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Authors: Mardi Oakley Medawar

Murder on the Red Cliff Rez (9 page)

BOOK: Murder on the Red Cliff Rez
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David had expected her to begin the search at Bench Mark 900. Had she done that, she could easily have picked
up Benny's trail along the creek that fed into the Sand River. But because she had an idea of his actual direction, she'd bullied David into taking Big Sand Bay Road. This way, she would be coming in on Benny from behind. For now, she began to think of ways to shake off her police escort.
She was still mulling this over when the truck came to a complete stop. Realizing they'd arrived at the end of Big Sand Bay Road, she popped open the door and jumped out, running to the flatbed to retrieve her backpack. She was already slipping her arms through the shoulder straps when the others joined her. The four men were talking; Tracker heard their voices, but their words skimmed right past her. They were still talking when she set off, working to put distance between herself and them. Once she was inside the blind of thin trees, she couldn't see them, but she could clearly hear the Bayfield deputy swearing a blue streak.
Even for a seasoned woodsman the trek was a nasty slog. For a rookie it had to be hell, especially as swarms of bloodthirsty insects eagerly made everything twice as bad. But the deputy's yelps disturbed the stillness. Livid, she turned and backtracked.
 
Tipping her head back against her shoulders erased the shadow caused by the bill of her baseball cap. David had a clear view of her upturned face as she spoke in a low-voiced growl. “If
you
can't keep him quiet, give me your pistol.”
His tongue protruding slightly between his lips, David unsuccessfully fought a smile. He looked away for a second, then back down to Tracker. “Don‘tcha think shooting at him would be louder than his bitchin'?”
“Maybe,” she said. “But Benny might mistake the shots for a poacher.”
David slapped the insect stinging the side of his neck, looked at his hand, flicked the dead creature away. “Tell you what, I'll bathe all us manly guys in repellent and then we won't bother you with our complaints.”
“It's not perfumed, is it?”
David looked irritated. “No. It's fragrance-free for sensitive skin.”
Tracker rolled her eyes, not amused. “I'm going on up ahead. You'll be all right as long as you keep heading west. I'll always know exactly where you are. I won't lose you.”
David craned forward, said just loud enough for her to hear, “Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't that the same thing you promised a couple of years ago?”
Blood rushed to her cheeks. Then her eyes turned hard and she squared her shoulders and walked away. Just a few steps further into the brush, Tracker vanished.
 
Heading east and now a good half a mile away from the men, she was zoning, any and all disruptive thoughts of David banished. Deep in the zone she was able to glide through the worst of the dense brush and tag alders. The shore of the Sand River was firm enough to jog along as she followed the circuitous river in its determined course to the big lake. An hour later, she veered off, plowing straight up a steep incline, breaking through the barrier of canary grass, where she was once again immersed in stands of immature poplar, birch, and tag alders growing so close together that more often than not she literally had to squeeze herself between them. Sweat poured down her face
into her eyes. Tracker felt no discomfort as she plodded steadily onward.
 
Every particle of her was wholly submerged in her surroundings. She listened to birds sing and recognized each species by its song, heard the partridges thumping loudly against hollow deadfall and the rustling of unseen tiny mammals skittering around her crouched form. Peering through the soughing grasses, she also heard the crackle of a branch and knew by the sound that a velvet-bumped buck was very close, that it was pausing to test the air. She felt the buck's wariness, then felt it relax.
Time had no meaning in the zone. For Tracker, since the buck's presence had been noted and the deer had moved off, only one or two minutes had gone by. Actually, it had been closer to thirty when her heightened senses detected the movement of a black bear sow and cub. Both came lumbering close to where she sat, arms wrapped around her knees, boots planted so firmly that they were buried deep in the red sandy soil. Both mother bear and cub ambled by without noticing the human so close to them that Tracker could have reached out and touched one or the other.
More time passed, the shadows shifting from those of mid-morning to those of high noon. Tracker had not moved so much as a fraction of an inch, yet she felt no cramping of muscles, no needs of any kind. Nor was she concerned that David and the others might catch up with her, blunder into the little trap she'd set for Benny. She'd sent David west, straight into the worst of the region. He and his crew would hike up hills and down gullies believing all the while that she was just a few yards ahead, never
once suspecting that she was keeping watch over a stretch of wild rice. The tall rice stalks protruding above a field of water were courtesy of a band of beavers, the industrious creatures having dammed up this section of the Sand River, inadvertently creating a rice bed known to no one else on the reservation.
Except Benny.
He'd brought her to this place only once, when she was a child. For that one season, they'd been a ricing team, Benny poling the canoe through the choke of plants while Tracker knelt at the front, using white cedar sticks to knock the rice grains into the boat. The rice from this field had to be the best she'd ever tasted. Her father thought the same thing. He'd also wanted to know just where the rice had come from. Tracker remained silent, keeping Benny's secret even though she was disappointed when Benny didn't ask her to rice with him the following season or the next. After that, and until today, she had forgotten.
Eventually something outside the realm of commonplace rustling and twittering touched her mind. The muted sounds were unhurried. More than that, they were controlled. Tracker decided to wait a bit, to allow Benny more time. He was a lot older now than when he'd taught her the ways of the woods, the pathway into the zone.
He'd also taught her something else. That the older a person grew, the harder it was to remain in the zone for any length of time. The mind was willing, but older bodies couldn't take the strain. She continued to wait even when a passing breeze brought to her a whiff of thin smoke. Tracker grinned. Benny was so cool. Exhausted as he had to be, he wasn't sloppy. In making a fire he'd gone for the wood on the beaver lodge, wood stripped of bark and
aged—the kind of wood that would produce only the barest trace of smoke. Even now the smoke was so faint that if she hadn't been in the zone, she wouldn't have smelled it at all. Nor would she have caught the scent of burning paper, the label on the can he'd opened and set in the fire. Inhaling deeply she recognized his favorite meal.
Spaghetti-O's.
Tracker stood for a moment while her body adjusted itself. The slowdown of her heartbeat, the near shutdown of blood flow to the extremities was one of the reasons zoning for a long time could be so dangerous, why older bodies rebelled against such prolonged mental freedom. And as she slowly withdrew from the zone, she felt the strain the sustained crouch had placed on her knees, ankles, and feet. As her heart rate returned to normal every vein in her legs reacted to the sudden whoosh of blood, sending back the sensation she was being stung by hundreds of wasps. She winced, lifting one numb foot, then the other, and gingerly setting them down.
It was damn near impossible to remain in shape during the long winters. This past winter her cousin Patti had decided that every Monday night would be fitness training in Patti's basement. Well, that hadn't worked, mainly because four other cousins were included and Monday nights quickly became a six-woman party; the one nod to fitness was the Red Cliff stair-climbing exercise. This wasn't a machine, but a race up the basement stairs, through the kitchen (pausing just long enough to grab a buffalo wing and a can of Miller Lite), out onto the back porch, down those stairs, around the house, and back down into the basement, with a stop to dump chicken bones and emptied beer cans into the trash barrel. Then the entire process was
repeated. Thanks to the Monday night exercise sessions at cousin Patti's, Tracker was coming out of the previous winter five pounds heavier.
And at this moment, she was feeling every one of them.
Hunkering with his left haunch on his ankle, right leg slightly extended, Benny fed bleached sticks to eager flames. Hearing a steady movement, he dropped the sticks and slid his arms between his legs, his hands touching the rifle lying beneath him. He listened keenly, knowing after a space of seconds that he was listening to an Indian. Indians habitually walk toe-in and in a winding pattern. Non-Indians walk like ducks and dead-on straight, trampling everything with a splat-splat stride. The Indian he was listening to sounded very light. Benny relaxed, went back to tending the fire.
A minute passed. Then from the corner of his eye he watched Tracker approach, coming in slowly, her hands on top of her baseball-capped head, fingers entwined. She stopped about a half dozen feet away. Benny looked up from the fire and they stared at each other in an uncomfortable silence.
Finally Benny spoke. “What you doin', girl?”
Hands remaining on top of her head, Tracker shrugged her shoulders. “Same as you, I guess. Just taking a walk in the woods. Nice day for it. Biting flies aren't too bad and the sun's not too hot. Yep, it's a pretty good day for a walk.”
“Huh,” he grunted, looking away, back at the fire. Lip pointing to the blackened can sitting amid the flames he said, “Think maybe all your walking made you hungry?”
“I could eat,” she returned.
“Come on in, then.”
As she came forward, Tracker unlocked her hands, arms dropping to her sides. Entering the makeshift camp she paused, removed her backpack, dropped it close to Benny, and made her way to the other side of the fire. The backpack had landed with a whoosh, raising red dust. Benny, while eyeing the bag, fanned the dust away from his face. Squinting, he looked at the backpack. One old friend suspecting another was embarrassing. Depositing the backpack within his easy reach was Tracker's way of giving consent to his searching through the contents.
Benny didn't bother. Instead, he nodded his approval and said, “You've always been a good kid, Track.” His voice, still low, took on a dejected tone. “I'm just sorry it was you they sent for me.”
“No, you're not.” Because her legs still hurt, she crossed them, then leaned forward. “You wanted me to come. That's why you sent the message. You know the message I mean. The way you left your truck.”
Benny tried to look innocent. The attempt failed miserably. Snickering, he said, “Okay, truth is, I was hoping you'd be just a little slower on the uptake.” His lopsided grin slowly faded, became a grim line. He looked out over
the stretch of water and the glut of bright green rice. “We once had ourselves a good old time in this place, eh?”
“The best,” she sadly agreed.
He looked away, sighed heavily, and then went quiet. Tracker waited. Eventually he asked, “How far back you leave David?”
Tracker's answer was a toothy smile.
Benny's taut features eased. Seconds later, as realization dawned, he gasped, “Where the hell'd you send him?”
“West.”
Benny's face twisted with both amusement and distaste. “Oh, man! Track, that's just pure mean. The only thing meaner would be losing him in Bibbon Swamp.”
“I considered it.” She laughed.
“I bet you did,” he said, laughing with her.
 
Canned spaghetti always tastes best when cooked in an open fire and singed inside the can until the normally runny ketchup sauce is sludge thick. Sitting side by side, Tracker and Benny ate out of the can he held from the bottom, his hand protected by a leather glove. They had been sharing field lunches since she'd been six, and had the dipping process down pat, Tracker's spoon going in first, gentleman Benny's second. Benny always packed Spaghetti-O's because the little rings of pasta were easier to eat than the stringy stuff. Between bites, they talked.
“I didn't kill that asshole.”
“I know.”
Benny pulled his head back. “Oh yeah?”
Tracker spooned more food into her mouth. Benny looked down at the can. Only a little bit left. He went for it, his metal spoon clanking against the sides of the can.
Tracker licked the remaining traces of sauce off her spoon, then tossed it inside her opened pack.
Sitting back, resting on her elbows, she said, “David said Jud was shot with a pistol. I know you have an old .38. I also know it hasn't worked in years.”
“Maybe I fixed it.”
“Huh,” she snorted. “Just like you fixed that old Skidoo sled.”
Benny, his mouth full, became defensive. “Hey! Snow machines are tricky. Ya gotta work on 'em real careful.”
“But not so carefully the thing becomes obsolete and the manufacturer stops making the parts.”
Benny chuckled. “So I was a little too careful about the sled. That don't mean nothing about my pistol.”
She tipped her head back, looking up at the sky. Slate gray clouds were gathering. It would begin raining within a few hours. Worrying now about David being lost and caught out in a storm, Tracker sat up, came hurriedly to the point. “Ben, I know about you and Imogen.”
Benny blinked his eyes, trying the innocent bit again. He was stalling. Ordinarily she would have played along, but because of David and her continued sense of urgency about Uncle Bert, Benny's tactics were making her angry. “I've also heard stories that Jud didn't always play nice with Imogen. My question is, did he start getting rough before or after he found out you were poongin' her?”
“Hey!” he yelped. He shot her a look of fury. “Track, I won't let even you talk about her like that.”
Tracker went on regardless. “What happened, Ben? Did Jud finally beat her so badly that she popped him? If that's true, then Imogen can plead self-defense. Everybody on Red Cliff will back her up, most especially David. She won't
even see the inside of a jail, never mind go to prison. But you …” She removed her cap, wiped her forehead, replaced the cap. “If you try to take the blame for her …” Tracker paused meaningfully. “Ben, they'll put you under the damn prison.”
The entire time she was speaking, Benny used his spoon to dig a hole in the soft earth between his booted feet. He set the emptied can inside the hole, covered it over, patted down the soil. “Seems to me this is a fine old case of the pot callin' the kettle.” He emitted a humorless chuckle, looked her hard in the eyes. “You've never listened to me when it came to your love life, so why the hell should I listen to you about mine?”
Tracker tapped her fingertips against her chest as her voice got louder. “Because unlike you,
I'm
not willing to throw my life away on someone else. I—”
“Live with a dog,” he cut in, his tone dull, weary. “You take care of that ugly hound when you should have a husband and real children.” He locked her eyes with his. “Ya ain't exactly a spring chicken, ya know. You're gonna wake up one mornin' and it's all gonna be gone, too late to be a wife, way too late to be a mama. Whatcha gonna do then, Track?”
Tracker's eyes narrowed. She was too angry to answer.
Benny shook a finger westward, saying, “Out there somewhere—if he hasn't fallen off a cliff and killed himself—is the man you were meant to marry. When something's meant, there just ain't no use tryin' to fight it. An' that's how it is with me an' Imogen. The very same.”
Tracker's face was bloodless, her voice a croak. “Yeah, you're right. It is the same. Imogen's suckered you the same way David suckered me. It's time we both faced it. The
great loves of our lives only used us for all we were worth.”
Benny jumped to his feet, hollering at her. “If you're just gonna think that kinda shit, I ain't gonna bother to talk to you no more.” In a sulk Benny picked up his pack and rifle. “I think maybe I'm gonna find David, do my surrenderin' to him.”
 
They hiked for an hour without speaking. She'd never walked for so long and through such dense growth without the benefit of zoning. She couldn't say she appreciated the drudgery au naturel, but as the man who'd taught her to zone was technically her prisoner, she had to stay in the moment. Even if that moment entailed sweating buckets, suffering bug bites, and feeling the ache and strain in every one of her muscles. At some point she decided to make an attempt at conversation. Benny, his feelings still hurt, didn't respond. At least until she poured out her concerns for her uncle, and in doing so, offhandedly mentioned the recovery barge in Raspberry Bay.
Benny came to a stop and asked her to begin again, to tell him everything as it had happened. Tracker sighed wearily. Her pack felt too heavy and her entire body was clammy with sweat. She did as he'd asked, however, telling him all about Uncle Bert's trailer and his disappearance, ending with the discovery of the barge.
“An' it was working?”
“Yeah,” she panted, mouth dry, tongue thick.
Benny mulled, scratching the back of his head. “That just ain't right, Track.”
She filled her lungs with air, released it slowly through her nose. “Perry Frenchette said the salvagers were too early, but he—”
“No!” Benny shouted. He stepped nearer, agitated. “Look, I know I haven't been working the boats for about a week, but that don't mean a whole lot in the salvaging business. For one thing, any operation like that has to have divers come in first. Finding sunken logs ain't the problem, it's checking out the markings. The divers have gotta do that because if they see U.S. marks, those logs can't be brought up.”
“I don't understand,” she said, shaking her head.
Benny launched into a lengthy explanation.
“Okay, this is how it went back in the olden days when there was plenty of ancient white pines and the harvesting was being done by individual logging operations. Everybody's logs always got mixed up during the float down to the lake, so to keep ownership straight, before a log was skidded, sledgehammers with different marks on the heads were used to hammer the rightful owner's imprint into the log. It was kinda like a brand but deeper, and every owner's symbol was registered. The symbol marking the logs that went to the entire Chippewa Nation was U.S.
“The way the state courts have decided the recovery rights is that any log carrying a defunct logging company mark is up for salvaging grabs,
but”
—he emphasized the word—“any log with the U.S. mark still belongs to us Shinabes. Which means salvagers have gotta send in the divers first to make damn sure whatever's down there is something they can keep. Otherwise, all they're doin' is workin' for us. And at their expense.”
Benny shoved his hands deeply into his pockets, rocked back on his heels. “I know you don't know diddly about boats, but take it from me, barges are clumsy beasts. This early in the season, a good barge captain ain't gonna take
it on the lake just for grins. And a barge is too big to hide even on the Big Lake. It also makes a hell of a noise. So now you answer me this question: How do you suppose diving teams worked Raspberry Bay long enough to check all that out and then give the all clear for the barge to come cutting through our fishing waters without even one fisherman ever noticing?”
That was a long question. And a very good one. After a considerable think, Tracker admitted she had no answer.
Benny nodded. “That's why there's something real wrong with everything you just told me.”
They began walking again; this time Tracker was the uncommunicative one. She heard Benny's voice, but she wasn't listening to his words. She kept her head down as she tagged after him, concentrated on placing her feet inside Benny's prints—a little game he'd taught her when instructing her in the ways of the woods. While other little girls were making a game of being careful not to “step on a crack, break your mama's back,” Tracker was being taught to stretch her little legs to match his stride, walk lightly and place her foot inside the print of his boot. In essence, Benny had been teaching her how to be invisible, to fool anyone following them into believing he was following one person, not two. She'd fallen back into the old game so completely that she stepped on the back of his boots when he stopped suddenly, looking down at the obvious signs. She'd moved back a safe distance when he rounded on her.
“Hey! You didn't say nothin' about David havin' a Chamook with him.”
Now able to see the signs Benny saw, Tracker did a quick study of the four separate courses left through the tangle of growth, her gaze settling on the one that followed
too straight a route. “That's the Bayfield deputy.”
Offended, Benny said peevishly, “Ole Dave sure was quick to get the sheriff on to me.”
She hated having to come to David's defense. “This is his first murder case, Ben. What was he suppose to do? Wait for his prime suspect to just wander on in?”
“It's what Elmer would have done.”
BOOK: Murder on the Red Cliff Rez
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