Murder on the Red Cliff Rez (12 page)

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Authors: Mardi Oakley Medawar

BOOK: Murder on the Red Cliff Rez
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Everyone on Red Cliff knew Tracker's truck on sight. As they drove along Blueberry Road, drivers sailing by in the opposite lane flashed the Red Cliff wave. She waved back, ignoring any and all stares directed at her hooded passenger. No one could see David's or Michael's heads just below the porthole-sized rear windows. The afternoon sky was clearing, sun now dominating the sky, and with each
curve of the road came another heart-stopping view. Like migrating birds, artists of every ability annually flocked into Bayfield County. And not one of them has ever managed to capture on canvas or paper the unabashed beauty of Northern Wisconsin.
Reaching Red Cliff's firing range, the sand pit, Tracker negotiated the path ending at the pit's edge. From this point on, they'd be walking. Getting out of the sand pit, which was huge, meant scrambling up the sandy wall, then heading due north through a dense thicket of skinny poplars, birches, and tag alders. Waist-high raspberry bushes, denuded clusters of spiky sticks, were a hazard, every limb eager to rake exposed skin. Benny walked to the far left. Tracker could see him now and again through the tree line. When she heard him cry
“Ho-wah!”
she immediately veered in his direction.
David and Michael followed Tracker. Within minutes they found Benny standing in the middle of a road, one that shouldn't have been anywhere near Raspberry Point. Admittedly it wasn't much of a road. Not even a fourwheeler could have driven over the smashed-down saplings and bramble and widely grooved imprints created by the huge tires of a skidder—a log-pushing piece of equipment. There was a legally running pulp operation less than a couple of miles away, where a skidder was known to be working. Finding evidence of a skidder where it clearly shouldn't have been caused David's heart to thump in his chest.
“What the hell's going on?” Michael demanded.
David turned a bloodless face toward him. “Not now, man … not now.”
The four began walking again, Benny well out in front. No one spoke as they hiked along the treacherous path.
Little more than half an hour later, they cleared the top of the knoll. What they should have seen from this vantage point were hundreds of enormous white pines, darkened boughs crowding against the clear late-afternoon sky. What they should not have been seeing, but most certainly did, was sunlight glimmering off Lake Superior. Like sleepwalkers, the four continued forward until they reached the edge of unbelievable desolation.
David was the first to come to a semblance of reason, to understand that what they saw was real, not a buck-wild nightmare. His reaction came in a shout. “Holy shit!”
Tracker wanted to do a bit of yelling herself. Trouble was, her throat was locked and her brain refused to register the sight her eyes were taking in. Her feet began to move, taking her slowly along the border of what had been sacred ground. Like an automaton she stepped over and through heavy layers of ankle-breaking slash. When a berm became impassable, still numb from the neck down, she shifted her course, walking along a muddy rut. The skidder was long gone, as were the chain saws. There was no noise now, not even in the winds whipping at her clothing, swirling strands of hair around her face. Finally the heartbreak was too much and she crumbled.
 
She had no concept of time, had no idea how long she pressed her face against the earth, watered the clay with her tears. Hands captured her quaking shoulders and she dimly realized that she was being lifted to her feet. Still weak, she swayed. Strong arms caught her, encircled her. Like a frantic animal she grabbed for the strength the other offered and held on tight.
“We'll get ‘em, babe,” David said, resting his chin on her head. “I swear to God, we'll get 'em.”
 
 
Michael's normally glib tongue was silenced as he strode several yards behind them. Tracker was glad. This meant that he too was affected by the destruction. Head down, she walked close behind Benny, fighting off the urge to look left or right. New forests are full of sapling and fern ground clutter, but old growth forests are carpeted by nothing more than pine straw. This is because the huge boughs keep the floor in perpetual shade. Tracker remembered this old forest as it had been just last summer, with its mighty branches forming a canopy that rivaled the vaulted ceilings of the world's most impressive cathedrals, and its blessing of cooling shade on the hottest days.
In this new emptiness, the sun's brightness stung her eyes, filled her with an indescribable grief. She willed herself to focus, concentrate hard, for even in this chaos, there was a seam of order, a logical progression. Decimating a forest, particularly if the decimating was done in absolute secrecy, required planning. And money.
Lots of money.
They stood dangerously close to the cliff's edge, their bodies buffeted by winds that first skimmed the icy surface of Lake Superior, then surged straight up the jagged cliff wall. Tracker's hearing had returned, the winds now whistling shrilly against her ears.
Covering her ears with her hands, blocking both the wind and the numbing cold, she shouted, “The barge wasn't recovering.”
David hunched his shoulders against the wind. “Well, hell, Track, even I figured that one out.”
Benny, one hand clamping the hood to his head, lifted his chin, indicating an area a little less than thirty yards away. “Right there is where the logs were skidded over the side. Looks like they did all the cuttin' in the winter when there was a guarantee no one would be coming up here. All they had to do after that was wait for the thaw an' bring the barge in to pull up a prime load of number one Clear. Easy beans.”
“Hang on a second,” Michael shouted over a gust of wind. “I'm having some trouble with a few details. Just what is number one clear?”
Experiencing a new pang of grief, Tracker remained silent, turned to face the Big Lake. David took a deep breath, expelled it, then answered the question.
“Number one clear is timber that runs with a perfect grain. In other words, it's lumberyard dream wood. In the late 1800s old growth was cut down like grass, leaving only a few pockets of ancient trees. This particular stand belonged to the Tribe and was visited only twice a year, while the other stands are in the National Forest and are regularly patrolled. So if anyone was looking for trees wide as a man is tall and stretching up five hundred feet, this little isolated section would spring to mind. Especially when foreign markets are willing to pay millions for that grade of timber.”
Michael said pensively, “Based on that, it's even harder for me to believe a bunch of tree rustlers would come in here and wipe the place out before they had a guaranteed buyer. The risk factor wouldn't be worth the effort because we're talking about a whole lot of Indians who would be hugely pissed the minute they realized they'd been ripped off. And then there's the fact that any buyer is going to insist on a guarantee of delivery. Guarantees mean contracts. Now how the hell would anybody get anything legally binding on a load of hot lumber?”
Michael's question hung in the chilly air until Benny finally mused aloud, “Ya know, before somebody did the world a favor, I once had a cousin who was the Tribal Attorney.”
 
 
For a hard-core cop, Deputy Bjorke seemed to be getting the hang of arrest Indian style. During the drive back to Tracker's cabin, David rode shotgun, the deputy and Benny crouched out of sight in the minicab. Pulling into her drive Tracker fully expected Mushy to come bounding off the porch, barking a greeting. Opening the truck's door, she heard Mushy barking, but he wasn't on the porch. Stepping out, staying close to the front of the truck, she saw her dog, heard his barking, but the sound was muffled because Mushy was barking from behind the glass of the cabin's large front window.
David, standing on the opposite side of the truck, looked across the hood to her. “Who do you know who could trap Mush inside your house without getting killed in the effort?”
At a loss for an answer, Tracker locked eyes with him.
Getting anxious, David prodded, “Your dad, maybe?”
Tracker shook her head, said in a low voice, “He swears Mush's an incurable biter. Dad sometimes won't even get out of his truck until I've chained Mushy.” She looked around. There were no recently made car or truck tire markings in the drive.
David was studying the cabin, the dog trapped inside sounding louder. This was not good. He removed his pistol from the holster, checked the cylinder, snapped it closed. “Stay here.”
“But it's my cabin.”
David began to move away. “Don't fool with me, woman. I mean it. Stay here.”
 
Gun in both hands held stiff-armed and off to the side, David approached the cabin. Tracker, worrying a thumbnail
as she watched him, heard the cab's door open and then someone whispering.
“Track?” Michael had only in the last hour began calling her by the familiar nickname. “Stay exactly where you are and you'll block any sight of me from the windows. I'm gonna slip left to give David some backup.”
Tracker's nod was barely perceptible as the door behind her clicked closed. A heartbeat later she heard a faint rustling. Peripherally, she saw Michael slip across the yard; then she lost sight of him until he came to stand amid the scrawny maples lining the drive. The Glock Michael carried was held firmly in both hands, arms extended and locked at the elbows as he sighted down her very own front door. Meanwhile David neared the porch steps. He looked so handsome.
So vulnerable.
 
Doctor or not, Ricky was a tobacco addict. He made no excuses or offered apologies for the vice. In Cherokee his attitude is known as
Sgidvnusdi
, “That's just the way it is.” He had no idea how the expression for national Indian fatalism was said in Ojibway, nor did he particularly care. It was far too late to care. Far too late to learn to speak Chippewa beyond the usual hello and good-bye. Doc Ricky was smoking furiously as he packed. Then the bedside phone began to ring. He quickly checked Caller ID, then answered, speaking tersely. “What are you doing?”
Wanda, his assistant, was sobbing, quickly approaching hysterics.
Doc Ricky ran a hand through his hair, breathed heavily into the receiver. “Look, we've been all through this—”
“You don't understand!” she shrieked. “You've got to listen!”
Ricky had neither the time nor the tolerance to endure another of Wanda's weeping jags. “I've gotta go, Wanda.”
“Please!” he heard her wail as he slammed the phone down.
 
In his home office, the door firmly closed against his sharpeared wife, Tribal Chairman Perry Frenchette made a phone call. After two rings, his cousin-in-law Thelma answered.
“Just wanted to check on you. Find out how you're doing .”
Thelma sighed dramatically. “Oh, this has just been the most terrible day. I've tried to nap, ya know? But every time I close my eyes—”
“Yes, I'm sure,” Perry snapped, not at all interested in Thelma's inability to nap. Hunching forward, one hand cupped around the mouthpiece, he began speaking in a low, urgent tone. “Thelma, there's something I need you to do.”
“Me?” she squeaked.
“Yes, you. You're the only person I trust completely.”
Thelma didn't know whether to be flattered or terribly afraid.
 
Elliott Raven felt that if he had to explain to the county sheriff one more time that he didn't know where David or the sheriff's deputy had gone, he would explode. He'd sent out Mel and Joey to find them and that was the best he could do. Now he had to get on with locating the runaway
widow. Not equipped with a detective's cagey mind, Elliott did what came naturally. He called information in Oklahoma. Hey, why not? Information was free, and as the P.D. was forced to survive on a tight budget, free was real good.
 
Sheriff Bothwell poured himself yet another cup of coffee, the last stuff in the old pot. He grimaced as he drank the overcooked muck, blatantly eavesdropping on the dispatcher's one-sided telephone conversations.
 
Freddy Harold had caught hell because of that little girl being a witness. Now what she had or hadn't seen no longer seemed to matter because the wood was out of the water and safely hidden in the lumberyard in Ashland. So in essence, Freddy's most lucrative job to date was finished. The big boss had been something of a comfort to Freddy when he said that because Freddy had run the old man deep into the woods and the old man hadn't been seen or heard from in days, he'd most probably died of exposure. Which was a good thing, because once the body was found, the whole thing would look just like some old Indian fart's way of dying. Old people, the boss said, wandered off and died all the time. He'd said it was because of old-timer's disease.
On the matter of the girl, the boss had not been understanding at all. He'd yelled at Freddy, said he was nothing more than a brainless ape. The boss had gone on to say that the girl was now working with the police. The boss had given Freddy the girl's name, Tracker. What a dumb name for a girl. But knowing her name hadn't helped Freddy find her. While the last of the logs were being lifted, he'd driven around the small rez reading the names printed
on the mailboxes. Not one of them had TRACKER on it. He was tempted to simply come right out and ask questions about her, but even with his limited deductive skills, he had figured out that on an Indian reservation the Indians would take it entirely amiss that a big white man was inquiring about where to find one of their own. Now that the logs were safe, the big boss no longer seemed concerned about the girl. But because the operation's security was Freddy's job and the girl had breached that security, her living to talk about it severely damaged Freddy's reputation.
That's the thing that made Freddy just as mad as mad could be. His reputation as a bad guy was all he had, the only thing that earned him good money when other guys a whole lot smarter than he was worked as minimum-wage help in restaurant kitchens. If he couldn't find that girl and shut her up for good, he might as well get used to a life of dishpan hands. This possibility was why he was currently spending big in the Isle Vista Casino, in the bar area known as the Lanes. Freddy was being very friendly with the Indians seated at Mug Row, listening to the stories the Indian commercial fishermen told. It was clear their stories were meant to be jokes because the Indians all laughed like crazy. Freddy didn't understand half of what was being said, but he laughed heartily anyway. Then bought another round of beers, nodding as if he understood when the Indians all said,
Megwiitch!
 
The Tribal Courthouse was completely shut down when C. Clarence Begay unlocked the front door with a purloined key and slipped inside. For a good half hour he'd been a busy boy.
He wasn't busy anymore.
Expression thoroughly surprised, C. Clarence now lay flat on his back, staring sightlessly at the ceiling, his green chile-loving form less than a foot away from the taped outline of the recently deceased tribal attorney. Within the taped outline, a black stain had settled deep into the new powder blue carpeting. Now a fresher stain marked the woof and weave. The new carpet stain was caused by the small black hole in between C. Clarence's bushy eyebrows. The neat round hole was deceptive. The back section of C. Clarence's skull had been blown apart. Now not only would the office need new carpeting, because of the recent grisly wall spatter, it would also need a few licks of paint.
 
Imogen was physically and emotionally exhausted. Her mother had taken over her lively children, leaving Imogen perched like a bird on the living room couch and holding a cup of hot tea in her shaking hands. She'd been inside the safety of her parents' home less than five minutes when the phone started ringing. She did not need to be told that the call was from Wisconsin. She'd known that simply by the coldness in her father's tone. Now, sipping the tea without tasting it, she tried to take in what he was saying, tried with no success to fit together the jumble of words, make some sense of them. Then her father hung up. He turned to stare at her for a moment, then lifted the receiver and placed a call. Unfortunately, this second conversation she understood only too well.
“Yes, Northwest? I'd like to make two reservations for tomorrow morning's flight to Duluth.”
 
David was on the porch's first step and Michael eased out of the scruffy trees, quickly sidestepping in the direction of
the far corner of the cabin. Then all hell broke loose as the front door suddenly swung open and Mushy came bounding out. The big dog hit David squarely in the chest, knocking him flat on his back on the ground.
Michael fired.
Tracker screamed.
Then she was running toward David, and Michael averted his aim, raising the gun high just as it fired a second time.
David was cussing at the dog standing squarely on his chest. The dog weighed a ton and David feared his ribs would crack when Tracker appeared, grabbing the dog's thick collar, yelling for him to heel. Through every second of the excitement a wizened, filthy old man watched from the front door, dark eyes wide as saucers.
 
“Well, damn,” Uncle Bert said to the odd foursome. “I was just havin' a nap.”
Inside the living room, Benny took over the couch where Old Bert had previously been napping. Michael helped David examine himself for dog bites while Tracker knelt beside Mushy, petting him and repeatedly telling him that he was a good boy.
“Yeah, right,” David said snidely.

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