Murder on the Red Cliff Rez (15 page)

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Authors: Mardi Oakley Medawar

BOOK: Murder on the Red Cliff Rez
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Uncle Bert was kneeling by the man on the ground, yelling at him. “You just keep on twistin' and I'll have the dog on you again. This time I'll let him tear your throat out. It's what you deserve, dog killer.”
Whimpering and shaking, Freddy pleaded with the deaf man. “I didn't wanna kill your dogs, Mister. I like dogs. But I was told to do it. They made me. Please, don't let that dog hurt me no more.”
“Speak up, son!” Bert hollered.
Exhaling deeply, shaking her head, Tracker touched her uncle's shoulder, gestured for him to move away. Uncle Bert was stubborn, but eventually he complied and she was able to maneuver him back. She whistled for Mushy and
the dog slunk forward, sitting down close to Uncle Bert's legs. A modicum of order had been restored. And then Benny started up.
“Ho-le!”
Benny cried. He was standing over the man on the ground, clearly able to see the arrow shaft protruding from the big man's posterior. He looked back over his shoulder to Tracker. In a tone loaded with awe, he said, “What a great shot!”
Since childhood, the moments when she'd earned Benny Peliquin's unabashed respect were the most precious to remember. Now was not one of those moments. Unable to meet his eyes, she said softly, “I was aiming for the center of his back.”
For a space of seconds everyone was quiet, even the big man. Then Benny burst out laughing and Tracker was instantly sorry she'd told the truth.
“Well, it was dark, ya know?”
Benny doubled over.
Becoming genuinely offended, Tracker hollered, “Shut up, Ben!” But Benny couldn't. Waving his hands he walked in circles and continued laughing like a loon.
Michael came back to his senses. “Does anybody know this guy?”
Uncle Bert hadn't heard Michael, but yelling to his niece, he answered the question nonetheless. “I know who that is! He's the dog killer I was tellin' you about. The one that killed every one of my baby boys.” He quickly demanded of Michael, “Son, give me that damn gun.”
 
Uncle Bert's fervid request was denied. In between Freddy's shrieks of “Oh God, somebody help me,” and “Don't let that wolf get me!” Tracker left to fetch her truck. Some
minutes later, with all four people pulling and straining in an almighty effort, Freddy was loaded into the truck's flatbed. Unable to trust either Uncle Bert or Mushy for more than a second in the presence of the wounded prisoner, she stuck those two in the cab with her, consigning Michael and Benny to the flatbed. Then came the wild ride for the Red Cliff Clinic.
 
Looking back over her shoulder, seeing the strobe lights of Bayfield County sheriff's cars across the way in the courthouse lot, Wanda's knees were knocking and her stomach was fluttering with butterflies as she entered the police station. She was expecting to find Ricky chained to something, most probably a radiator, but he wasn't. He was sitting quite comfortably in a chair, thumbing through a magazine. The two cops and the elderly dispatcher were in an opposite corner, seated in a semicircle and talking among themselves in low tones. Everyone looked up as she came in. She sent Ricky a look that conveyed more confidence than she felt, then proceeded on to the half circle of cops.
“Whatever you think he did, he didn't do it. He was with me.”
“Huh,” Joey Du Bey said. Leaning back in the chair, he caught and then tried to hold on to Wanda's skittering eyes. It was like trying to catch an eel barehanded. Joey decided simply to stare at the bridge of her nose, allow those flickering eyes to meet his every few seconds.
“Any particular time on this ‘with me' alibi, Wanda?” Joey asked sarcastically. “Or is this just a one-lie-fits-all kinda deal?”
Wanda became incensed. “You can believe anything you want,
Officer Du Bey.”
She made his rank and name sound
like an incurable disease. “I've called an attorney in Bayfield. He'll be here in an hour.”
“Cool,” Joey replied. He nodded toward Doc Ricky. “Then just go park your butt over there with your boyfriend, and we'll all wait.”
 
As Doc Ricky was unavailable, there was no one qualified to give emergency care. Then, too, there was a problem the night nurse pointed out over the wounded man's highly vocal pleas.
The patient lay belly-down on the gurney, a man so huge that his long legs hung over the end, the toes of his boots scraping flooring. The four wielding the gurney had burst in through the back bay doors, an entrance to be used by medical personnel only. Improper use of the staff door infuriated the pure starch out of Sharon Bear, R.N.
“He's not a tribal member,” she said without a trace of compassion. “So even if I was qualified to treat him, which I'm not, I still wouldn't be allowed to touch him.”
“Hey!” Michael yelped. “Bayfield County will cover the tab. Just pull the arrow out, slap a Band-Aid on his ass, and send the sheriff's office the bill.”
Sharon Bear's temper swelled. Arms tightly folded beneath her ample bosom, she coldly eyed Michael. “I'm afraid it isn't that simple,” she replied. “God only knows where that arrow has been, so there's the high risk of infection. Plus, he could be bleeding internally, which means he'll need more attention than we, especially at this hour, are able to give. But”—she sighed heavily as if doing her best to yield to unseemly pressure—“what I could do is call the ambulance to transport him to Ashland.”
“Hey,” Michael said, openly snide, “could ya? Man, that'd be so nice.”
“Drugs!” Freddy screamed. “For the love of God, somebody give me some drugs!”
Tracker bent forward, speaking close to his ear. “Has anyone ever told you that Indians … barter?”
Pushing himself up slightly, bracing his upper torso on his forearms, Freddy stared at her, mouth agape, eyes vacant. “What does that mean?”
“It means if you're a good boy, I'll make sure you get whatever you need to make the pain go away.”
Nurse Sharon Bear was a formidable woman, but she'd just met her match in Tracker. Ignoring the woman's carping about a pay telephone being available at the end of the hall, Tracker plugged a finger into the ear Nurse Sharon spoke stridently against while helping herself to the telephone in the nurses' station. The second Elliott Raven came on the other end of the line, Tracker began to yell over the huffy woman's robust complaints.
“I have to talk to David. Now.”
“But he's over at the—”
Tracker leapt in. “I said
now
, Elliott. This is an emergency.”
“Oh no,” the dispatcher breathed heavily. “Not another one.” Then hurriedly, “Hang on, girl. I'll have to run over an' get him.”
“No,” she cried. Finger still stuck in one ear, receiver against the other, she turned at the waist, gave the nurse a baleful glare. Nurse Sharon wasn't bothered. She shifted
grievances, began to harp on the subject of the major disruption Tracker and friends were causing her shift. Tracker went back to Elliott.
“Just tell David to get Doc Ricky to the clinic. And tell him to bring handcuffs. Big ones.”
Tracker hung up, turned again to Nurse Sharon, a satisfied expression on her face. “The doctor is on his way. And we”—she waved a hand, indicating herself and motley companions—“aren't going anywhere.”
Stricken, the nurse looked at the four men—three standing, one draping the gurney with an object protruding from his buttock—as if seeing them for the first time. Benny Peliquin, whom she vaguely knew, and the blond man, whom she didn't know at all, were disheveled and appeared exhausted, as if they'd just come through a war. The old man, clad only in a parka, untied lacrosse snow boots, and foullooking long johns, was a legend.
Old Bert came to the clinic only when absolutely necessary, and on each occasion raised a whoop and a holler during every minute of his presence. Which meant he was seen by a doctor as rapidly as possible, even if doing so meant the staff jumping him to the front of a lengthy queue. If that old man created one of his infamous ruckuses, he'd wake up the small hospital's few sleeping patients and Nurse Sharon could then effectively kiss goodbye what was normally the easiest shift of the daily schedule. Then there was the matter of the giant on the gurney. The last thing she needed out of him was one more groan. Pushing the sleeves of her lab coat back to her elbows, Nurse Sharon took charge.
“I'm going to administer a mild sedative to the patient.
The rest of you can help yourselves to coffee and take seats in the waiting area.”
The nurse moved briskly off, making her way to the med's room. Michael and Benny went for the coffeepot behind the nurse's station. Uncle Bert, looking mildly baffled, followed. Before Tracker could move away, the big man, who was weeping softly, reached out a huge paw. Tracker looked down at the hand fully encircling her lower arm. His hold on her was tight but gentle. She glanced from the hand to the blue-green eyes, eyes that held the fear-crazed look of a wounded animal.
“Please, don't leave Freddy.” He sounded like a pleading child.
Although she had more than enough reason to hate this man, Tracker felt moved to pity. “I won't,” she said softly, patting the big hand.
Nurse Sharon returned rapidly. Her manner still as frosty as a north wind in January, she held out a tiny paper cup with a single pill inside it. To wash it down, she also offered a splash of water in a second paper cup. The hand on Tracker's arm tightened.
Tracker pushed her face close to the big man's, speaking sternly. “Take it. It will help against the pain.”
The nurse's spine stiffened. “We prefer
discomfort
.
”
Tracker had had enough of Nurse Sharon's attitude. Her arm was still captured inside the huge hand as she turned away from the gurney and faced down Nurse Sharon. She thoroughly startled the woman when she went on the attack. “Have you ever had an arrow in your ass?”
The nurse blanched, eyebrows shooting to her scalp.
“Obviously not,” Tracker continued. “Otherwise you'd
know there's a hell of a lot more
pain
than discomfort involved.” She turned back to the big man. “Take the damn pill, Freddy, before the nice nurse decides to swallow it herself.”
 
Five minutes later, the pill was taking effect. Freddy was becoming groggy but was still relatively coherent when David, Joey Du Bey, and Doc Ricky came breezing in. Freddy's droopy eyes locked on the latter.
“Hey, Doc,” Freddy tipsily hailed. “How's it hangin'?”
Doc Ricky skidded to a halt. Wanda, Doc Ricky's assistant, came charging in. She stopped short, barely avoiding a collision with the doctor's back. She stepped around him; then, seeing the man on the gurney, Wanda went pale, clutched Doc Ricky's arm.
Tracker squirmed out of the big man's hold, went to stand between Joey and David. Joey placed a light hand against the small of her back, sending her a hope-filled smile when she glanced up at him. She looked away, her eyes on David's broad back as David took in Doc Ricky's and Wanda's instant reactions to the enormous patient with an arrow in his rear end. And on that subject, a bewildered David turned to Tracker. “Where the hell did the arrow come from?”
Tracker rolled her eyes toward the ceiling and lifted her hands, shrugging.
“Did you do that?” he asked, astounded.
Tracker sent him a sideways glance. “Maybe.”
David puffed up like a bullfrog. “Oh, for Christ's sake, Track!”
Doc Ricky, with Nurse Sharon hovering at his elbow, was examining the patient. “I've got to get him into surgery.”
He glanced across to his assistant. “Wanda, you're scrubbing with me.” Then to the nurse by his side: “Take him behind the exam curtain and get him prepped. Have him ready for showtime in ten minutes.”
Blearily, Freddy followed the conversation. As the doctor sped off and Nurse Sharon and an orderly began rolling the gurney, Freddy let out a whispery whistle, signaling for Tracker. As she joined them, trotting alongside the moving gurney, the big man sought her hand, grabbed onto it like a lifeline.
“I'm afraid of that woman,” he slurred.
The gurney, considering that it was overloaded and propelled only by an orderly and one nurse, was picking up an impressive speed. During the jog, Tracker peered back over her shoulder at Nurse Sharon.
 
Freddy didn't seem all that afraid anymore as the nurse and orderly cut away his clothing, bathed him in alcohol from his shoulders down to his knees, then applied a liquid that stained his big buttock puke-yellow. Tracker did her best not to watch any of the prepping procedure as she held the man's hand.
“You know,” she said, “when I was a little girl, I wanted to be a nun.”
“Huh.” Freddy wasn't interested.
Tracker continued regardless. “I used to practice keeping secrets. You know, preparing myself for when I had to hear confessions.”
Freddy rolled a glassy eye, tried to make it focus on her. He licked dry lips, his tongue thick from the sedative. “Nuns can do that kinda stuff too, eh?”
“Sure they can,” Tracker said. “But only in emergencies. When a life is threatened. Like now.”
Freddy squinted up at her. “Somebody gonna die?”
“Yes. You might.”
Freddy became agitated. “Me?”
He was squeezing her hand so tightly, Tracker worried about her fingers. She pried at his hand as she continued. “Now, Freddy, I know you don't want them to put you to sleep while you're in trouble with God. I think you ought to talk to me.”
Freddy mulled, looked at her again. “Then me an' God? We'd be okey-doke?”
“Yes.”
“Even if I've been real, real bad?”
“Yes.”
Freddy labored over that one, then erupted. “Hey! You're not a nun! You can't fix shit.” He nodded his head as his eyes hardened. “An' I'm startin' to think it was you that shot me.”
Tracker freed her hand. “All right, then, I'll get someone else to hear your confession.”
Smug now, Freddy answered with a snort. “Good. 'Cause I just remembered, Freddy don't like you.”
 
She found David and Joey in the scrub room, both dressed in green cotton scrubs, paper shower caps on their heads, paper booties on their feet, and disposable masks hanging around their necks by an elastic band.
“Rick's still our prime suspect for absolutely everything,” David explained. “We have to go in and watch him operate. Make certain he doesn't get hinkey with a witness that has more courtroom potential than your uncle Bert.”
“Great,” Tracker said irritably. “But before they put your witness out like a light, you ought to talk to him. And
put that mask on so he can't see your face.” She grabbed his arm to encourage him along.
“Hey! You're not allowed to touch me.”
Tracker didn't care. She pulled him along regardless and murmured under her breath, too low for him to hear, “Oh, if you'd only thought to say that to Sharie.”
 
The operation went quickly, Doc Ricky cussing all through it, saying more than once, “If this had been a hunting arrow, this guy would have bled out.”
The procedure was witnessed by David, and technically by Joey. Although Joey had been physically present, during the first incision, Joey had fainted. David didn't catch him, merely watched, thoroughly amused, as Joey fell over like a tree. Once the patient was in the small hospital's lone recovery room, David, still in scrubs, had a quiet word with Michael and Benny, giving Michael the keys to Tracker's truck.
Head down, Benny kept his hands shoved deep inside his pockets as he listened. Michael worked the keys in his hand as he too listened, his expression incredulous. “You can't mean it,” he said after David finished.
David didn't have time to go through it all again. “Look, that's what the man said. And his statement was witnessed by me, Tracker, a nurse, and an orderly.”
Michael still wasn't buying any of it. “But he was medicated, right? That means it's not admissible. Not even if you brought God into the courtroom as a witness.”
David wanted to hit something. The Bayfield deputy was looking a bit too handy. “Just go to the P.D. and wait. I'll be there just as soon as I can.”
“Shouldn't we all go together?” Michael wanted to know.
“We could, but that nurse won't let me leave until I've had a shower.”
Benny looked askance. “Why?”
David threw his arms wide. “Beats the snot out of me. All I know is, she won't give me my damn clothes until she's sure I've scrubbed everything. Including Mister Peepee.”
Benny's eyebrows lifted. “Whoa, Mister Peepee. Now that's some serious showerin'. She gonna be givin' you a pecker check to make sure you did everything right?”
David was appalled. For several seconds he gaped at Benny, utterly speechless. Then his face scrunched into a severe frown. “That's a real killer. Ben.” David turned to Michael. “Track's dog is still in her truck. He'll act like he wants to eat your ass when you get near the truck. He always does that and Tracker thinks that's just so wonderful. What she doesn't know is, her dog has a weak spot. And if you swear not to tell, I'll let you in on the secret.”
“Hey,” Michael said, “I saw the way that thing went after Goliath. I'm not interested in having it do that to me.”
David stepped closer, speaking conspiratorially. “Okay, here's what you say …”
In the hospital parking lot, Benny and a bemused Michael stood near Tracker's S-10. Behind the rolled-up window, Mushy was a mass of happy wiggles.
“Well, I'll be damned.” Michael was amazed. He glanced at Benny. “Say it again.”
Benny complied. “Hey, ugly! Wanna go for jerky?”
Mushy whined louder, scratched at the glass barrier.
“Be damned!” Michael exclaimed. “So now what do we do?”
“We get in the truck and take his squirmy ass to Buffalo Bay Store for some jerky.”
 
Tracker was wondering where David had gotten to as she sat with Joey in the corner of the waiting area. Joey had been remarkably shaken by the brief stint in the operating room.
“Man,” he rambled, “it was gross. Had to be the biggest ass I ever seen. Then Doc Ricky started cutting into it.” Joey shuddered, his eyes sliding sideways to meet Tracker's. Then Joey's eyes lit up as his tone became electrified. “There was all this yellow gunk. Looked like fuckin' chicken fat!” Joey began shaking his head. “I don't remember anything after that.” He looked at Tracker again, his manly pride in dire need of empathy. “It was the ether fumes. They really knocked me out, ya know?”

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