chug it down. Tracker’s hands shook as she opened the cigarettes, pulled one out, leaned into the flame David offered. She inhaled, then blew smoke toward the ceiling. In the low-key Chippewa way of doing things, she began a conversation with a topic certain to ease the moment.