“You say ‘we,’ when you talk about the Ojibwe. Annie doesn’t.”
“The O’Connors are more Irish than Anishinaabe,” Stephen said.
“Anishinaabe?”
“Another name for the Ojibwe. A lot of people know us as the Chippewa. Some of us prefer one name, some another. Sometimes we just call each other Shinnobs. For me, it’s the Ojibwe part of who I am that’s most important. I can’t tell you why exactly except that I’ve always felt that way. For Annie, her relationship with God has always been the most important thing.”
“Yeah,” Skye said, not pleasantly. “God.”
They came to the place where the 4Runner had slid onto the ice and had broken through. The hole had frozen over, but Stephen knew where it was, and he tried not to look long because the memory hurt him like a fresh wound. And while he negotiated the icy curve of the road there, he drove very, very carefully.
They entered Allouette, a small town that, when Stephen was young, had been a community of dilapidation and neglect, the result of too little money, too few employment opportunities, and too long a history of wearily battling the government bureaucracies and the hopelessly complicated policies and the stereotypes believed by too many white people. Things had turned around a good deal on the rez in recent years, the result, in large measure, of the Chippewa Grand Casino south of Aurora. Gambling income had underwritten the cost of street improvement and repair, new water and waste systems, a new, large community center with its own health clinic, new tribal offices, a new marina. Enrolled members of the Iron Lake Band of Ojibwe received apportionments from the casino income as well. The money wasn’t always wisely spent—many homes on the rez were stuffed with all kinds of unnecessary crap—and it didn’t mean that someone who’d let his place go to hell before kept it up now. Still, conditions on the rez had undeniably improved.
They left Allouette behind, and Stephen drove northwest on an old, snowpacked logging road. Four miles outside of town, he pulled off onto a wide area where the snow was crisscrossed with tire and snowmobile tracks.
Skye looked at the thick wall of forest all around her. “We’re here?”
“Not yet,” Stephen said. “From here, we take the snowmobile.”
He lowered the trailer ramp, climbed aboard the Bearcat, kicked the engine over, and carefully off-loaded the machine. Skye stood by, watching his every move intently and with a look that Stephen interpreted as admiring. He let the snowmobile idle, went to the Land Rover, and took out two helmets.
“You’ll need to wear this,” he said, handing one of them to Skye.
She fit it on herself and gave her head a little experimental shake.
“Feel okay?” Stephen asked.
She grinned and gave a thumbs-up.
Stephen pulled on his thick mittens, and they were off toward Crow Point, following a trail already well broken and hard-packed through the deep snow.
The snowmobile was a troubling concern for Stephen. On the one hand, the noise of its passage was a violation of the quiet that he understood ought to have dominion in the forest. On the other hand, it was a kick to ride. Not only that but it got him to isolated Crow Point ten times faster than skis or snowshoes. It was nearly two miles, but on the snowmobile they were there in less than ten minutes.
Anne must have heard them coming. She stood outside Rainy’s cabin, in a large area in front of the door that she and Stephen had cleared of snow, shading her eyes against the sun’s glare with her hand. She wore a bulky red sweater but no coat. Stephen pulled the Bearcat to a stop a dozen yards away and dismounted. He turned to help Skye, but she’d already climbed off and had sunk knee-deep into the soft powder off to the side of the packed snowmobile track. She laughed, a lovely, mellow bell-like sound. Annie’s hand dropped to her side, and Stephen saw clearly the look of deep concern its shadow had hidden.
“Hi, Annie!” Skye approached Anne with graceful, bounding strides, kicking up powdery clouds of snow in her wake. She wrapped Stephen’s sister in her arms as if they’d been separated for years. Then she stepped back, looked around her, and said cheerfully, “Your own little convent at the North Pole? Hoping only God and Stephen could find you here, I bet.”
Anne’s eyes sought her brother, who’d remained near the Bearcat, and he saw in them a kind of pleading that he didn’t understand.
“You must be freezing out here,” Skye said. “Let’s go inside, where it’s warm and we can talk.”
Anne turned dumbly, opened the door, and went inside. Stephen started to follow, but Skye said to him, “Just the two of us alone for a while, would that be all right?”
Stephen said, “Sure. I could leave and come back.”
“No,” Anne said quickly. “Stay. We won’t be long.”
He sat on the Bearcat. The air was still, the sun off the snow blinding, the quiet oddly unsettling in a place where quiet was the norm. In his gut, Stephen felt that something was not right, but from what he’d observed, he couldn’t wrap an understanding around what the trouble might be. He liked Skye, genuinely liked her, yet he’d seen fear in Anne’s eyes. It was fear, wasn’t it? But what could a friend—and it was clear that Skye was a friend—bring to Anne that would make her so afraid?
He looked at the other cabin on Crow Point, Meloux’s. He wished the old Mide were there now. Whatever it was that troubled Anne, Meloux would know and would know, too, how to help her. Stephen hopped off the Bearcat and made his way through the snow to Meloux’s cabin. He spent a couple of minutes clearing away the deep drift that lay against the entrance. He knew the door wasn’t locked, and he opened it. Inside he caught the wonderful fragrance of the place, the smell of Meloux’s long existence there, of the sage and cedar the old Mide kept for smudging, of the herbs with which he scented the ticking of his mattress, of the succulent stews and fry bread and wild roasted meats that had, over the decades, soaked into the logs of the walls and floor. Despite the familiar look and smell of the place, he felt alone, abandoned in a way. Meloux was always around when he was needed, but not this time. Stephen thought how Meloux had urged him to dream, to try to have a vision. He hadn’t had a chance yet, but he would. Maybe tonight.
Stephen left the cabin and closed the door behind him. He waded through the snow, which came well above his knees, back toward Rainy’s. He approached from the side, where there was a window facing south. Anne had pulled back the curtain that covered the window, probably to let in as much light as possible. As he came near, a big cloud crossed the sun, and the glare off the windowpanes vanished. Through the glass, he could see clearly inside. And what he saw was Skye holding Anne in her arms, their lips pressed together in a long, passionate kiss.
He stood dead still and remembered the day he’d spent sitting in the meadow and how, in every moment, his world had changed, and he understood with a deep and abiding clarity that in the moment of this kiss his world had changed again.
CHAPTER 21
Cork sat in Jenny’s Forester in the parking lot of the Tamarack County Sheriff’s Department. The engine was running, and he had his cell phone out. He speed-dialed Rainy, put the phone to his ear, and realized his heart was racing. Not with excitement, but as if he were afraid. The phone at the other end rang several times, then he heard her voice.
“This is Rainy Bisonette. I can’t take your call right now, but leave me a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Migwech.”
He waited for the signal tone and said, “Hey, Rainy, it’s me. Cork.”
He paused, trying to decide what he should say next. When they’d been together, talking with Rainy had been so easy, so . . . good. He thought about how close he’d felt to her after making love, how full, how complete. Then she’d left. Because her son had needed her. He understood that. What he didn’t understand was that open-ended parting she’d offered him in their final moments together on Crow Point: I don’t want to make promises I can’t keep, and I don’t want that from you either. No promises? What was that abou
t? Had he asked her for any? Did she feel trapped? Was she giving him some kind of signal, some desire for distance that was about more than just the miles she intended to put between them?
“Got a favor to ask,” he blundered on. “Annie’s home and is dealing with something pretty hard. She wants some time to herself. Henry offered his cabin, but Annie doesn’t feel comfortable there. Would it be all right if she used yours for a while? Give me a call and let me know.”
He hesitated. What more was there to say? That he loved her, maybe?
“I hope things are going well out there in Arizona. Feels a little like you’re on Mars.”
He realized his heart was beating as if he’d run a mile and his throat was dry.
“Okay, guess that covers it.”
He hung up, feeling pretty lousy, feeling like he’d screwed up with Rainy in ways he couldn’t even begin to imagine. At the same time, he was pissed at her for making him feel this way.
“More than half a goddamn century old,” he said to himself, “and you still don’t have a clue about women.”
He holstered his cell phone, killed the car engine, and went inside the sheriff’s department to have a conversation that he was looking forward to about as much as he looked forward to athlete’s foot.
Fifteen minutes later, he sat in the visitor’s booth of the county jail. Raymond Bluejay Wakemup, wearing an orange jumpsuit, was escorted to the other side of the glass. Wakemup was in his mid-thirties, gaunt in the way of some people who chronically battle addictions. His black hair was cut short. The blue-green head of a tattooed snake crawled out of the top of his jumpsuit and up the left side of his neck. He was clearly puzzled by Cork’s presence. When Cork reached for the phone, Ray Jay did the same, but warily.
“Boozhoo, Ray Jay,” Cork said.
“Boozhoo.” Only a single word, but it was full of questions. He said no more, simply waited. Very Ojibwe. No need to talk until talk was necessary.
“Stella asked me to come,” Cork said.
Now Ray Jay looked truly confused. “She’s coming tomorrow.”
“There’s something she wants you to know before that.”
Ray Jay fell silent again, his dark eyes intense as he waited for Cork to go on.
Cork leaned nearer the glass. What he knew from his years as a law enforcement officer was that when you had bad news to deliver, you got right down to it. “Dexter’s dead, Ray Jay.”
Ray Jay’s head snapped back, as if Cork had hit him squarely in the face with a baseball bat. “You’re lying.”
“Honest to God, I wish I were. But it’s true. I’m sorry.”
The gaunt Shinnob sat a moment, stunned. Finally he managed to say, “How?”
“Someone killed him. And it wasn’t an accident.”
“They killed him on purpose?”
“Yes.”
“Why? He was just a lovable mutt. Who’d want to kill him?”
“I don’t know. Is there somebody who might have a grudge against you?”
“I haven’t done nuthin to anybody. I’ve been clean and sober for almost two years. No fights, nuthin.”
“Then it might be that somebody used Dexter to send Stella a message. Or it might even have been meant for Marlee.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Maybe so, but there it is.”
Ray Jay’s chest heaved as he gulped air, like a drowning man. “How’d they kill him? How’d they kill Dex?”
“As nearly as I could tell, they cut his throat.”
“They had to get close to him for that.”
“So a friend? Somebody he knew?”
Ray Jay slumped in his chair, shoulders fallen, the hollows of his face sunk even deeper. “Hell, coulda been a stranger. Dex, he was always too friendly with everybody.” Now there were tears, big drops rolling down Ray Jay’s high cheekbones. “That dumb dog. That dumb, sweet dog. Jesus, what am I gonna do?”
Cork looked at him and figured he knew exactly what Ray Jay would do. Ray Jay would get himself drunk for the first time in almost two years. And Ray Jay would slide right back into the alcoholism that, before Dexter came into his life, had threatened to destroy him.
“Who’s your sponsor, Ray Jay?”
“Jon Bjork.”
“I’m going to have Jon come over and talk to you. Would that be okay?”
“I don’t want to talk to nobody right now.”
“I think it would be good to talk to Jon.”
“I said nobody.”
“All right, your call. You need anything?”
“Yeah. Dexter back. But that’s something you can’t do. Not you, not nobody. So why don’t you just get the hell outta here and leave me be.”
Ray Jay slammed the phone back onto its cradle, drew himself out of the chair, and vanished from Cork’s sight.
Cork understood why Stella had asked him to cover this chore. It had been tough. For someone who cared about Ray Jay, it might have been damn near impossible.
* * *
On his way back to the rez to report his conversation to Stella Daychild, Cork made a brief stop at home. Stephen hadn’t returned from Crow Point yet. Waaboo was down for a nap. Jenny was at the kitchen table working on a piece of fiction.
“Short story?” Cork asked.
“Who knows?” she replied wistfully. “Maybe the start of my first novel.”
“Mind if I keep your car for a while? I need to go back out to the rez.”
“Stella?” Jenny asked.
Was there something suggestive in her voice? Cork wasn’t certain, so he answered simply, “Yeah. I need to fill her in on my talk with Ray Jay.”
Jenny eyed him. He wasn’t certain what was going on in her head, but he felt oddly uncomfortable. Finally she shrugged and said, “I’m going nowhere. The car’s yours as long as you need it.”
Cork fixed himself a bologna sandwich, grabbed an apple, and took his lunch on the road.
At the Daychilds’, he reported to Stella, “Ray Jay took it pretty hard.”
“I figured,” Stella said. “Want a Coke or something? Coffee?”
“I’d take coffee, thanks. Black.”
Cork sat at the dinette in Stella’s living room, and Stella brought in two mugs. She placed one in front of Cork, took the other for herself, and sat across from him. She looked tired, and Cork felt his heart go out to her. She had a lot on her plate at the moment and, except for him, it seemed, no help in dealing with these things.
He said, “I thought it might be good to have Jon Bjork talk to Ray Jay. He’s Ray Jay’s AA sponsor.”
“I really thought this time Ray Jay had it kicked. But without Dexter . . .” Stella shook her head and sipped her coffee. “Me, I couldn’t have made it except for my kids. You’ve got to have something, someone, to hold on to. Ray Jay’s got nothing now.”
“Not true. He has you.”
She frowned. “When they put us in foster care, that pretty much screwed up the family ties. Ray Jay and Harmon, they went their ways. Me, I went mine. Maybe if they’d tried to keep us all together.”
Cork understood. In Minnesota, Indian children were fourteen times more likely than white children to be placed in foster care, the widest such gap in the nation. Despite the dictates of the 1978 Indian Child Welfare Act, which required that tribal members be involved in child placement, these decisions usually remained in the hands of white social welfare workers who often had little understanding or appreciation of Indian families or the traditional roles family members played in the raising of children. The result was that families were often separated and familial ties irrevocably broken.
“Anything I can help you with, just give a holler.”
“Actually, there is something. Could you give me a lift to Ray Jay’s place? I want to get it cleaned before he comes home tomorrow.”
Cork glanced toward a closed door down the hallway at the other end of the house. “Leaving Marlee here?”
“No, she’ll come along.”<
br />
“How will you get back?”
“Judy’s driving over to help when she gets off work at the casino.” Stella was speaking of Judy Goodrow, Cork knew. A cousin. “She’ll give us a ride home.”
“Is she staying with you tonight?”
Stella shook her head. “She’s got a date.”
“Anybody staying with you tonight?”
“Uncle Shorty offered again.”
“He was supposed to be here last night.”
“The only offer I’ve had so far.”
“All right, let’s take it one step at a time. Let’s get you over to Ray Jay’s.”
“Thank you.”
Stella went to the closed door and knocked. “Marlee, honey? We’re going to clean Ray Jay’s place.” She eased the door open and disappeared inside.
When Stella came back out, Marlee was with her, still moving gingerly. Stella helped her into her coat, then put her own coat on, and Cork held the door open for them. In the Forester, Marlee sat in back, Stella up front.
As Cork maneuvered out of the yard and up the drive toward the highway, Marlee asked, “How’s Stephen?”
“Worried about you.”
Marlee was quiet a few moments. “I don’t want to see him right now.”
Stella turned and spoke over the seat back. “That’s okay, sweetie. You don’t have to see anybody until you’re ready.”
“I mean, I want to see him. But I don’t.”
“I understand,” Stella said.
“Does he?” Marlee directed this at Cork.
“He’s having some trouble with it, but I think he does.”
“Tell him I’ll call him,” she said.
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