The Shaman's Knife (28 page)

Even to me, what I had in mind seemed like the strangest way in the world to conduct an interrogation. When his eyes opened again I was ready.

“You didn't kill Thelma or Dennissie, right?” I said.

His eyes did not light up appreciably.

“But you may have an idea who did, or how it happened.”

He thought about that.

“Did you see Maisie or anybody else at the house?”

“No,” he muttered.

“Suppose I let you go—”

I was going to go on to say that he could then tell me in his own time and his own words what he did know. But I didn't get the whole thought out before he interrupted, “Don't do that!”

Amazed, I asked, “Don't do what?”

“Don't let me go!” He was awake now, and very scared.

What happened then was that we both crawled rather slowly and painfully out from under the boat and walked a few feet apart through yesterday's now-slushy snow. We passed the hotel and headed toward the detachment while I tried to figure out where to go from there. Two words kept going through my mind:
protective custody
.

“You're afraid of somebody,” I said. “Who?”

He just shook his head—but when we were passing the rec hall I noticed that he was stealing glances to his right where Davidee and his family lived. None of them were anywhere in sight.

Later on, in Annie's house, where I'd taken him, Andy played cards with Annie's two kids and ate ravenously and drank hot chocolate. Bouvier picked us up in the van about seven and the three of us drove to Barker's house, Andy scrunched down in the back, obviously not wishing to be seen.

“That reporter Erika Hall,” Bouvier said, “she's been all over me asking where the hell you are and what's going on.”

“What did you tell her?”

“Nothing.”

He told me that Erika had heard about me bringing in Davidee from his hunting grounds the day before. That piece of information wouldn't have been hard to come by, with everybody in town talking about it. Maybe she got it from Byron.

“She asked me about you invoking his parole to order that he stay in town, and wanted to know what that was all about. I told her she'd have to get that from you.”

“Does she know about the Nikes or the fifty with blood on it?”

“I don't think so. She didn't mention it. And she would have.”

“How would she know about me ordering Davidee to stay in town?”

“Well, she has that connection with Byron. Also, she interviewed Debbie, Davidee, and their parents.”

I continued to avoid Erika for the rest of that day on the grounds that as much as I did like her, I had no wish to have her threshing out the case in the next edition of
News/North
, including quotes that might start from my “no comment” and go on to interview “aroused townspeople” and “fearful parents” and even “puzzled shaman.” She'd certainly get on to Jonassie, as her original story from Byron's phone call away back in Franklin House had mentioned shamanism.

If she ever lucked on to hearing any details about the shaman's missing knife and its menacing gyrfalcon handle, half the Western Arctic would go to bed scared.

That night in Barker's house Andy had a bad nightmare, babbling about a knife and screaming the name Leah and struggling as I tried to hold him. Bouvier went outside and came back with a cooking pot full of snow and we held handfuls of snow to Andy's face and neck. He finally came out of the nightmare, shivering with terror.

The next morning Andy didn't remember the nightmare, or said he didn't. I said, “You kept yelling Leah's name. Why?”

“Leah . . .” he began miserably. I kept pressing him but he set his lips and refused to say anything more, or talk at all.

The next morning, a mild day when many people in town seemed to be out wandering around and enjoying the sun, several had congregated in the rec hall to prepare for the long-heralded entertainment and dance that night. Among them were Byron Anolak with Debbie and their baby, Julie, as well as Tommy Kungalik, Paulessie, Davidee, and several others. The three throat-singing women from Pond Inlet, well known because of an interview on CBC Inuvik, came in and looked around, chatting among themselves and with some of the older locals.

Davidee was giving a lot of the orders. I remembered Lewissie telling me he'd be running the tape machine. When I came in he instantly looked past me, behind me. Looking for Andy?

Some tension, or at least constraint, was noticeable among Byron and the other young men when Davidee was nearby. A couple of times when Davidee said something, the other three would react grudgingly, if at all. Davidee was haranguing first Paulessie, then Tommy Kungalik, and finally Byron. Once Byron pointedly turned and walked away from him.

Debbie ignored Davidee as she tacked some fresh bunting to a wall. The tape-playing machine seemed to belong to Davidee, or at least he was the custodian of it. He plugged it into a wall outlet and played a Willie Nelson tape apparently as a check. Then he picked up the tape player, and left.

Everything seemed to be in readiness. Big Paulessie, little Tommy, and Byron—Byron carrying the baby, Julie—went off together, Byron and Debbie chatting briefly before they left.

Debbie had glanced at me from time to time. With the place almost empty, she came over to me.

“Davidee is looking for Andy,” she said. “Is he somewhere safe?”

“Yes,” I said. I didn't say where.

She nodded and then spoke hurriedly. “Davidee was out to number five, looking . . . He's never paid much attention to Andy before. Could Andy know something?”

I didn't answer. I could tell by her eyes that she noted this.

“There's something going on,” she said. “I'm worried. Byron and Paulessie and Tommy Kungalik got something planned that might be bad. Byron told me about it. They've decided they're through taking all the crap that Davidee throws at them, and are going to do something about it at the dance tonight.”

“Do you know what?”

“Davidee claims that they all owe him money that they borrowed from Dennissie, says that Dennissie owed him money, so he's trying to collect it from them. Tommy Kungalik got paid for some carpentry work he did in the shack at the airstrip, making a desk for Bradley Air. He's got a check that he could cash at the Co-op if he wanted to. Davidee shoved him around trying to get him to sign it over to him. And you know he's always on Paulessie's back and Byron's, calling Byron a no-good cripple and trying to get money or drugs from him—”

“Drugs?”

“That's what Byron says. Sometimes there are drugs here. Apparently the dealer don't trust Davidee but Davidee thinks he might trust Byron, so he tries to get Byron to get some for him.”

“What drugs?”

“You know him, he talks big, cocaine or hash maybe.”

“So what are they going to do? I mean, what can they do?” She let out a long breath. “They know that none of them are good enough fighters to stand up to Davidee alone. What they're talking about is picking a fight with him tonight, just, you know, bumping him on the dance floor or something, and when Davidee goes at whoever does it the other two will get into it and the three of them will beat him up. They talk about teaching him a lesson so that he won't bully any of them again because he'll know that he has three to deal with from now on.”

“You think that would work?”

She shook her head several times, for emphasis. “Tonight, who knows? But next time he gets one of them alone, which is always going to happen sooner or later, I hate to think about it.”

When I left the rec hall it was still the broad daylight of early afternoon, with hours left before the big party was supposed to start. I intended to try Maisie again about whether the size-eight boots in the latent prints had been hers. Also, I would try Leah again. Bouvier had found out for me where she lived, in one of the houses along the airstrip road. She was one of the many conundrums in this case so far.

When questioned along with Sarah and Agnes she had admitted, as they all did, that from time to time she had gone home with Dennissie. Yet I'd had the feeling from the start that she was more complicated than the other two. For that reason—and on the grounds that, until I could get Andy to talk, which I was sure would happen eventually, I wasn't getting anywhere—I walked through lightly falling snow to the house Bouvier had pointed out to me. The house, like only a few others in Sanirarsipaaq, was one of the original 512s, one of the neater ones. There was no clutter of discarded or half-discarded building materials outside. A chained dog barked at me, but not with much fervor, almost as if he ranked as a pet. I said, “Hello, dog,” and it wagged its tail as I approached the door. I noticed that, although a little snow had fallen for an hour or two around noon before the sun came out, there were no footprints approaching or leaving the door.

At my knock, the door was answered immediately by a youngish-looking woman, whom I correctly judged to be Leah's mother. There was a resemblance in the delicate features. She said nervously that Leah was not home, had gone out earlier and was not yet back.

“How long ago?” I asked.

“Maybe an hour,” she said.

But leaving no tracks in the fresh snow, I thought.

Normally, if this had not been a visit by a man with the RCMP crest on his hat, I would have been asked in for tea. My people are hospitable, even to strangers. As it was, I thought that Leah's mother looked distinctly ill at ease and possibly was lying about Leah not being home. I couldn't force my way in, but I did mention that she must have left before the snow, because there were no footprints. The mother looked even more nervous, saying, “Well, it must have been longer ago, then, I've been . . .” and let that trail off.

I left then, but knew I had some time before things started happening at the rec hall, so an hour later I tried for Leah again.

At Leah's house, there were still no footprints outside.

I knocked. This time Leah answered the door.

I had the feeling that she had seen me coming, for she immediately invited me in. The kitchen was spotless, although meal things were still on the table, including a bowl of stew that I recognized as rabbit, plates of bread and butter, and a jar of stewed fruit.

“Have you eaten?” Leah said.

I hadn't. I hadn't gone to the hotel, because it almost inevitably would have meant running into Erika Hall's questioning—even though I would rather have liked to hear what Erika had found out, in case it included things I didn't know. If it hadn't been that Bouvier was occupied keeping Andy safe and out of the way at Barker's house, I would have sicked him on Erika with instructions to listen but not talk about more than the weather.

Leah set out a plate for me. Her mother came in and poured tea and sat silently watching us both. There was no sign of a father. Leah volunteered that he was out hunting, smiling rather tensely. “For more than rabbits, we hope.”

As she pushed the stewpot toward me it was not that there were any visible signs, hands shaking or teacup rattling, but there was something in her manner that suggested deep tension; the kind of tension one feels when about to admit frankly to an evasion, or lie.

The admission came immediately. “I was home before when you came, but I did not want to talk to you.”

“I found her crying after you left,” her mother said. She looked sad but somehow resigned.

“I knew that I should talk to you,” Leah said. “I have hardly slept for days. If Jonassie had come to see me I would have told him everything . . .”

I didn't know exactly what was going on. When she mentioned Jonassie it was as if at the mention of his name she had mentally crossed herself. Of course, that was nonsense. But the image persisted. And then I had a growing sense of what I was witnessing and now was part of. Imagine anyone with a deep religious conviction, one who believes that sins or transgressions should not be kept secret. That was the impression I was getting from Leah now. But I was equally certain that what motivated her was not the result of Christian teaching. I have met people, more of them old than young, who, although they might pay lip service to the teachings or church services of Catholic or Anglican missionaries, in their souls believe that only the shaman has a true connection with another world, the spirit world.

“I have been very troubled,” Leah said. Her voice and her eyes looked it, and the strained expression in her mother's eyes confirmed it. “I knew that you were spending a lot of time with Jonassie, and that perhaps through the spirits that help him he would learn all that happened.”

I thought: things that you could have told me but didn't.

It was as if she was reading my mind. Perhaps she was. Her eyes had never left mine. “Things that I could have told you but didn't,” she said, her words precisely echoing my thoughts. “I will tell you now. Dennissie and I . . . He had other girls when I was away at school, which is natural, but not when I was here. And I went with other boys when I was away but Dennissie and I felt blessed when we were together. We talked of children we would have, and all this is why, because of the privacy we had there, sometimes I would go to his home when his granny was asleep.”

I thought I knew what was coming, but was thinking that the only bloodstained small footprints had not been hers but Andy's. I had a sudden thought. “What size boots do you wear?”

She looked surprised. “Size six.”

So now I knew about both sets of latent prints, hers and probably Maisie's. She went on as if I hadn't interrupted.

“The only trouble we had was Davidee,” she said. “He sometimes followed me. Even on the street he would make gestures . . .” To describe the gestures, she held up her left hand with the thumb and forefinger touching, and made her right forefinger go back and forth rapidly through the circle her left hand had made. Then she held the circled fingers to her mouth and made her tongue go back and forth. Gestures not unknown elsewhere in the world.