The baby began to whimper.
“Where’d you get bear meat?”
She looked at him as if the question were stupid. “I shot a bear.”
“I didn’t know you hunted.”
“There are lots of things about me you don’t know. Why should you? You never lived on the reservation.”
The girl who’d held the baby peeked through the doorway. Wanda Manydeeds glanced at her. “Susan, go watch television for a little while.”
The girl frowned, but did as she was told.
“Her mother’s in the rehab center on the Red Lake rez,” Wanda explained. “Susan wants a baby. Someone to love her. She’ll make a good mother if I can get her to wait until she’s twenty and married.” She shifted the fussing baby to her shoulder and patted his back. “You didn’t come here to talk about hunting bears. You want to know the same thing the sheriff’s man wanted to know. You want to know where Joe John is.”
“Yes,” Cork said.
“And I’m supposed to tell you? Because you have a little of The People’s blood flowing through you? Why do you even care? You’re not the sheriff anymore.”
“Joe John’s my friend.”
“Then leave him be.”
The baby began to cry in earnest again. Wanda Manydeeds undid the top buttons of her denim blouse, unsnapped her feeding bra. The upper slope of her breast bore an elaborate tattoo that Cork easily recognized as the Wisdom Tree. The Wisdom Tree was an ancient, isolated white cedar-normally a swamp tree-that grew on the very tip of a point of rocky land jutting into Lake Superior. The whites called it the Witch Tree because it grew out of solid rock and had no visible means of sustenance. It was said to be as old as The People themselves and was sacred. Like Henry Meloux, Wanda Manydeeds was of the Cormorant clan, the clan of teachers and the Midewiwin. The baby’s mouth clasped Wanda’s nipple greedily just below the roots of the tree and the baby settled into quiet sucking.
“Have you seen Joe John?” Cork asked.
“No.”
“Is he back?”
“He’s around.”
“Here on the reservation?”
“In Tamarack County.”
“Do you know where?”
Wanda’s nipple slipped from the baby’s lips. The baby whimpered and she guided the searching mouth back.
“He has Paul?”
She considered a moment before answering. “Paul’s safe.”
“Why are they hiding?”
“Why does anyone hide?”
“What’s Darla afraid of?” Cork pressed. “What’s everybody so afraid of? Why won’t anyone talk?”
She looked at him, and her almond eyes were hard with contempt. “You look at my silence and Darla’s with a man’s perception. You believe silence comes only from fear. Silence often comes from strength and from wisdom.” She looked down at the baby. “That’s all I have to say to you.”
The priest, who until that moment had been silent himself, said respectfully, “Thank you, Wanda.”
“You’re welcome, Tom,” she replied without looking up.
The priest turned to leave. Cork stood still and asked, “Did Joe John have anything to do with the judge’s murder?”
Wanda stopped rocking. She glanced up from the baby. Wisdom may have been the reason for her silence, but Cork knew fear was certainly the cause of the look on her face.
“Get out,” she said.
“Come on, Cork.” The priest put his hand on Cork’s shoulder.
Cork said to the woman, “I only want to help.”
“Stay out of this, then,” she said. “The best thing you can do is just to stay the hell out of this.”
The baby began to cry, a rolling wail. Wanda closed up her blouse and stood up, cradling the baby against her. “ Shhh, Makwa, shhh.”
Tilly Favre appeared and two other women and the girl. They all shared the same hostile look as they stared at Cork.
“ Migwech, Wanda,” he said. Thanks. He turned and left.
Outside, Cork took one last look at the torn forest next to the lodge. The uprooted trees made him anxious in an inexplicable way. The money from the casino was changing everything, changing it fast and changing it forever. And who could say what change was for the best and what was not?
In the Bronco, the priest said, “What the hell was that about the judge being murdered?”
“I think he may have been,” Cork said.
Night had set in fully, and as Cork negotiated the winding road back to the mission, the high beam of his headlights blasted the woods with glare and shadow.
“Murder,” the priest said quietly.
“And somehow that boy and his father are involved.”
“Do you think Wanda is telling the truth?”
“Yes,” Cork said as the mission clearing came into sight. “But she’s not telling everything she knows.”
Rose was at the kitchen table wrapping presents. She seemed startled when Cork shoved open the back door and stepped in.
“Sorry, Rose,” he said. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” He hung up his coat. “Where is everybody?”
“They went Christmas shopping.”
Cork headed to the cookie jar on the counter, lifted Ernie’s head, and took out two chocolate chip cookies. He watched Rose, who was intent on making a bow out of a length of gold ribbon. She glanced up at him, seemed about to speak, then looked back down at her ribbon.
“What is it?” Cork asked.
“Nothing.”
“Go on.”
“It’s probably just my imagination.”
“What?”
She put the ribbon down. “I think someone’s been in the house.”
Cork had been leaning against the kitchen counter. He stood up straight. “Why do you think that?”
Rose looked a little uncertain. “It’s kind of hard to explain. It’s the little things. Like this afternoon. I went to the linen closet for a clean towel. I always put the towels and washcloths in order. Dark blue on the bottom, light blue in the middle, white on top. They were out of order.”
“One of the kids,” Cork suggested. “Probably looking for hidden Christmas presents.”
“Maybe,” Rose said.
“Anything else?”
“I took some clothes into Jo’s room. Her bed was neatly made but the corner of the spread was up as if it had been lifted so that someone could look under.”
“Maybe she just did a lousy job of making her bed this morning.”
“You know how neat Jo is.”
“Again, it could be kids looking for Christmas presents.”
Rose looked unconvinced. “There are other things, all small like that. But it gives me the strangest feeling, and I can’t shake it.”
“Has anything been taken?”
“Not that I can tell. And I’ve looked pretty thoroughly.”
