Take Us to Your Chief (10 page)

“And what department would that be?” Even under stress, the reporter in me cam
e out.

“Let's just say I work in a special branch of Indigenous and Northern Affairs Canada. You wouldn't know the name. It's rather hush-hush. And please, pick up your phone and hold it properly. I really don't like looking at your ceiling. Especially in the di
m light.”

Suddenly, the lights in the house came on. Just lik
e that.

“Ms. Wanishin, the cellphon
e please…?”

If creepiness was like a light, I would have been blind by then. I did as the man asked and picked up my phone, looking directly into its blank screen. My house had never felt more empty o
r remote.

“That's better. Now I can see yo
u properly.”

“I can't se
e you.”

“Well, that's probably for the best. What you don't know can't hurt you, as they say. How I look is unimportant. I am just a nameless and faceless cog in the grinding wheels of bureaucracy. A true minion. Sad but accurate. And as such, the less that is known about me the better. But regarding you, Ms. Wanishin, it seems we have a problem. And by extension, so d
o you.”

I forced out a question. “Wha
t department?”

“I'
m sorry?”

“What department of Indigenous Affairs do you work for? I know the
m all.”

“Ah, I remember taking philosophy in university and always being startled by the humongous difference between what people think they know and what they actually know. What you don't know, Ms. Wanishin, is far greater than what you do know. Still, I don't suppose there would be a problem in telling you we are an undisclosed, rather unheralded but important branch, kept off the books, you could say. Only a handful of people within the government know of our existence. We work best in th
e shadows.”

At that moment, my life was nothing but shadows. “What's your charter? You
r mandate?”

Once again, I heard his small chuckle. “My, you are the intrepid little reporter, aren't you? Why should I tell you? I'm sure telling you what little I already have has bent our rules somewhat. But I like you, Ms. Wanishin, I do. And I am sorry to have put you in this difficul
t position.”

“What difficult position?” I tried to swallow my fear. “I'm in trouble, aren'
t I?”

This time, I heard the man sigh. An exhalation full of regret and reluctance. I found myself looking out the kitchen window at my lilac-bordered driveway, the outline of my car urging me to run. Shoes, I thought. It might be prudent to put on shoes and grab a coat. I had an uncomfortable feeling about where the rest of this conversation and day were going. I tried to keep the cellphone positioned so that this guy, whoever he was, couldn't tell what I was doing. For that reason, I chose to slip into flats since I didn't have to ti
e them.

“I am afraid so. Through no fault of your own, you have come to possess some classified information that for the safety of our country cannot be allowed to be disseminated to the public. Obviously, with you being a reporter, there is a conflict there, as I am sure you can see. It, therefore, requires that we take immediat
e action.”

“Project Nightlight, right?”

“Right, Project Nightlight. Those two words will be the final two nails in your coffin, I am sorry t
o say.”

“Literally o
r metaphorically?”

Once more there was a pause. “Literaphorically. How about that?” Then the man laughed at his own joke. I hate people lik
e that.

“I should not have Googled it. That's how you found me, right?”

“Yes. We have a rather sophisticated search program keeping an eye out for certain words and phrases that may pop up on the internet or in the media. This was a serious red flag. We knew there were a number of classified files that had been surreptitiously downloaded, but why, by whom and for whom… that was still unde
r investigation.”

“Are you going to kill me?” I couldn't believe I was in a situation where I had to say thos
e words.

“Let's worry about that tomorrow. Righ
t now…”

“You're coming to ge
t me.”

“My dear, we're almos
t there.”

Dropping the phone, I grabbed my computer and the thumb drive. I flung open my front door, departing from the once secure and safe embrace of my home of thre
e years.

“Ms. Wanishin, I really don'
t think—”

The door closing behind me ended my part of the conversation. Six large running steps across my side patio and driveway and I was opening the door to my car, planning to drive as fast and as desperately as I could in whatever direction offered me the best chance of safety. I had the key in the ignition and my pumping heart in my throat when logic managed to fight its way through m
y panic.

They—whoever they were—would more than likely be expecting a car chase. How else but by road would they be getting here? I didn't like where this was taking me. I couldn't drive my way to safety. I had to use Plan
B
, except I didn't have a Plan
B
. Small-time reporters from obscure First Nations don't often have need of a Pla
n
B
.

I was dangerously close to hyperventilating when I realized I might actually be in possession of a Plan
B
. Getting out of the car, I ran down to the lake and along the shoreline. My cousin Walter had a motorboat stored at a dock five minutes away, or one minute at ful
l gallop.

Every step I took along the lakeshore, I was sure somebody would leap out of the bulrushes and tackle me. Instead, I startled about half a dozen creatures that had settled down in the bushes for a lazy summer afternoon. My shoes had half filled with sand and water before I finally found the boat. Luckily, Walter always left it with a full tank of gas. Another fifty metres farther along the water's edge, I could see his house, with his three kids playing on the deck, unaware of the evil in the world. I envie
d them.

I leaped into his boat. He'd upgraded his boating preferences since I'd last gone out with him a few years back. And it had been a few more years since I had personally operated a vessel designed to travel through water, but I still remembered the fundamentals. When I was a teenager, I'd worked with my uncle as a fishing guide. I was pretty sure the technology of nautical travel hadn't changed substantially. I primed the engine, pushed the right button and roared out into the wide embrace of Otte
r Lake.

As I travelled deeper into the islands that peppered this side of the lake, I looked over my shoulder. From halfway across the water, I could see cars, maybe four or five, converging on my house from both sides. I knew they could hear the boat—sound travels amazingly well across calm water—but a variety of boats could be seen scattered across the lake, all moving in differen
t directions.

Still dressed in my pyjamas, flats and raincoat, I made my way through the islands, navigating from memory. I was looking for Joshua Red's cabin. He was a friend of the family about my age who loved to get away from the hustle and bustle of reserve life by retreating to a small island where his family had built a cabin. He'd been in a car accident several months ago and was still recovering. I knew the cabin was empty and where it was located. More importantly, it was off the grid. Electricity over here was only a theory. Off the grid was good. Off the grid was necessary. Off the grid gave me time to figure thing
s out.

There were cottages and cabins strewn throughout the dozen or so islands, so it would take them time to connect the dots and find me. Hopefully, I would have a Plan
C
b
y then.

As I expected, the cabin looked empty but at the same time welcoming. I hid the boat behind a patch of bulrushes and went in. I hadn't been there in a few years, but as far as I could tell, nothing had changed. The winds of fashion and renovation don't often blow across the watery expanse of Otter Lake. Once I had closed the door behind me, I slid to the floor. My fast breathing was making me nauseous, and it quickly gave way to sobbing. I couldn't believe what was happening to me. Pamela Wanishin, fugitive. Movies about dogged reporters flashed across my consciousness, albeit with an Aboriginal flavour:
All the Prime Minister's Men
,
Ojibway Holiday
,
The Blue Heron Brief
,
The Girl with the Orca
Tattoo
. Maybe I was having a psychoti
c episode.

Struggling to get up off the floor, I noticed a dream catcher hanging in the window. There was another one against the far wall. Knowing they were somehow tied into this whole mess, I tore them down and ripped them apart. I would apologize to Joshua later…
I hoped.

There were still a lot of documents left to go through. At the moment, I was safe and I had three, maybe three-and-a-half hours of power left on my computer. All good wars need weapons and a battle plan. I had a feeling they existed somewhere in those electronic files. The day stretched on as I read, my little corner of the cabin lit only by the flickering screen of my computer. The sun and my computer's battery gave out about the same time. I sat in darkness for the longest time, putting all the pieces together, or tryin
g to.

My head rested sideways on the Formica table, deep in a troubled sleep, until the early morning sun decided it was safe to make an appearance. For the second morning in a row, I awoke with a jerk. Long hours of contemplation had helped me figure it all out before sheer exhaustion gave me a few hours of solace. One document led to another, which explained a third, which confirmed a fourth and made sense of a fifth. The whole thing was huge… we're talking national medi
a huge.

But first it was morning, and with all the excitement and exertion I was now hungry. The ever wise and prepared Joshua had several cans of soup and stew on his shelves, probably several years old. Not my normal morning yogurt and berries, but these were not normal times. I mulled my options over as I forced down some lukewarm beef stew and dreadful instant coffee. It was all so bizarre. Obviously I had to get this thumb drive and all its information to somebody with more resources than a cabin on an island stocked with canned food older than my shoes. I should have gone into nursing like my mother ha
d wanted.

For the rest of that day I held the thumb drive close in my hand, pondering how such a tiny, innocuous device could have such vicious consequences. I watched boats pass by the island, convinced the occupants were scanning the treed canopy for a thirty-year-old Ojibway reporter who, through no effort of her own, had fucked up her life and had no idea how to repair it. Across the calm waters I could see the community of Otter Lake, the thin treeline in the hazy distance. What was going on there, I found mysel
f wondering.

Those were the longest and loneliest two days of my life. I lived off two cans of ravioli, one box of uncooked Kraft Dinner and what I think was a granola bar. Every moment, I expected government officials to jump out of the poison ivy or leap up from the water lilies. With only my own paranoia as company, I was pretty miserable. Add to that the fact that I was alone and confused, and I didn't know what to do. Sleep came at the end of each day, offering refuge but providing onl
y nightmares.

On these islands, there are a lot of birds. Especially crows. They nest all up and down the islands, but during the day they fly over to the community of Otter Lake to look for food, the local garbage dump being the avian restaurant of choice. Early on my third morning at Joshua's cabin, the crows should have been just waking up. Instead, they were already loud and complaining. Complaining about what? Crows don't have many natural enemies, except humans. Seemed we had that i
n common.

It was around that time that I heard a faint humming, which was gradually growing stronger, and closer. Like a hummingbird on steroids. Looking out the window, at first I couldn't see anything. Then, just above a bunch of sumac trees, I saw some movement. It seemed to flutter and dodge through the thick foliage. I knew what it was instantly. I'd seen them on television, and once, in town, some kid was playing with one in a park. It was one of those drones. It seemed to be sweeping through the woods, looking for something. Looking fo
r me.

“Shit,”
I muttered.

For a brief moment the morning before, I had hoped I was overreacting, that this situation I found myself in wasn't as dangerous as I had thought. But what was slowly moving toward the cabin was definitely not some rich kid's toy. Even from this distance I could tell it was all decked out with instrumentation and things I couldn't even begin to identify. How had it found me, alone on a small island kilometres away from where I was supposed to be? Nevertheless, it was time to go—again.

I left the computer behind and grabbed the thumb drive. I opened the front door, ready to make a dash for the boat… then I realized there wasn't much point. That thing could fly faster than I could run, and faster than a twenty-year-old boat and a twelve-horsepower motor could travel. I backed into the cabin, trying desperately to figure things out. The humming was louder now, practically overhead. Cautiously, I looked out the only window that had a bare approximation of curtains, actually moth-eaten dish towels. I couldn't see the drone, but through the pathway to the dock I could see an island about a half-kilometre to the east. And I was pretty sure I could see another drone over there. Evidently, they were combing all the nearby islands. This was not good. This was way above this Native reporter's pa
y grade.