Twilight Is the Time the Dead Look Back

By B. A. Braxton

When Philip Whitefeather was twelve years old, he went on a vision quest and dreamed that he would die before his twenty-first birthday. Before his death, however, it was foretold that Philip would be the driving force behind the reawakening of the spirit of the Anishinabeg people.

Now a nineteen-year-old student of psychology at the University of Detroit, with a curriculum heavily emphasizing mental disorders, Philip knows that his death is imminent. So he does what his vision had told him to do seven years ago: He dies in a sacred place so that the Anishinabeg might be inspired to embrace the ways of their ancestors once again. The place Philip chooses to leave this world and enter into the spiritual realm is the petroglyph site in Michigan’s Sanilac County near Greenleaf Township.

When it’s discovered that Philip has been a victim of foul play, Detective Rein Connery is asked by an old friend and former flame to take the lead on the homicide investigation. Rein accepts, but initially finds facing Evelyn Dawn Standingcloud after all these years awkward and embarrassing, especially now that he’s a happily married man with a son and a second child on the way. Old feelings stir and even a surprise or two are in store for Rein as he and Evelyn try to figure out who killed Philip, how the killer managed to pull it off, and why.

Twilight Is the Time the Dead Look Back is not just a mystery, it’s a realistic window into the lives and beliefs of those who are members of the great Ojibwe Nation. So get ready to adjust your mindset to follow a people who are not only resilient and strong, but also giving, forgiving, accepting of others, and content to respect and to thrive as one with nature. We could all take a lesson from these very wise and gifted people.

• Language: English
• Publisher: B. A. Braxton
• Release date: Dec 21, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311373069

B. A. Braxton

B. A. was born in Bridgeton, New Jersey and on a Friday the thirteenth for those who spook easily. She graduated from the University of Pennsylvania in 1981 with a bachelor’s degree in Natural Science, and with clusters in sociology, writing, and advanced writing courses. In 1987 she graduated from Fairleigh S. Dickinson Jr. College of Dental Medicine with a doctorate in general dentistry.Regardless of the paths that she has taken academically, B. A. has always continued to write. Her first books were written while she was in the seventh grade. Using classmates as characters seemed to put the books in high demand, and even as adults, those friends still ask to read them. By the ninth grade, she’d completed her first novel and although it was pretty bad, she was—and still is—extremely proud of that accomplishment. B. A. writes general fiction, mysteries, and historical fiction. Regardless of what else she has done in her life or how much the practice has been discouraged, writing has always been and always will be the center of her life.B.A. has been married since 1983 and has two children, a son and a daughter, and an aging cat named Salem. She first moved to Michigan in 1988. Her hobbies include hiking, kayaking, exercising on her beloved elliptical trainer, painting with oils, healthy cooking and baking, researching topics for stories, and being proud of her children’s many and varied accomplishments. She loves listening to any kind of music, especially if the lyrics are terrific, and learning as much as she can about people—their mannerisms, the way they speak, what they do, and why they do it. And she also loves watching western television series, especially those from the fifties and sixties. Her favorites are the early Gunsmoke episodes with Chester Goode in them, and that special father-son bond found in The Rifleman. Another favorite is the series The Virginian. The pilot for Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman is one of the most credible depictions of the nineteenth century American west that she has ever seen on celluloid, and several grimly realistic episodes from the first and second seasons are favorites of hers. And lately, Hell on Wheels is more than enough to satisfy her taste for the wild west.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE: The Body Moved

The body moved. Or some joker moved it. Either way, Detective Rein Connery glared at every uniformed and plain-clothes officer, every coroner, and every crime scene investigator present as if they were playing a trick on him. After all, tomorrow was Halloween and to lighten the load, peace officers from time to time had been known to do some pretty wild things, especially on devil’s night. But disturbing evidence at a crime scene was inexcusable.

What’s this? Rein asked in his usual combative and nonspecific way.

What’s what? Detective Maynard Slye asked as any reasonable person would have to a question that had no direction.

As if you didn’t know. Come on, everybody, Rein said, beckoning with both of his latex-gloved hands, gather around.

As everyone did, each person looked sufficiently puzzled.

It was funny, and I admit that you had me going for awhile, but now it’s time to fess up. Who turned the DOA’s head?

Say what? Detective Slye asked, his round chin getting lost against his jowls as he looked down. Rein was already convinced that his partner was the one who did it.

Come on, Rein said again, this time studying Maynard’s large face impatiently. I know what you did.

Audrey Krzysiak, the medical examiner, stepped forward and observed the body with great fascination. Well, I’ll be damned, she said, her mouth dropping open. The strawberry blonde hair hanging loose against her ears drifted in the wind. I guess he isn’t dead after all. She smiled wide, exposing the diastema between her two front teeth. Damn if they didn’t call us way out here for nothing.

Very funny, Audrey, Rein said. Who moved his head? When I got here, it was pointing that way. He gestured west to emphasize the direction. Now the mother is facing this way. This time he demonstrated by gesticulating irritably toward the east.

Are you sure? one of the uniformed officers asked. I mean, are you sure it wasn’t always like that. I really don’t remember.

I remember, Rein told him. I know what I saw.

He’s right, Officer Blanchard said, holding up one of the Polaroid snapshots in his hand. Look at this.

Connery took the photo and examined it carefully. Maynard looked at it from over Rein’s left shoulder as Audrey looked from over his right. The head of the victim had definitely been facing west when the first photographs had been taken.

If I catch the son of a bitch who did this, there will be hell to pay, Rein said, allowing Audrey to take the photo from his hand. So if you want me to go easy on you, I’d advise whoever did it to tell me now. He glanced around, making sure to glare at each person, but no one volunteered a confession.

Instead, all eyes fell on the young Ojibwe man whose head was still facing sunward. His coarse, black hair blew in the breeze as much as the deer tallow on it would allow, while white vomitus streaked his chin. On his face was an expression best described as a contentment most men would envy. A sandstone outcropping beneath him, the shape of which from a distance resembled the profile of a bison, made the victim’s olive-colored skin appear darker than it was. From an open hand, with a pinkie finger without a tip, had fallen a green pouch tied with a piece of sinew. The pouch splashed the only color, besides blood, against the rock.

It was a cold October morning, a gray day with many clouds. Inclement weather was obvious even in the soft, diffused light of daybreak. Campers’ propane lamps had been set up around the periphery of the crime scene to illuminate the details to be examined.

The wind was picking up, and it blew the fringe on the victim’s buckskin shirt; he wasn’t wearing a jacket. Snow flurries felt like a distinct possibility, and already Rein’s ears and hands felt numb from the chill. Dead leaves had fallen around and on top of the forty-foot long and fifteen-foot wide sandstone, but many of the petroglyphs could still be seen. The only footprints in the dirt seemed to match the victim’s square-toed, snakeskin boots. Rein studied the boots religiously, trying to estimate their value; they had to be worth three hundred dollars at least. Blood from the wound under his head had pooled into the carved groove representing a bowman’s bow beside him.

This young man had found an interesting place to die. The photo driver’s license inside the wallet in the back pocket of his Wrangler jeans said that his name was Philip Down Whitefeather, and that he lived in Mount Pleasant. So Philip was over one hundred miles away from home out here in Sanilac County’s Greenleaf Township. A student identification card also reflected the fact that he attended Detroit University full-time; Detroit University was where Rein’s wife, Paula, taught several botany classes.

Philip had managed to collapse next to the only petroglyphs found in Michigan. Primitive carvings of human figures, animal tracks, outlines of hands and feet, and spirals in the rock had been done by indigenous people between three hundred to one thousand years ago, but the kill on top was fresh. A snowflake landed on Philip’s cheek and then floated around until it got lost in a tangled mass of his hair.

I’ll remember that no one admitted to tampering with this body, Rein said, not willing to let up. And I will find out who did it, believe me.

We want to solve this case just as much as you do, Audrey said, speaking for herself and her coworkers. I’m sure that if one of us did do the wrong thing, it won’t happen again.

It better not, Rein said, staring at Audrey hard enough to send the message home to everyone.

Rein reached down and picked up the pouch beside the victim and untied the string. Dried leaves were inside and when Rein sniffed it, he knew what it was. Tobacco, he said.

"Kinnikinnick, Samantha Scent on the Wind said. Tobacco mixed with bearberry, cedar, balsam, sweet grass, sweet gale, and mints. An offering for the ancestors who carved this stone. Samantha was the Anishinabe guide who had unlocked the gate to the contemporary shelter protecting the stone for the authorities. She had been silent until now. Tobacco is the most important gift Philip could have given to the spirits, because they can only get tobacco from man. Tobacco offerings show those who receive it that they are respected."

Rein nodded. This must be a sacred place for you, he said.

Samantha raised her head a little higher. The wind tossed several strands of hair over her face, but she brushed them aside with an able hand. It is sacred not only to the people of the Three Fires, but to all who visit here. As she looked toward the Cass River, Rein observed her short, squat frame closely. I can almost hear the drumbeats of those who came before us. So much happens which cannot be explained or understood. It just is.

Like this man’s death? Rein asked her, and Samantha shook her head.

Not if it was done by the hands of man. The deeds of a man can always be explained.

Then where’s the mystery?

Samantha looked at Rein and said with the conviction of the ages, In death, the way his head turns toward the sun. During twilight, it is said that the dead look back. Maybe Philip’s body was returning to its original position.

To that, Rein looked embarrassed. It’s obvious that somebody moved the body, he said, as if the matter wasn’t up for debate. Samantha just smiled.

Spoken like a man with a mind as closed as a fist. She illustrated this by holding up one of her own.

CHAPTER TWO: I Know the Sound of Pain

At first Rein felt offended by Samantha’s assessment, but he soon accepted the possibility that perhaps, from her perspective, she was making a valid point. So, you’re saying that the body moved on its own, Rein said. Even he wasn’t sure if he made the statement to get an honest verification of what she really believed, or to make fun of her. An astute betting man would have put money on the latter.

As the wind lifted Samantha’s black bangs from her forehead again and then dropped them down just as quickly, she said, Anything is possible, and then looked at Philip’s body. His soul has not yet departed on its spirit journey. Instead, it wanders the earth for four days. Curiously, the sweet smell of clover wafted by from unknown places. It was the end of October, but that moment reminded Rein of springtime.

No matter how ludicrous Samantha’s logic sounded, she was obviously very serious about it. And although Rein didn’t want to offend her, the opportunity arose and he just couldn’t let it pass. Dead men moving, he said, shaking his head with a frown. The sound of his voice spoke volumes about what he thought about her beliefs.

If Samantha was upset with him, it didn’t show. Her slow, soft-spoken words drifted over to Rein as wisdom would be carried on a cloud. This one did, she declared, her dark eyes meeting his with a certainty that only came from knowing. "Kegowaysekah. Rejoice and be happy, Phil. You are going homeward."

Did you know this man? Rein asked her.

Heritage is the only thing that binds us, she said, and he took that as a no.

He has some food on him, Maynard said, so Rein turned and faced his partner.

What food?

Some kind of meat. Maynard held it up in a clear plastic evidence bag.

Pemmican cakes, Samantha said. Dried meat, bear fat. Probably herbs to taste.

So, Philip was on some sort of journey? Rein asked her. Starting the spirit journey early? Like, before he was dead, even? Oh, wait. That comes later, right? Rein didn’t want to laugh at Samantha, but he seemed to be doing just that. Humor was more of a defense mechanism for him; whenever he was introduced to something new, it sometimes made him fearful. Still, all of his disparaging words seemed to roll right off Samantha’s back as if she were made of Teflon. He envied her ability to stick to her convictions while under such scrutiny, and ignore the open hostility of others.

He was probably planning to stay here awhile, she said. To pray, most likely.

Tobacco wasn’t the only leaves we found in his pockets, Maynard said, holding up two other clear plastic evidence bags with dried plants in them for Rein to see.

What the hell is that?

May I? Samantha asked, so Maynard handed them to her. She gave the contents of each of the bags a good looking at in the lamplight, and then opened them to see how they smelled. This is calamus. You can tell by the blade-like stem and yellow-green spadix. And this other appears to be pipsissewa because the dark, shiny leaves are toothed, and the flowers are waxy white with red anthers.

Why would he have that stuff? Maynard asked, his nose looking even pudgier while all wrinkled up like that.

"Calamus is used by wabenos, medicine men, to cure coughs and colds, and pipissewa is used to treat diseases of the eye."

Rein paused to examine the crime scene again. Phil’s body had fallen on a theriomorphic figure carved in the rock with four legs, a raised head, and a stubby tail. His right hand was resting on top of a deer track. And of course his blood had seeped into the grooves of the bowman, who stood with a triangular headdress as his arm and arrow formed one, continuous line.

An animal yelp was heard in the bushes some fifty yards away, so Maynard shined his flashlight in that direction. Nothing could be seen, but apparently Samantha Scent on the Wind didn’t have to see it to know what it was. Tooth, she said simply, a wolf from Anishinabe legends. Samantha never took her eyes away from the bushes where the sound had been heard. Tooth waits to guide Philip’s soul to the country of the dead.

A wolf this far south? Maynard said. That’s some neat trick. Better guess again.

Did Phil’s truck make the skid marks I saw on the road coming in? Rein asked, and Maynard nodded.

The tread on his vehicle does match the marks on the road. It’s registered to a Ben Whitefeather.

Same last name.

Yeah. Witnesses have stated how erratically Phil had been driving. Maynard glanced down at the body. He was drunk, he surmised, expressing what seemed to be the general consensus of those present, to Rein’s consternation.

Audrey, do you think he died from the head wound? Rein asked as he stooped down to give the body a closer look.

Probably, she said, but I won’t know for sure until I examine him. One thing’s interesting, though.

What’s that?

This man had severe conjunctivitis when he died, which might explain the pipsissewa he was carrying.

Conjunctivitis? From what?

Audrey shook her head. I have no idea, she said.

Maybe that’s why he’d been driving so poorly, Rein suggested, looking over at Maynard. He couldn’t see.

Rein stood up again, peering through the wire mesh fence toward the river. From where he was, a thicket of brambles and bracken, along with clusters of maple, oak, and various evergreen trees, blocked his view of the water. Samantha, you must know a lot about the traditional Ojibwe way of life. Your knowledge could shed some light on what went on here. As he turned to her, she seemed to think about that before speaking.

I will help in whatever way I can, she said.

Maynard stood closer, careful not to step on the sacred sandstone outcropping. You probably know a little bit about the Ojibwe yourself, Rein, he said. What about Evelyn? Your friend’s name is Evelyn Standingcloud, right?

I haven’t spoken to Evelyn in years, Rein admitted. Not until this morning over the telephone, anyway. Rein looked at Maynard. She was the one who asked Lieutenant Phelps to have us assigned to this case.

Why?

I don’t know.

Evelyn has always spoken highly of you, Samantha told Rein. She said you’d want to speak to her in depth about this matter.

You could answer most of the questions I have, I’m sure.

Samantha smiled. Don’t be afraid, Detective.

Afraid of what?

Don’t be afraid of facing the past.

Rein stared at her, noticing for the first time her handsomely high cheekbones, chestnut eyes, and bronze-colored skin. She seemed to be standing fearless in front of him, with a heart already at peace with Philip Whitefeather’s situation and at one with all who had the courage to see things as they truly were.

The past is still with you, she continued. It will always be a part of who you are.

Rein observed Samantha’s beautiful face for any telltale signs of gossip or innuendo. Many years back, he and Evelyn Dawn Standingcloud had been intimate. So intimate, in fact, that he found the subject uncomfortable, especially now that he had a wife and children.

What has Evelyn been telling you about me? Rein asked her at a whisper, even though Maynard was still able to hear him.

Nothing your face hasn’t already, she said. And also, trust what your eyes see. Even the most puzzling of visions tell us so much.

I’m already puzzled by some of the figures on the rock here. He pointed to one in particular. What is that?

That is a water panther, enemy of the thunderbirds in Ojibwe legends and the ruler of the seasons. Samantha looked up as the trees around them started swaying in the wind. "Manabozho and Peepaukawis are running their race."

Excuse me?

Samantha looked at Rein again. "When the weather changes so quickly as it does now, we say that Manabozho and his brother are running a race."

We just say it’s getting colder, Maynard said, trying to pull his jacket closed over his bulging stomach.

Samantha put her hand against Rein’s arm for a moment as if to make sure she had his attention. Look for the water panther, she said, and he will show you what you need to see.

What does that mean? Rein asked her.

It is not possible for me to teach you everything you need to know in so little time. Trust your instincts, and follow your heart.

He nodded. I always do, he said as a woman’s voice calling out from the other side of the fence drew his attention. Her footsteps were approaching quickly.

Philip! the woman said. "Ningwiss!"

Who’s that? Maynard asked, stepping toward the sound to get a better look in the darkness.

The cry of a mother, Samantha said without even turning to see.

Do you know her? Rein asked Samantha, and she shook her head.

I know the sound of pain, she said.

Philip! Is it Philip? Tell me!

Maynard caught the woman before she got close enough to disturb the body. Settle down now, ma’am, the big man said, taking her over to a wooden bench with a table and then making her sit. She bowed her head and rocked as she cried. What’s your name?

Daisy Whitefeather, she said. You must tell me if that’s my son.

The I.D. in his wallet says that he’s Philip Whitefeather, Maynard told her, so she tossed her head back and started wailing. Most of the words she spoke sounded foreign, like some sort of a chant. The vehicle he’d been driving is registered to a Ben Whitefeather.

Ben is my husband, she said, still crying. Samantha knelt down in front of Daisy, spoke to her in their native tongue, and then held her tight.

When Rein walked over to where Daisy was sitting, he only wanted to know the answer to one question. Ma’am, who told you Philip was dead?

Even as her face was pressed against the palms of her hands, she managed to tell him, Evelyn Standingcloud.

Maynard looked at Rein with playful surprise. That Evelyn sure gets around.

I can’t fault her for telling the boy’s mother, Rein said. She doesn’t understand police procedure. But you’re supposed to know police procedure, aren’t you, Maynard?

Maynard crossed his massive arms in front of him. Now what is that supposed to mean?

I’m only going to ask you this once: Did you move the corpse’s head?

Maynard’s good-natured attitude crumbled like stale bread that had been stored in a very, very dry place. I won’t dignify that question with an answer, he said, and then walked away. Sometimes you can be a real ass, Rein.

CHAPTER THREE: Nothing That Isn’t True

When Rein drove up to Evelyn’s house, he found her out in the yard raking leaves. There were a lot of them and the wind was blowing even harder than before, so it seemed to be a losing battle. Almost as soon as she appeared to have a pile of leaves under control, they would start blowing away again. Her face was older than he remembered; she had to be in her fifties by now. But the moment he saw her, his knees buckled anyway, and he made sure his necktie was straight. It’s true that his wife, Paula, had been the first love of his life, but just as warm and intoxicating, and with feelings that even Paula couldn’t evoke in him to this day, Evelyn was definitely second. No doubt about it.

Glancing up from her work as he got out of his car and closed the door, Evelyn stopped raking and smiled as if really glad to see him. Butterflies began to stir in the pit of his stomach as he returned the favor. She put down the rake and met him halfway.

"Boozhoo niijii, Reinhold Bertram Connery, she said, slipping her gloved hands inside the wide pockets of her camel-colored coat. Although her hair was in a ponytail, it still dangled to her waist. It’s been a long time."

It’s been ten years since I saw you last, he said, nodding. How have you been?

"Oh, I can’t complain. Ndoo minobimaadiz go. The lord has been good to me."

He glanced back at the driveway. You’re still driving that old truck? he said of the blue GM pickup parked in front of the barn. It was rusty and dented on both sides, and sorely in need of bodywork and a paint job. Or, better yet, it should’ve been traded in for a newer model. Even the windshield was cracked from the driver’s side almost to the tip of the second wiper.

It leaks when it rains, but it still runs, Evelyn said. I know something about engines.

Your father was a mechanic, right?

"Eya’, and some of his knowledge rubbed off on me."

Still, God would serve you better to provide you with a more dependable vehicle.

Evelyn smiled. "We’re