As he’d climbed into his mother’s old twin bed, Grandfather had sat beside him, the wolf cradled in his palm. “Did your mother tell you about your clan?” Scared and sad, Rémi had shaken his head. His mother had always refused to talk about her family or the old ways. Grandfather had stroked his hair and placed the carving in his hand. “Your mother was a Wolf, so you are too.”
Rémi’s eyes had bugged out. “I’m a werewolf?”
Grandfather had smiled and shaken his head. “We have three clans: Wolf, Bear, and Turtle. You are a Wolf.”
“Are you a Wolf, too?”
“No, I’m a Bear.”
“Why can’t I be a Bear like you?”
“That is the way of the Iroquois. Every child belongs to his mother’s clan. Tomorrow you will meet the others. But now, you need to rest.” Rémi had fallen asleep clutching the wolf carving in his small hand.
Carrying the wolf and the broken tail to the kitchen, he placed them on the table. Grandfather joined him, and together they stared down at the pieces. After a minute of silence, Grandfather studied Rémi’s face. “Like the wolf’s tail, a part of you is separated from the rest.”
Rémi grimaced. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“Good, bad. It doesn’t matter. How you deal with today determines the outcome of tomorrow.” Grandfather clapped him on the back and returned to the stove.
Grandfather’s advice always made sense—in retrospect. But when he gave it out, it was frustrating as hell. Whatever. He was making too much out of a broken childhood toy. Shrugging off the unease, he helped Raksótha finish the Indian tacos they were having for dinner. They heaped seasoned ground beef, shredded lettuce, diced tomatoes and cheese on top of warmed fry bread.
“Did you see who broke in?”
“No. Too much mess for a cat burglar, though.”
Rémi swallowed a bite of taco, then rested his elbows on the table. “Things are getting out of control. This makes five home robberies in one month. And half the kids I work with have dropped out of counseling. That can’t be a coincidence.” There was no point in bringing in the provincial police. Unless there was a murder, the Sûreté du Québec wanted nothing to do with the reserve.
“We’ll handle this on our own, just like we always do.”
Rémi snorted. “This isn’t a couple kids smoking in the park. Crimes like this escalate. And without our own tribal police force, we’re impotent to do anything.” When he’d quit the Montréal Police department four years ago to work as a tribal cop on the rez, he hadn’t expected to end up unemployed one month later. The native police department turned out to be corrupt and was subsequently disbanded by the Public Safety committee. He understood their reasons, but it still burned that the force was axed rather than cleaned up. Since then, he’d done what he could for the community by working as a drug and alcohol counselor as well as a first responder. Yet it wasn’t enough.
“I’ll talk with Tommy. The Defenders can organize patrols.”
“Good, but that’s not a long-term solution.”
“The Public Safety committee has a meeting scheduled with the SQ next week. I’ll mention the robbery. Maybe that will help move things along.”
Rémi’s phone rang. Pulling it out of his pocket, he glanced at the caller ID. The SQ. Shit. “Excuse me, Rakso. I need to take this call.” He stood up and stepped into the hall before answering. “Rémi Whitedeer here.”
“This is Lieutenant Régis Gauthier. We have Corey Simon in lock-up. His mother said you’re counseling him and if he’s in jail, it obviously isn’t working. Said it’s up to you if you want to bail him out.”
Rémi banged his head against the wall. How could these kids win the battle against their addictions when even their own parents had given up on them? “What’s he in for?”
“Tried to steal a bottle of booze at a dépanneur here in town.”
Maybe Corey’s mother was right after all. He’d have to step things up with the kid before he lost him too. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
He went back into the kitchen, flattened his palms on the table, and locked gazes with his grandfather. “That was Gauthier at the SQ station. They’ve got Corey. Rakso, we must bring the tribal police back. The chaos has been building for four years now. It’s time to end it. Before people start dying.”
Sergeant Alyssa Morgan reached into the trunk of her rusted Toyota Corolla and lifted out the box of documents and mementos she’d accumulated over the years while working for the Sûreté du Québec. The tip of a pink feather poked through the box’s flaps. Her friends had given her the plumed pen the day she’d graduated from the SQ’s National Police School. She’d been so young and optimistic then. But six years on the force, especially the six months she’d worked undercover with the organized crime unit, had cured her of that.
Balancing the box on the bumper, she slammed the trunk closed and shrugged off her dark thoughts. Tomorrow marked the start of a new era in her career. This small SQ outpost was as far removed from her previous work with gangs as she could get and still be in the vicinity of Montréal. Even though she didn’t have a drop of aboriginal blood, she’d jumped at the chance to head up her own squad of native agents for the SQ. Leaving behind fieldwork to focus on police management would save her career. Maybe it would save her sanity too.
She heaved the unwieldy box off the bumper and headed through the visitor parking lot to the station’s main entrance. Until her ID card was uploaded with the necessary access codes, she had to enter by the same door as the general public.
When she got there, she stopped in front of what appeared to be a two-hundred-pound door. How the heck was she going to open it with a large thirty-pound box in her hands? Ah, the wheelchair button. That would work. She leaned forward to bump it with her elbow but, unbalanced by the awkward box, she crashed into the wall. And still managed to miss the stupid button. Crap! Maybe she could back into it with her butt. The button aligned with her lower back, so she stood on her tiptoes and wiggled, trying to make contact.
“Having fun?”
Her head whipped around at the sound of an amused male voice, and her mouth opened to give the asshole shit. But as the tall, well-built man approached, she forgot everything she’d been about to say. She took in his straight shoulder-length black hair, copper skin, broad muscular shoulders, and to-die-for sparkling green eyes. If this job meant working with native men even half as handsome as him, this would be a sweet posting indeed.
Lost as she was in contemplating the man’s amazing beauty, her grip on the box faltered. Before she could blink, he bounded up the steps and caught it. “Here, let me get this for you.” Then he gave her a once-over that ended in a cocky grin. “Think you can manage the wheelchair button now, sweetheart?”
Had he just insulted her? Unsure how to respond, she pushed open the door and held it so he could carry the box inside. He dropped it on the reception counter and smiled at the civilian receptionist. “Bonsoir, Chantal. You’re looking pretty. Got a big date tonight?”
Alyssa closed her lids and suppressed a groan. The guy hadn’t insulted her at all. He was just a big flirt, as could be attested by the blush now coloring the cheeks of the fifty-plus-year-old Chantal.
At least Alyssa wasn’t the only one reduced to a blob of feminine mush by the flash of his brilliant smile. The woman preened for him, touching her hair, tilting her head, pushing out her breasts. “Nonsense, Mr. Whitedeer. You’ve ruined me for all other men.”
The pair continued to chat in low voices until, finally, Chantal buzzed open the door. “I’ll let Lieutenant Gauthier know you’re here. Go on back to his desk.”
Before stepping through the door and disappearing from view, Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Oh-So-Sexy turned and winked at Alyssa. As she walked up to the counter, she struggled to bring her pulse under control. “Hi. I’m Alyssa Morgan.”
“Oh right. The new girl. We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow morning.”
“I thou
ght I’d drop off some stuff tonight.”
“Great idea. First days are always difficult without having to deal with setting up your things too. I’ll buzz you in.” The woman rose and held the door open. “Go straight down the hall, turn left at the water cooler, right at the printer. Yours is the third desk down on the right.”
Straight, left, right, right. No problem. After a few false starts and track backs, she located a cubicle with her name on it. And not a moment too soon. Her arms were about to fall off. She slid the heavy load onto the desk and shook out her tired arms. Then she opened the box and started unpacking.
As she set the family photo beside the monitor, her eyes misted. They’d taken the picture the Christmas before Andy had died, caught in the crossfire of a turf war between the Vipers and the Raptors. Her brother had been only fourteen, and his death was the reason she’d enrolled in the police academy when she’d graduated from high school the following spring. It had taken ten years to get her revenge. But the price had been high. Maybe too high.
She swallowed the lump in her throat, retrieved her files from the box, and started placing them in the filing cabinet. Even though the SQ was moving toward being green, she kept hard copies of all her reports. Just in case.
“Hey, Morgan.”
Startled to hear her name being called, she turned and peered through the cubicle opening. A uniformed man leaned out of an interrogation room across the aisle. Great. Lieutenant Gauthier, her new boss. “Sir?”
“Got a pen? Mine just broke, and I can’t leave this kid until his release forms are signed.”
“Sure, give me a minute.” She ducked back into her cubicle and began opening and closing drawers. No pens. There had to be at least one in all the junk she’d brought. She upended the now empty box. No luck. Crap. The only pen she had was her pink plumed one.
Oh well. She crossed the aisle, poked her head into the room, and came to an abrupt stop. He was there. If he’d thought she was amusing before, he’d find her downright hilarious now. Come on, Alyssa. A little humiliation never killed anyone. “Here’s a pen, sir.”
Her boss gawked at the feathered pen as if it were a rabid pink flamingo about to bite his hand. All the while, he grinned, green eyes glittering. “It’s the only one I could find,” she said.
Gauthier smirked at her. After signing the forms, he handed the pen to the very sexy Mr. Whitedeer. “Rémi, sign here.” When he was done, Gauthier slid the papers over to a sullen-looking native teen sitting beside Mr. Sex God. “Your turn, Corey. This Promise to Appear states that you’ll show up for your court date. Think of this as probation. If you violate the terms of the agreement, you go right back in the slammer. Is that understood?”
The kid dipped his head but didn’t speak. Rémi nudged him with his elbow. Once, twice. “All right, all right. I get it.” Rémi nudged him again. “Sir.” Corey grabbed the pen and signed the form.
As soon as the kid was done, Gauthier took the pen back and tossed it to Alyssa. “First thing tomorrow, hit the supply cabinet.” Her cheeks flamed, but she managed to nod before spinning on her heel and walking as fast as she could back to her desk. But not fast enough to miss hearing Rémi’s bone-melting laugh.
CHAPTER 2
Gauthier had been right during their briefings last week—her SQ uniform would have tipped the balance to hostile. Alyssa tugged on the hem of her civilian skirt and examined the stern expressions of the six men and one lone woman surrounding the meeting table at the Blackriver Community Centre. Stony faces greeted her smile in the sauna-like heat as the lazy fan twirled above their heads, barely stirring the air in the cramped conference room. Not at all the reception she’d anticipated.
The names of the Public Safety Committee members she knew from the photos in the file Gauthier had given her about the Blackriver First Nation. Three of the men were elected councillors from the twelve-member band council: Grand Councillor Laroche, Councillor Whitedeer, and Councillor Delorimier. The woman was Councillor Redleafe.
The other three men represented the tribe’s nine traditional chiefs and clan mothers: Chief Elliot for the Turtle clan, Chief Whitedeer for the Bear clan, and Chief Nichols for the Wolf clan. Apparently, Whitedeer was to this community what Tremblay was to the Quebécois or Smith to the Americans. She’d already met three Whitedeers since coming to the area. Were they all related?
The band council had petitioned the SQ to increase patrols on the reserve. Even so, as Gauthier had explained, the residents didn’t want white cops on their land and saw their involvement as nothing more than an interim solution, a necessary evil. She understood their concerns, but something more had to be done. Since the disbanding of the tribal police, crime had been on the rise. Reinstating some sort of law enforcement was the only way to curb the increase.
Alyssa shifted in her seat and crossed her legs. She smiled again, trying to relax. The committee members’ stern expressions no doubt stemmed from concern for the well-being of their community. They’d be thrilled to learn the SQ had decided to put together a native squad to patrol Blackriver.
Gauthier’s file had also contained details regarding the main factions on the reserve. About half the residents supported the band council. The other half consisted of traditionalists, people who advocated a return to the old ways, a return to self-sufficiency and self-government. Most of the traditionalists, who looked to the traditional chiefs and the clan mothers for spiritual guidance, fell into two camps: the Defenders and the Guardians.
Straightening her spine, Alyssa surveyed the group gathered around the table. “The SQ has listened to your concerns regarding the lack of policing on the reserve and the resultant increase in crime. I’m pleased to announce today we’ll be putting in place a special SQ native squad who will patrol the Blackriver reserve full-time.”
Her smile froze as silence and stunned expressions greeted her pronouncement. Were they worried government bureaucracy would slow things down? If so, she could allay those fears. “The squad can be in place as soon as next month.”
Councillor Redleafe shifted in her seat. “That’s going to be a hard sell.”
“Why? Isn’t a native squad what you want?”
Chief Elliot snorted. “Whether the cops are white or Indian, they’d still just be puppets of the SQ.”
Puppets? Seemed Gauthier had omitted some very important details during their earlier briefings. Alyssa pressed her spine against the wooden back of her chair to stop a drop of sweat trickling down between her shoulder blades. “It was my understanding the SQ had already discussed this with the committee.”
“That Station Commander of yours, Landry, proposed the idea during a meeting we had last spring,” Grand Councillor Laroche said.
“Good. So this isn’t a complete surprise.”
“But we shot it down,” Chief Nichols said. He addressed the band councillors. “You see what you get for even talking with the SQ? They’re trying to take us over.”
Discussions burst out around the table, interspersed with murmurs of assent. This was so not looking good for her new native squad. Alyssa poured herself a glass of water from the pitcher on the table and considered her options as the cool liquid slid down her throat. She had to do something to salvage the meeting. “If you don’t want an SQ native squad, what do you want?”
Their responses came in a rush of barely distinguishable words and emotions.
“We want a tribal police force that we control.”
“The Defenders will take up their rightful role as law enforcers for our people.”
“Local officers.”
“The Guardians will police the rez.”
Alyssa’s eyebrows shot up. “You want gangs managing the policing of the reserve? The SQ will never agree to that.” After all, it was the Defenders who’d instigated the dismantling of the tribal force. Soon afterward, the Guardians, a splinter group that disagreed with the Defender’s pacifist views, formed. Although the current Defenders weren’t as radical as
the Guardians, she considered both groups on par with the Vipers.
Chief Elliot slapped a hand on the table. “The Defenders and Guardians are hardly gangs, Ms. Morgan. Even if they were, we decide what happens on our land, not the SQ.”
Heat rushed to her face at the reprimand. Technically, they weren’t gangs, but they were heavily armed, volatile in their views, and far from qualified for the task. “Since the money will come from our budget, the SQ will decide. Besides, this committee doesn’t even agree on a solution.” When Elliot opened his mouth to argue, she held up her hand. “But in the spirit of working together, let’s consider each of your suggestions.” She began ticking them off on her fingers. “A tribal force. Isn’t that what got you into the current situation? You disbanded the last tribal force on charges of corruption and abuse of power. What makes you think you can do better this time?”
Councillor Delorimier spoke up. “Ninety percent of the force was not from the rez.”
“I thought your problem was with white officers.”
Chief Nichols laughed, the sound harsh and angry. “That’s the problem with whites. You think all natives are the same. Well, we’re not. The band made the mistake of hiring natives from other reserves and even other nations. They didn’t know our customs or our language. And they didn’t care about our community.”
“Exactly,” Delorimier said. “That’s why we want a completely local tribal police department.”
“Do you have enough trained officers to support a full force?”
Chief Elliot smiled. “We don’t need or want officers trained by the white cops. That’s why we have the Defenders and Guardians. They are the true enforcers of Gayanashagowa, the Great Law of Peace.”
Alyssa barely suppressed a shudder at the thought of telling Gauthier that the tribe had decided to let militants run the reserve. This was her chance to get off the streets and out of field work. “Fair enough. Tell you what—I’ll investigate all your proposals and put together a report for your review. After that, we’ll agree on the best solution for all.”
Sugar and Sin Bundle Page 18