Raincloud: A Novel

By Richard S. Todd

When the dead and beaten body of Jimmy Raincloud is discovered by a snowplow driver on a rural road, tension heats up between the white population of Scanlon Creek and the Native Americans of Sky Lake.

Scanlon Creek and Sky Lake have coexisted uneasily for years, their geographical closeness belying the wide cultural gulf between them. Racial animosity is never far from the surface, and it becomes increasingly volatile as more Native youths are found murdered in the wilderness outside of Scanlon Creek.

Primary investigator Hank Gillespie and partner Stephanie Whirlwind delve into the disturbing serial murders. Hank is plagued by vivid nightmares relating to the case, and he believes there may be a link to a mass murder committed by the Reverend Walter Tillman years before.

The case proves to be one of police corruption, drug dealing, and depravity. Previous alliances between violent suspects are strained, and new ones are born, as the murders reshape the landscape of the criminal underworld. Hank and Stephanie must try to save their own lives as they uncover the true identity of the killer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 13, 2008
• ISBN: 9780595907564

Richard S. Todd

A magazine writer and pop composer living near Toronto, Canada, Richard S. Todd is a fervent champion for those fighting to overcome personal struggles and make choices to resist the perpetuation of racial isolation. This is his debut novel.

Book preview

Copyright © 2008 by Richard S. Todd

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

iUniverse

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN: 978-0-595-46458-6 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-0-595-90756-4 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

To the Bearded One in the Sky

Or in the Ground

Or Wherever You Call Home These Days

Contents

P A R T I

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

P A R T II

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

P A R T III

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

P A R T I

DEEP WINTER

PROLOGUE

The sun shines brightly in Scanlon Creek against a tinfoil background, looking so large that it seems the distance between it and the earth has been cut in half. It feels like 3:00 AM, but the sky shimmers like a great polished mirror; clear with no temperature at all, no air pressure, and no sense of gravity or direction.

Hank is walking (not really walking, but rather floating, not of his own free will) through the dusty town down Dunn Avenue on a dark grey sidewalk that blends into the street. His hands are covering his mouth. He feels no pain, only fear, because his teeth are shredded and the pieces are floating in a bath of warm, silvery-tasting saliva. He feels the stares like weights as blank-faced people pass on the nearly empty pavement, and he prays that no one will address him lest he try to answer and expel a flow of bloody spit down his chin.

Oh God, what’s happened to my teeth? Hank steps into a confused jog, avoiding eye contact, looking for somewhere familiar, not knowing where to go as the great force pulls him past the cemetery grounds that lead to the Back Street Baptist Church. One-Eyed Jack stands among the headstones, with his one good eye and expression of contempt burning a hole through Hank’s fluid body.

Hank suddenly passes through a set of great wooden doors beneath an arch that is unsupported by any wall or foundation. The force pulls him down a long aisle where someone awaits him. The person’s back is to him, but Hank somehow knows exactly who it is. The force beckoning him is familiar and frightening, yet impossible to resist. He continues streaking down the seemingly endless aisle, keeping his eyes downcast (he knows that if he looks up, his teeth will slide down his throat in a stream of hot saliva). The floor is made of torn up blue linoleum and is covered in clothes, books, newspapers, and chunks of pink, fleshy matter he can’t quite identify.

Welcome home, my son, the figure rasps dirtily, turning toward him. Hank looks straight down, trusting his feet to guide him, too fearful and ashamed of his mouth to look up. He can smell the rotten breath, the damp stink of mould rushing forward, overpowering him like a tidal wave. At the edges of his vision, he perceives strips of green, dead flesh twisting in the air. His eyes begin to water as his legs scream Run! and he feels them move yet remains glued to the spot. He is whisked away …

… to the edge of a dark lake lit by a single light bulb hanging from the branch of a birch tree. Hank opens his mouth and blood cascades into the quiet water with a sickening splash. He sees the blood and spit begin to foam, and in the vile mixture, pieces of bone that were his teeth swim like fish gasping in a polluted stream.

His eyes feel like glowering orbs full of terror and confusion as he plunges his fingers into his mouth, feeling the moist, pink gums. Blood oozes from the sockets where his teeth once grew tall and straight like wheat stretching in the field (a reference he can’t quite place). Hank cries out and chokes, collapsing and spiralling down into a black abyss. He breaks through layer after layer, and with each layer that he breaks, his fall accelerates beyond his ability to sense time, space, who he is, or where he is going.

Hank Gillespie’s eyes flew open with such a rush, it took several seconds for the fog to lift, allowing his senses to tell him he was awake. That nightmare again. He stared out his bedroom window at the dotted velvet sky, unconsciously feeling his gums while swinging his legs over the bed and staggering blindly to the bathroom.

He flicked a switch and was suddenly awash in a bright white light. On his way to the toilet, he peered myopically into the mirror to inspect his puffy but intact features. As he was relieving himself, portions of the dream drifted back to his still-groggy brain. I’m here, he told the inner demon that took him on his nocturnal journeys. I’m doing what you’re asking. Why do you continue to torment me?

Hank fell back into bed and into sleep right away. When his ringing phone woke him up for duty a few hours later, the memories of his dream passed into the night like devils that play their tricks on the living and then retreat back into Hell, blanketed by the daylight from a shiny, tinfoil sky.

CHAPTER 1

The sun was smiling coldly upon the dead Native man lying in the snow. His glassy eyes stared blankly northward beneath the China-blue January sky, and a trickle of snot stuck frozen in mid-drip from the nose beneath. The mouth was hanging open as if its owner was about to laugh despite the dark facial bruising, and the thin, gangly arms were crossed over his chest in what appeared to be an attempt to keep warm. His long, black hair lay loosely across his forehead. Although the weather had been bitterly cold, typical of late-season Canadian winters, the man wasn’t wearing any boots, coat, or hat.

Beaten and left to die, Hank Gillespie surmised, standing over the body. A crisp wind chewed at the exposed skin of Hank’s pale face, still puffy from sleep. I’m glad you called me.

Who else would I call? Sergeant Eddie Brooks replied with a smirk. With your big city experience with big city crime, maybe you could teach us small-town folk a thing or two. His gaze fell to the motionless young man. Scanlon Creek hasn’t seen the likes of this in years.

Hank glanced at him. You mean this sort of thing has happened before?

Once, a long time ago, Brooks explained. A Native hunchback named One-Eyed Jack died like this. He used to work in one of our local churches.

A ring of familiarity echoed through Hank, but he shook it off. Well, I saw a lot of this in Fort York—vagrants and homeless people who curl up on a cold night and die of overexposure.

Brooks raised an eyebrow and cocked his head. Maybe in the big city, Detective, but not a lot of vagrants find themselves this far out on a road hardly used in the winter.

Hank began taking mental notes as he knelt over the victim, who just stared off indifferently, far beyond caring what people thought anymore. Young man, between twenty and twenty-five years old, Native, facial bruising, no other obvious sign of trauma … Hank’s head started throbbing and, without realizing it, he began massaging his temples.

Another headache? Brooks asked, small flakes of snow sticking to his beard. You’ve got to get yourself to a doctor.

I’ve got to get myself to Hawaii, Hank grunted. He looked around the frozen landscape, his own Native skin making him feel like an ink blot on a white canvas. Who found the victim?

Kenny Bristol, Brooks replied, gesturing to a yellow snowplough parked down the road. Remember him from Thursday night pool?

Hank nodded. The snowplough driver … His wife’s name is Molly and he has two kids—right?

That’s right. Oak Hill Road is the last on his route. After yesterday’s storm, he’s been out for close to thirty hours. What a way to end the day.

Person of interest? Hank asked, giving Brooks a sidelong glance.

Kenny? Are you kidding? That guy’s straighter than his break shot.

Hank smiled. I’ll want to speak to him anyway. He blew warm breath into his cupped hands in an attempt to warm them. Have you talked to Brad yet? I’ve learned that he’s the kind of police chief that would want to know about things like this right away. Very hands-on.

I’ll call him now, Brooks said, pulling out his cellphone. This may give him a goddamn heart attack. All he needs right now is more trouble with Sky Lake. As he began to trudge away through the deep snowbank, he said, Kenny’s still in his plough. I’ll meet you there in five minutes.

Hank watched as Brooks moved his broad figure through the snow. Compared to Brooks, who was in his twenty-second year on the force, Hank was relatively new to the department. Brooks had become a sort of mentor to Hank, and they had developed a professional bond that sometimes extended beyond working hours to the local tavern. It seemed to Hank, though, that Brooks was holding something back.

Another police car appeared on the horizon heading for the crime scene, its tires struggling to grip the snow-encrusted gravel. As it pulled into the clearing beside Brooks’ department PT Cruiser, Hank noted that Constable Stephanie Whirlwind was at the wheel.

She alighted from her vehicle, tucking her raven hair under a police toque and began to make her way through the deep snow toward Hank, trying to place her feet in his footsteps whenever possible.

Good morning, Detective, she greeted flatly.

Constable, he replied.

Stephanie, who had been on the force for five years, had grown up in the nearby Sky Lake First Nations Reserve. She often acted as liaison between the Scanlon Creek Police Department and her community’s influential Sky Lake Aboriginal Committee.

I heard I might be needed out here, Stephanie said, climbing over the snowbank.

Hank nodded. We have a possible homicide victim—

—Jimmy, she whispered, staring agape at the body.

You know him? Hank asked.

Jimmy Raincloud. He lived up in Sky Lake.

Hank gently touched her shoulder, sending warmth through the fabric to her skin.

Brooks stood beside Kenny, who was leaning glumly against his plough, and directed some newly arrived troops like a battle-seasoned field marshal. Police officers were suddenly everywhere, either tramping through the snow or clustered together in small discussion groups, shivering and blowing on their hands in an effort to keep warm.

Hank made his way across the road toward the plough, gazing at the few houses set back from the road. He thought of the Norman Rockwell plates his grandmother collected, their warm winter images freezing idyllic childhood moments forever. Over the next crest, the houses disappeared and were replaced by pristine fields that opened onto Shadow Lake—the flat, hard surface of which was just visible shimmering on the horizon.

Morning, Kenny, Hank said upon joining the two men. Kenny stayed quiet, looking pensive and in shock. How are the kids?

They’re good, Kenny finally responded, but with guarded sincerity. Hank realized that although the three men knew each other socially, Kenny was most likely afraid of what might happen now that Hank and Brooks were toting badges instead of pool cues.

Rough morning, huh?

Yeah, I think he’s seen better days, Brooks commented, putting a strong hand on the snowplough driver’s shoulder.

My first reaction was to just drive away, Kenny muttered. Pretend I never saw it. But I knew that would haunt me forever.

You probably wouldn’t have been able to sleep, said Brooks, and that’s what you need most right now.

Hank nodded at Brooks, silently telling him that he was about to dismiss Kenny. Thanks for calling us, Hank said to Kenny. Why don’t you go home now? We’ll let you know if we need anything else.

Are you sure? Kenny asked, his voice betraying some of his relief. I still need to finish this road—

Hank shook his head. It’s a crime scene now, Kenny. Go home. Say hi to Molly for us.

Kenny nodded his head and hopped up into the plough’s cab.

We’ll see you Thursday, Brooks called out. Work on that bank shot in the meantime. Kenny waved in response as he pulled away toward the clearing and back down the road toward the highway.

He’s a good man, Hank, Brooks commented as they watched the plough disappear over a hill. His son Nick plays hockey with my boy Glenn on the Scanlon Creek Vipers. Both NHL bound, I wager.

I thought your son wanted to join the department, Hank said.

That’s Eddie Jr., he drawled. "He’s going to follow in his daddy’s and grand-daddy’s footsteps. Glenn, on the other hand, plans to be a top goalie prospect for the big leagues. Caroline and I are proud of both of them. You’ll understand when you have kids."

I’ll just take your word for now, Hank said. They began walking back to the body. Did you talk to Brad?

I did. He wants to see you and Stephanie at the station as soon as you’re done here.

Thanks, Hank replied. By the way, Stephanie identified the victim.

She did? Who was he?

Jimmy Raincloud. She knew him personally.

Raincloud? Brooks shook his head ruefully. Hell. We’re in for a shit storm now.

Why’s that?

Jimmy Raincloud is kin to Chief Black Feather, Brooks replied, the words stopping Hank in his tracks.

He hasn’t been lying here very long, Hank surmised as they stood once again over the young man. We had a big snowfall last night, but there’s not a lot of snow covering the body. He glanced at a trail of barely visible footprints that led from the direction of Shadow Lake. He was walking toward Baseline Road, but from where?

The tracks go back about one hundred feet, Brooks said. That’s where he was probably dumped. We found traces of tire tracks on the road, but Kenny obliterated most of them with his plough. We’re lucky he didn’t bury the deceased, too.

He’s too good at his job, Hank commented. So the victim was beaten, driven out here, stripped of his winter clothing, and then sent on a death march. I guess he walked for a while before finally collapsing. He shook his head sympathetically. Probably just trying to find the way home.

Stephanie’s voice floated from behind. Eddie?

The two men turned to face her sad, brown eyes as they gazed upon the body. I have to go to Sky Lake. Black Feather needs to know.

Take your time, Brooks said. When you’re done, coordinate with Detective Gillespie. He shivered and observed the frigid landscape. It’s damn cold out here. I’m going to send Clyde for some coffee. When you’re done here, Hank, I’ll have him drive you into town.

Why can’t you drive me? Hank asked, squinting against the sun’s reflection on the snow.

I can’t, Brooks grunted, slyly averting his eyes. I have an appointment. But I’ll meet you two at the station later.

As Brooks tramped away, Hank turned to Stephanie. I’m sorry about your friend.

Stephanie shrugged. Just another Indian, right? she said bitterly.

My grandmother was Native, Hank offered quickly. She used to live in Scanlon Creek, too.

Stephanie looked at him with contempt and began to move away. Hank furrowed his brow and, with concern, again placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. Are you going to be okay?

Stephanie turned toward him slowly. My shoulder’s not a playground, Detective.

Gingerly removing his hand, Hank let her make her way through the snowdrifts to her police cruiser and watched her drive away. Snowflakes gently flew down from the ridge onto his black police windbreaker as he mumbled, Jimmy Raincloud. The man he was addressing lay calm and still, with eyes that continued to stare northward along the path a lone raven now flew, as if his goal were still in sight. What on earth are you doing out here?

*   *   *   *

Swiss Chalet.

Hank rubbed his eyes as the headache began to soak into his brain. Oh, God, this one’s gonna hurt, he thought, twisting off the lid of the Percocet bottle and gazing through the police car’s window. His reflection in the side mirror revealed a grizzled man whose dark, handsome features were slowly ebbing away due to lack of sleep and debilitating pain. He ran his fingers through his dark hair and gently rubbed his throbbing head.

She thought I had told her Cirque du Soleil, so when we pulled into the parking lot she was plenty mad.

Hmm, Hank grunted. He didn’t mean to ignore Clyde Daniels, who was perched at the wheel of the car, manoeuvring over the hills of Baseline Road toward Scanlon Creek. But Hank’s focus was on the throbbing in his head, not on the young constable’s words.

They do sound alike, don’t they? Daniels went on. Swiss Chalet and Cirque du Soleil? He laughed. Hell, I’d take a chicken dinner over acrobats in panties any day.

Hank tipped the bottle to his mouth and dry-swallowed three pills. He grimaced at the chalky path being forged in his throat.

Are you okay, Detective? Daniels asked.

Hmm?

I asked if you were okay.

Hank closed his eyes. I will be in a minute.

The half-buried cedar fences that lined the farmlands were beginning to give way to subdivisions that spread out from the town’s core. Residents were digging out their driveways, some struggling with hand shovels, others riding on small snow blowers. Cars splashed through the slush, spraying parked vehicles with a wet, sticky film.

Daniels turned left at the Dunn Avenue intersection, which served as the centre of town, and took the downward slope until taking another left into the Scanlon Creek Police Station.

As they parked, Daniels suddenly grinned. You got a hangover, don’t you, Detective?

Warmth spread through Hank’s system like a thick, comforting blanket. The pain was pushed away, locked in a closet, but still threatening to ravage his spirit again at any point. He turned to Daniels. I wish it were that simple.

*   *   *   *

The station was built in the late 1800s and had been owned by several prominent citizens, the last of whom was Titanic survivor Marilyn Hicks. She had died in 1945, reportedly happy to do so if only to stop answering questions about the great ship’s sinking. Her family sold the building to the town, and it became the police station the following year.

Any police officer who worked there since then would testify that it would have made a better antique store or bed-and-breakfast. The floors creaked at the slightest step. The rooms were small, the hallways narrow, and the holding cells were downstairs in the damp, cold basement—the only part of the building that had been renovated for its current use. For years, the Scanlon Creek Preservation Society had managed to stop any additional changes to the structure, and the numerous requests to move to a new building were always mired in municipal bureaucracy.

The front corner office that Chief Brad Burrell had occupied for the previous eleven years offered two views: one of the modern, brand-new Town Hall with Council Chambers next door, and the other of Nick the Greek’s fast-food restaurant across the street. Nick’s hamburgers had proven too much of a temptation for Burrell to resist, and he often joked that his large, middle-aged frame was more steer than man.

But on the day that Jimmy Raincloud’s body was discovered, Burrell’s stomach was too upset for a Giant Nick’s Combo with fries and a soda. Instead, his lunch had consisted of two antacids washed down with coffee.

Hank, seated across from him beside Stephanie, looked at his boss sympathetically. Stomach upset again, Brad?

I just got off the phone with Mayor McKinley, Burrell muttered. He yelled so much, I’d bet he hasn’t got a goddamn voice left. He sat back in his chair, causing it to protest with an ear-splitting squeak. And, yes, I’ve got so much acid shooting up my throat, it’s eating me a new nasal passage.

What’s the problem with McKinley? Hank asked.

What’s the problem? He’s afraid—that’s the goddamn problem! He’s afraid of the press. He’s afraid of the voters. He’s afraid of the Sky Lake Aboriginal Committee. Goddamn it, the only thing he’s not afraid of is chewing my ass out.

Burrell cast a yearning eye out the window at Nick’s and wondered to himself how many more antacids it would take to calm down his stomach. It’s a combination of diet and stress, his doctor had told him at his last check-up. Eat more greens and take a holiday. He was actually considering taking his wife, Sophie, on a Mediterranean cruise that spring, but with a dead body lying across the already thick divide between his department, Sky Lake, and the town council, there was no hope of taking time off in the foreseeable future.

Normally I would send Stephanie to deal with issues in Sky Lake, he went on. But Black Feather got somewhat abusive when Stephanie delivered the news of Jimmy Raincloud’s death. What was it he called you, Stephanie?

"Puno Wasicun, she replied with a little shame. Glancing over at Hank, she said, You don’t want to know what it means."

And I can’t send Eddie anymore, Burrell continued. I need peace with the Natives more than I need Natives in pieces. Any more complaints and they’ll be fitting me for a bouncer T-shirt at the Town Pump.

Hank cocked an eyebrow. Complaints?

Burrell shifted uneasily in his seat, resulting in another squeak. There’s been a few … incidents, where Eddie has used, shall we say, excessive force against the Native population.

Excessive isn’t the word, Stephanie grumbled. How about unnecessary? Or cruel?

Have the complaints ever been investigated? Hank asked.

Sure, Burrell replied. But there’s never any resolution. The complainants are quick to point fingers, but they’re not big on follow-through. It puts the accusations in question.

Stephanie rolled her eyes and said, The Committee feels that follow-through is useless when they’re dealing with someone whose father was also a cop and whose family is close with the Mayor’s.

Reel that in, Constable, Burrell said, pointing his finger at Stephanie. Let’s not get into this argument again. I served as a beat cop with Eddie’s father, Reggie. He died a hero. His son is a well-respected police officer in the community. And until I’m given reason otherwise, I stand by my officers. You included.

Spoken like a true leader, rang a voice from the doorway. It was Deputy Chief Marty Finn, nearly filling the space with his bearlike, muscular frame. Don’t mean to interrupt, but I was walking by when I heard Reggie’s name.

We were just talking about him, Burrell said. He looked at Hank. Marty served with Reggie, too. We were the only three beat cops in this town for a while.

That was in the days before the housing boom, Finn recalled. And before Tillman, as well.

A brief silence fell over the room until Burrell interjected, And I was also telling Stephanie how respected Eddie is.

Finn entered the office, a smile crossing his lantern jaw. Eddie’s a good man, just like his dad. He looked at Stephanie. But if there’s any reason to suspect otherwise, I hope I’m the first to know.

Stephanie didn’t pursue the issue, but instead asked Burrell, So who are you going to send to Sky Lake to deal with Black Feather?

I’ll do it, Hank volunteered. We used to go camping in Sky Lake in the summer when I was a kid, so it’ll be good to see the place again. Plus, meeting Black Feather will be good for my book.

Book? Stephanie asked.

Burrell chuckled. Our big city detective, just barely returning here from a high-paying position in Fort York and just getting settled, has decided to write a history book about our little community.

That’s one of the reasons I came back, Hank said. I’m especially interested in the Walter Tillman case. I remember it from when I was a child here, just before my family moved to Fort York. There isn’t a lot written about Tillman, but I find the story fascinating and want to learn more.

Stephanie narrowed her eyes. I wouldn’t talk about that in Sky Lake if I were you.

Hank was about to protest, but Burrell cut in. I agree. Now’s the time to rebuild the bridges, not set them on fire with old, still-smouldering embers.

Actually, Brad, Hank replied, trying not to smirk, now’s the perfect time to study the social problems and judicial imbalances historically imposed upon the Native people of this region. Admittedly, Tillman is an exaggerated example of these injustices, but there is a parallel meaning with this case.

Stephanie nodded thoughtfully and muttered, One-Eyed Jack.

Eddie mentioned him this morning, Hank said. He was a Native hunchback who apparently died the same way Jimmy Raincloud did.

He did, Finn confirmed. Brad and I worked that case. But what you may find interesting, Detective, is that Jack worked for Reverend Tillman at the time of Tillman’s crime and died within weeks after. He winked. There’s chapter one for you.

Did you confirm it was a homicide? Hank asked with interest. Did you ever find the killer?

Oh, Jack was murdered alright, Finn replied. Beaten up pretty bad and left out to freeze to death in nothing but his nightgown. We never found the killer. Bad year for the Scanlon Creek Police Department.

Hank looked at Burrell. See, Brad? Parallel meaning! Maybe if I get closer to the details of the Tillman case, I can get closer to the details of this one.

Give your pen a rest for a while, Detective. Burrell, never one to listen to speeches from his charges, leaned forward again, his chair crying out in pain. Tillman is still fresh in peoples’ minds around here. He caused a lot of people a lot of pain, and it still lingers today. Finn nodded solemnly as Burrell stuck a finger out to push home his point. No Tillman. Confine your interest to Jimmy Raincloud.

Sure, Brad, Hank replied. I’ll visit Black Feather today. Then I’ll hit up my informant and poke around town a bit.

Fine, Burrell grunted. When you’re done, liaise with Stephanie. I want you two to work together on this one. He sat back again. Maybe she can teach you a thing or two about Sky Lake diplomacy.

Hank nodded slowly as Stephanie piped up. While Hank is in Sky Lake, is there anything you’d like me to do?

Yes, there is. I need you to do me a favour.

She sighed. Nick’s Combo or the jumbo chilli fries?

A pause. A chicken salad. Light on the dressing.

CHAPTER 2

Driving to Sky Lake brought the whispers back to Hank’s mind. The whispers of townsfolk in the general store. Hushed conversations between his teachers at school. Talk between adults that suddenly stopped when he entered the room. The way his mother whispered a prayer whenever they passed by the charred ruins of the Back Street Baptist Church where Walter Tillman served as reverend.

Hank was only five at the time but he could feel that something dark had covered the town after that cold night when sirens and screams filled the streets. Hank had snuck to his window, and peering out, his eyes filled with a bright orange glow coming from near the centre of town. His mother had then come into his room and shooed him into bed, but Hank lay awake, as if the screams he heard were coming from inside his own head.

And somehow, deep inside, he knew that his grandmother, Rosie Hawkins, was gone.

After that, everything seemed like a blur. Hank’s mother suddenly put their house up for sale, and he soon found himself living in Fort York. He knew that something terrible had happened, that many people, including his grandmother, had died, and that somehow Tillman was responsible. His mother never discussed it, and Hank pushed it out of his mind until just a few weeks before Raincloud’s death, when he started getting nightmares compelling him to research and document the Tillman story. It was then that he had decided to once again make Scanlon Creek his home.

Seven Mile Road gradually rose and fell with the uneven ground. As Hank slowly manoeuvred his car over its gravel surface toward the Sky Lake First Nations Reserve, he felt transported into the simpler time of his boyhood. It was hard to believe that large cities even existed, let alone less than an hour away.

A few houses dotted the five-kilometre stretch, each with farms producing different kinds of livestock, such as cows, sheep, and ostrich. Hank smiled as he passed the Miller farm. Years earlier, Jim Miller had given Hank’s mother one of his biggest ostrich eggs, and as much as they tried, Hank and his mother couldn’t finish the giant omelette it had produced.

From the top of the road’s highest rise, you could just barely see the shimmering surface of Shadow Lake to the south before the road fell once again into a valley. More farmland covered the valley, followed by another rise with another house or two. On the next dip, however, the road took a sharp turn to the left where the land met Shadow Lake. After that bend, the road flattened out and a sign welcomed visitors: SKY LAKE FIRST NATIONS RESERVE.CREATED 1980.

The village had been called Sky Lake when Hank was boy. The name conjured up images of picnicking families and camping trips with his mom. They would always go there in high summer, when the smell of pine was sweetest, and find a spot near Shadow Lake to pitch their tents. His mom would cook spider weenies over a fire and they would clap and sing songs until the sun went down.

The fact that it had become a Native reserve conjured up darker images. After Tillman was arrested, the local Natives, led by Black Feather, demanded that Tillman receive the maximum penalty for his crimes. Mistrust was high between the Natives and the white residents while everyone mourned and awaited closure.

But then the worst possible scenario played out: Tillman disappeared from the local jail before his trial began. Black Feather was incensed and immediately organized his people to block arterial roads with demonstrations, cutting off commuter and tourist traffic. They loudly interrupted town council meetings and demanded land of their own to live on as they chose. According to Black Feather, the system they had been subjected to had let them down.

After weeks of negotiations, Black Feather’s people were awarded Sky Lake, much to the outrage of the residents there, all of whom were white. The residents were allowed to keep their homes, but the land beneath now belonged to the Natives. Unable to cut down trees for firewood or even cut their own lawns without permission from the new, uncooperative