Murder on the Red Cliff Rez

by Mardi Oakley Medawar

  “Hey,” Michael said, openly snide, “could ya? Man, that’d be so nice.”

  “Drugs!” Freddy screamed. “For the love of God, somebody give me some drugs!”

  Tracker bent forward, speaking close to his ear. “Has anyone ever told you that Indians … barter?”

  Pushing himself up slightly, bracing his upper torso on his forearms, Freddy stared at her, mouth agape, eyes vacant. “What does that mean?”

  “It means if you’re a good boy, I’ll make sure you get whatever you need to make the pain go away.”

  Fourteen

  Nurse Sharon Bear was a formidable woman, but she’d just met her match in Tracker. Ignoring the woman’s carping about a pay telephone being available at the end of the hall, Tracker plugged a finger into the ear Nurse Sharon spoke stridently against while helping herself to the telephone in the nurses’ station. The second Elliott Raven came on the other end of the line, Tracker began to yell over the huffy woman’s robust complaints.

  “I have to talk to David. Now.”

  “But he’s over at the—”

  Tracker leapt in. “I said now, Elliott. This is an emergency.”

  “Oh no,” the dispatcher breathed heavily. “Not another one.” Then hurriedly, “Hang on, girl. I’ll have to run over an’ get him.”

  “No,” she cried. Finger still stuck in one ear, receiver against the other, she turned at the waist, gave the nurse a baleful glare. Nurse Sharon wasn’t bothered. She shifted grievances, began to harp on the subject of the major disruption Tracker and friends were causing her shift. Tracker went back to Elliott.

  “Just tell David to get Doc Ricky to the clinic. And tell him to bring handcuffs. Big ones.”

  Tracker hung up, turned again to Nurse Sharon, a satisfied expression on her face. “The doctor is on his way. And we”—she waved a hand, indicating herself and motley companions—“aren’t going anywhere.”

  Stricken, the nurse looked at the four men—three standing, one draping the gurney with an object protruding from his buttock—as if seeing them for the first time. Benny Peliquin, whom she vaguely knew, and the blond man, whom she didn’t know at all, were disheveled and appeared exhausted, as if they’d just come through a war. The old man, clad only in a parka, untied lacrosse snow boots, and foullooking long johns, was a legend.

  Old Bert came to the clinic only when absolutely necessary, and on each occasion raised a whoop and a holler during every minute of his presence. Which meant he was seen by a doctor as rapidly as possible, even if doing so meant the staff jumping him to the front of a lengthy queue. If that old man created one of his infamous ruckuses, he’d wake up the small hospital’s few sleeping patients and Nurse Sharon could then effectively kiss goodbye what was normally the easiest shift of the daily schedule. Then there was the matter of the giant on the gurney. The last thing she needed out of him was one more groan. Pushing the sleeves of her lab coat back to her elbows, Nurse Sharon took charge.

  “I’m going to administer a mild sedative to the patient. The rest of you can help yourselves to coffee and take seats in the waiting area.”

  The nurse moved briskly off, making her way to the med’s room. Michael and Benny went for the coffeepot behind the nurse’s station. Uncle Bert, looking mildly baffled, followed. Before Tracker could move away, the big man, who was weeping softly, reached out a huge paw. Tracker looked down at the hand fully encircling her lower arm. His hold on her was tight but gentle. She glanced from the hand to the blue-green eyes, eyes that held the fear-crazed look of a wounded animal.

  “Please, don’t leave Freddy.” He sounded like a pleading child.

  Although she had more than enough reason to hate this man, Tracker felt moved to pity. “I won’t,” she said softly, patting the big hand.

  Nurse Sharon returned rapidly. Her manner still as frosty as a north wind in January, she held out a tiny paper cup with a single pill inside it. To wash it down, she also offered a splash of water in a second paper cup. The hand on Tracker’s arm tightened.

  Tracker pushed her face close to the big man’s, speaking sternly. “Take it. It will help against the pain.”

  The nurse’s spine stiffened. “We prefer discomfort.”

  Tracker had had enough of Nurse Sharon’s attitude. Her arm was still captured inside the huge hand as she turned away from the gurney and faced down Nurse Sharon. She thoroughly startled the woman when she went on the attack. “Have you ever had an arrow in your ass?”

  The nurse blanched, eyebrows shooting to her scalp.

  “Obviously not,” Tracker continued. “Otherwise you’d know there’s a hell of a lot more pain than discomfort involved.” She turned back to the big man. “Take the damn pill, Freddy, before the nice nurse decides to swallow it herself.”

  Five minutes later, the pill was taking effect. Freddy was becoming groggy but was still relatively coherent when David, Joey Du Bey, and Doc Ricky came breezing in. Freddy’s droopy eyes locked on the latter.

  “Hey, Doc,” Freddy tipsily hailed. “How’s it hangin’?”

  Doc Ricky skidded to a halt. Wanda, Doc Ricky’s assistant, came charging in. She stopped short, barely avoiding a collision with the doctor’s back. She stepped around him; then, seeing the man on the gurney, Wanda went pale, clutched Doc Ricky’s arm.

  Tracker squirmed out of the big man’s hold, went to stand between Joey and David. Joey placed a light hand against the small of her back, sending her a hope-filled smile when she glanced up at him. She looked away, her eyes on David’s broad back as David took in Doc Ricky’s and Wanda’s instant reactions to the enormous patient with an arrow in his rear end. And on that subject, a bewildered David turned to Tracker. “Where the hell did the arrow come from?”

  Tracker rolled her eyes toward the ceiling and lifted her hands, shrugging.

  “Did you do that?” he asked, astounded.

  Tracker sent him a sideways glance. “Maybe.”

  David puffed up like a bullfrog. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Track!”

  Doc Ricky, with Nurse Sharon hovering at his elbow, was examining the patient. “I’ve got to get him into surgery.” He glanced across to his assistant. “Wanda, you’re scrubbing with me.” Then to the nurse by his side: “Take him behind the exam curtain and get him prepped. Have him ready for showtime in ten minutes.”

  Blearily, Freddy followed the conversation. As the doctor sped off and Nurse Sharon and an orderly began rolling the gurney, Freddy let out a whispery whistle, signaling for Tracker. As she joined them, trotting alongside the moving gurney, the big man sought her hand, grabbed onto it like a lifeline.

  “I’m afraid of that woman,” he slurred.

  The gurney, considering that it was overloaded and propelled only by an orderly and one nurse, was picking up an impressive speed. During the jog, Tracker peered back over her shoulder at Nurse Sharon.

  Freddy didn’t seem all that afraid anymore as the nurse and orderly cut away his clothing, bathed him in alcohol from his shoulders down to his knees, then applied a liquid that stained his big buttock puke-yellow. Tracker did her best not to watch any of the prepping procedure as she held the man’s hand.

  “You know,” she said, “when I was a little girl, I wanted to be a nun.”

  “Huh.” Freddy wasn’t interested.

  Tracker continued regardless. “I used to practice keeping secrets. You know, preparing myself for when I had to hear confessions.”

  Freddy rolled a glassy eye, tried to make it focus on her. He licked dry lips, his tongue thick from the sedative. “Nuns can do that kinda stuff too, eh?”

  “Sure they can,” Tracker said. “But only in emergencies. When a life is threatened. Like now.”

  Freddy squinted up at her. “Somebody gonna die?”

  “Yes. You might.”

  Freddy became agitated. “Me?”

  He was squeezing her hand so tightly, Tracker worried about her fingers. She pried at his hand as she continued. “Now, Freddy, I
know you don’t want them to put you to sleep while you’re in trouble with God. I think you ought to talk to me.”

  Freddy mulled, looked at her again. “Then me an’ God? We’d be okey-doke?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even if I’ve been real, real bad?”

  “Yes.”

  Freddy labored over that one, then erupted. “Hey! You’re not a nun! You can’t fix shit.” He nodded his head as his eyes hardened. “An’ I’m startin’ to think it was you that shot me.”

  Tracker freed her hand. “All right, then, I’ll get someone else to hear your confession.”

  Smug now, Freddy answered with a snort. “Good. ’Cause I just remembered, Freddy don’t like you.”

  She found David and Joey in the scrub room, both dressed in green cotton scrubs, paper shower caps on their heads, paper booties on their feet, and disposable masks hanging around their necks by an elastic band.

  “Rick’s still our prime suspect for absolutely everything,” David explained. “We have to go in and watch him operate. Make certain he doesn’t get hinkey with a witness that has more courtroom potential than your uncle Bert.”

  “Great,” Tracker said irritably. “But before they put your witness out like a light, you ought to talk to him. And put that mask on so he can’t see your face.” She grabbed his arm to encourage him along.

  “Hey! You’re not allowed to touch me.”

  Tracker didn’t care. She pulled him along regardless and murmured under her breath, too low for him to hear, “Oh, if you’d only thought to say that to Sharie.”

  The operation went quickly, Doc Ricky cussing all through it, saying more than once, “If this had been a hunting arrow, this guy would have bled out.”

  The procedure was witnessed by David, and technically by Joey. Although Joey had been physically present, during the first incision, Joey had fainted. David didn’t catch him, merely watched, thoroughly amused, as Joey fell over like a tree. Once the patient was in the small hospital’s lone recovery room, David, still in scrubs, had a quiet word with Michael and Benny, giving Michael the keys to Tracker’s truck.

  Head down, Benny kept his hands shoved deep inside his pockets as he listened. Michael worked the keys in his hand as he too listened, his expression incredulous. “You can’t mean it,” he said after David finished.

  David didn’t have time to go through it all again. “Look, that’s what the man said. And his statement was witnessed by me, Tracker, a nurse, and an orderly.”

  Michael still wasn’t buying any of it. “But he was medicated, right? That means it’s not admissible. Not even if you brought God into the courtroom as a witness.”

  David wanted to hit something. The Bayfield deputy was looking a bit too handy. “Just go to the P.D. and wait. I’ll be there just as soon as I can.”

  “Shouldn’t we all go together?” Michael wanted to know.

  “We could, but that nurse won’t let me leave until I’ve had a shower.”

  Benny looked askance. “Why?”

  David threw his arms wide. “Beats the snot out of me. All I know is, she won’t give me my damn clothes until she’s sure I’ve scrubbed everything. Including Mister Peepee.”

  Benny’s eyebrows lifted. “Whoa, Mister Peepee. Now that’s some serious showerin’. She gonna be givin’ you a pecker check to make sure you did everything right?”

  David was appalled. For several seconds he gaped at Benny, utterly speechless. Then his face scrunched into a severe frown. “That’s a real killer. Ben.” David turned to Michael. “Track’s dog is still in her truck. He’ll act like he wants to eat your ass when you get near the truck. He always does that and Tracker thinks that’s just so wonderful. What she doesn’t know is, her dog has a weak spot. And if you swear not to tell, I’ll let you in on the secret.”

  “Hey,” Michael said, “I saw the way that thing went after Goliath. I’m not interested in having it do that to me.”

  David stepped closer, speaking conspiratorially. “Okay, here’s what you say …”

  In the hospital parking lot, Benny and a bemused Michael stood near Tracker’s S-10. Behind the rolled-up window, Mushy was a mass of happy wiggles.

  “Well, I’ll be damned.” Michael was amazed. He glanced at Benny. “Say it again.”

  Benny complied. “Hey, ugly! Wanna go for jerky?”

  Mushy whined louder, scratched at the glass barrier.

  “Be damned!” Michael exclaimed. “So now what do we do?”

  “We get in the truck and take his squirmy ass to Buffalo Bay Store for some jerky.”

  Tracker was wondering where David had gotten to as she sat with Joey in the corner of the waiting area. Joey had been remarkably shaken by the brief stint in the operating room.

  “Man,” he rambled, “it was gross. Had to be the biggest ass I ever seen. Then Doc Ricky started cutting into it.” Joey shuddered, his eyes sliding sideways to meet Tracker’s. Then Joey’s eyes lit up as his tone became electrified. “There was all this yellow gunk. Looked like fuckin’ chicken fat!” Joey began shaking his head. “I don’t remember anything after that.” He looked at Tracker again, his manly pride in dire need of empathy. “It was the ether fumes. They really knocked me out, ya know?”

  Tracker was rubbing Joey’s hand, giving him the there, there treatment as Nurse Sharon marched toward them. Having shared the experience of pre-op confessor, Nurse Sharon wasn’t feeling especially steady, either, but the woman was still in charge of the night shift, thus required to remain scrupulous to duty. And with Joey Du Bey at any rate, she seemed much more agreeable with the idea of being a compassionate nurse.

  “I’m taking him to the break room for a cup of coffee,” she informed Tracker. “Then I have to make certain he showers.”

  Apparently these decisions were set in stone. Nurse Sharon helped Joey to his feet, slung an arm around his scrub-clothed waist and held his hand as she led him off. Tracker was left to stare at their backs until they disappeared. The emergency room had become as still as a stagnant pond. Other than the beige walls, there was nothing for her to watch or even read. One boring minute after another crawled by. Finally, carrying his beloved baseball cap in his hand and dressed in a flannel shirt, jeans, his boots, and a light jacket, David came striding into the open waiting area. His long hair, pulled back in a ponytail, looked wet. He stopped in front of her and slammed the cap down on his head.

  While he was adjusting the cap he issued orders. “You’re coming with me,” he said. “You and I are escorting the doc and Wanda back to the station.”

  Tracker stood up from the hard plastic chair. “What about my uncle?”

  David puffed air through his lips. “Ah, hell, he’s asleep in one of the exam rooms. When we get back to the station, I’ll have Elliott call your dad to come get him.”

  “But Uncle Bert’s a witness,” she insisted. “He should come to the station, too.”

  David’s patience was tapped dry. “Look,” he said sharply, “it’s a small station, okay? And God knows once we get there, the place is gonna fill up fast.”

  Even as David spoke the Red Cliff Police Department was already standing room only. The Tribal Chairman and the Bayfield County Sheriff were in the midst of a heated argument with Elliott Raven. The cause of the argument, Benny, stood with his hands cuffed behind him and in between two Bayfield deputies. Elliott was trying in vain to bring a smidgen of order to the situation, and Mel, head going back and forth between the chairman and the sheriff, sat slack-jawed on top of a desk.

  A highly frustrated Michael wiped his face with his hands. Sheriff Bothwell wasn’t interested in anything Michael had to say. Despite Michael’s repeated assurances that Benny couldn’t have possibly killed the BIA agent, Bothwell was satisfied he had the right man. Benny Peliquin was a serial killer. That was that, case closed.

  Meanwhile, huddled in the farthest corner, Thelma Frenchette looked tiny in her chair. Her head bowed, arms on thighs, fingers entwined around a
Styrofoam cup, she stared bleakly into a cup of coffee. She looked up as David ushered Ricky and Wanda into the station. Behind them came Tracker. Seeing her, Thelma’s eyes livened a bit, then, noticing the file Tracker carried in one arm, Thelma’s eyes went dull again.

  The station was crowded and Tracker less than a couple of feet away, but because of the deputies containing Benny, she couldn’t maneuver any closer to Thelma. She had to stand to the side, watching the older woman slide further into despondency. And Tracker understood the cause of her despair. In relinquishing the file, Thelma had failed Perry Frenchette. Failing Perry meant that Thelma’s days as an exemplary member of the prestigious Frenchette clan were finished. Looking as if she wished she could just simply disappear, Thelma again gazed wearily into the cup of coffee.

  David had walked headlong into the fierce argument, putting himself between his dispatcher, the chairman, and the sheriff. Elliott was noticeably relieved as the chairman and the sheriff, glaring at David, stepped back.

  To the two deputies, David barked, “Take those damn cuffs off that man.”

  Other than to shift their eyes toward Bothwell, neither deputy moved. The sheriff spoke for them. “Benny Peliquin is now in my custody, under arrest for the double homicide.”

  David exploded. “That’s bullshit and you know it!”

  Bothwell assumed a pained but calmer aspect. Fixing his attention on David, the sheriff proceeded. “This reservation is under my jurisdiction, and until I’m overturned in a court of law, what I decide is final.”