“So?”
“It was a four-day hunt,” I said.
“Yeah?”
“That means he flew out on Saturday.”
“The same day Albright’s party flew back.”
“Right. Their hunt was on a different lake, but they all take off from the same place. So he might have talked to them. Hell, maybe he did a little Indian bonding with your brother.”
I headed due east on the empty highway. A sign told us that Calstock was fifteen miles ahead.
“He had long hair,” Vinnie finally said. “He was maybe eighteen, nineteen years old. He was wearing jeans and a blue-and-white jacket. I think it had the Toronto Blue Jays emblem on it.”
I looked over at him. “You saw him.”
“Yes,” he said. “I saw him.”
Chapter Eight
We hit Calstock just after noon. There was a truck stop where the access road hit the highway. I pulled over and gassed up. The man behind the counter hesitated a moment over my American money, then said something in French.
“No parlez francais,” I said. “English?”
“Of course,” the man said. “I was just asking you if you want your change in Canadian money.”
“Whatever you got,” I said. “How far up this road is Calstock?”
“About five miles. When you hit the sawmill, you’re there.”
We got back in the truck and continued north, bound on both sides by the thick walls of white pine trees. The sawmill came into view, just as advertised, along with a power plant that obviously burned all the bark and wood waste. The hot smell hung in the air.
Constance Lake appeared on our left just as we entered the reserve. There was a big wooden sign to let us know we were on Indian land.
“Are these Ojibwa up here?” I said.
“No, they’re Cree.”
“You guys get along?”
“Why wouldn’t we?”
“Weren’t they your mortal enemies?” I said. “No, wait, that was the Dakotas.”
“The Cree and the Ojibwa are like family,” he said. “It’s been that way for hundreds of years. Now more than ever.”
We passed a little shop that sold Indian crafts. Soon after that we were in the heart of the reserve. The houses weren’t all brand-new like in Michigan. Most of the windows were taped up with plastic to keep out the coming winter winds. Thin spirals of smoke rose from the chimneys.
“How do we find Guy?” I said.
“There has to be a tribal center. Keep going.”
We drove by more houses. Eventually we saw a school and beside that a big cement building that had to be something official. We pulled up next to a police car. There was a round seal on the car door that read NISHNAWBEASKI POLICE SERVICE.
“Maybe these police will be a little more accommodating,” Vinnie said.
“Those two weren’t so bad,” I said.
Vinnie stopped and looked at me. “Just because one of them was attractive…”
“Has nothing to do with it,” I said. “They could have been a lot worse, is all I’m saying.”
He shook his head and smiled. “Come on.” He got out of the truck and went in. I followed him. The door opened to a large meeting room, with a great round table in the middle. A young woman was vacuuming the floor. We stood there for a few seconds until she noticed us.
“Pardonnez-moi,” she said. She had an unmistakably Indian face, with dark eyes and dark hair tied in a ponytail down her back. She wore thick boots under her long skirt. They clunked loudly on the floor as she came over to us.
“We’re sorry to bother you,” Vinnie said. “We’re looking for a young man named Guy.”
“Guy Berard?”
“I’m not sure what his last name is,” Vinnie said. He looked at me and I shook my head. “We know he works over at the lodge on Lake Peetwaniquot.”
“Yes, that’s him. I haven’t seen him around in a few days.”
“Can you tell me where he lives?”
The woman looked at Vinnie, then at me, then back at Vinnie. “Who are you?”
“My name is Vinnie LeBlanc. I’m a Bay Mills Ojibwa, from Michigan. This is my friend Alex.”
“Guy lives in his mother’s house,” she said. “Go south, take the first right. It’s the last house on the left.”
“Thank you,” Vinnie said. “I appreciate it.”
“Is Guy in trouble?”
“No,” he said. “But my brother is. I’m hoping he can help me.”
She nodded her head slowly. “Tell Mrs. Berard that Maureen sent you.”
“Thank you, Maureen.”
I added my own thanks, and we left. We went back down the road, past the school, and took the right turn. The road ended abruptly. Beyond the road there was a field of rocks and weeds, with a path leading down to Constance Lake. The water stretched out at least a mile, with low hills in the distance.
There were no other cars in front of the house. It was a small wooden affair the same size as its neighbors, and it had been bright yellow a few seasons ago. Now it needed paint.
Vinnie knocked on the door. We waited. A cold wind picked up and hit us like it was trying to blow us off the little porch. Vinnie knocked again. The door opened a couple of inches and stopped. The top of the door swung back and forth, until finally, with a horrible sound of wood scraping against wood, it flew open the rest of the way. The woman behind the door was practically knocked to the ground.
“Je regrette,” she said, and then I caught something about “la porte,” which I knew was the door. The rest I didn’t get.
“We’re sorry to bother you,” Vinnie said. “Is Guy at home?”
She looked at Vinnie. Her hair was long and dark, like the woman at the tribal center, but it was untied and cascaded over her shoulders. She looked a little too young to be Guy’s mother.
“He’s not here,” she said. “Who are you?”
“My name is Vinnie,” he said. “I’m from the Bay Mills Reservation in Michigan. This is my friend Alex.”
She looked over at me without smiling.
“Maureen sent us,” I said.
“Bay Mills?” she said, looking back at Vinnie.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Please come in,” she said. She stepped back to let us into the house. There was a small living room, with barely enough room for a couch and a chair. The carpeting needed replacing even more than the outside needed the paint. The curtains were closed, and a television cast a pale blue glow over the room.
“Can I get you something?” she said.
“No, thank you,” Vinnie said.
“Then please sit down.”
She turned off the television and sat down on the chair. Vinnie and I sat on the couch.
“Your son,” Vinnie said. He apparently had no trouble believing this was his mother. “He works at the lodge on Lake Peetwaniquot.”
“Sometimes,” she said. “When they need a guide.”
