Chapter Thirteen

The tubby little Russian guy was giving Karl the stink-eye again.

Karl was having his weekly breakfast with Molly Jasper at the Laughing Loon Café, which was a delight—even if it was right next to George Johnson and the aforementioned tubby Russian guy, sharing a square table. George had walked in with a black roll-aboard suitcase, which was really quite a coincidence since not only did Tubby Russian have an identical suitcase with him, but Karl did as well.

Black roll-aboards were obviously the fashion accessory of choice in Coot Lake this morning.

Karl could feel sweat gathering under his arms. Maybe he should’ve left the suitcase in the dog truck. At the same time he had this really weird urge to check the contents of his suitcase. That was just crazy, though. He’d packed his suitcase full yesterday morning before setting off to the Coot Lake Inn, and nothing inside would’ve changed since then.

Would it?

Karl glanced up in time to see Tubby Russian giving him a look so evil it was a wonder Karl didn’t go up in smoke right there. What the heck was the matter with the guy?

“Karl!”

Karl’s head jerked and he looked across the table at Molly Jasper. He always had a moment when he first saw Molly, when he felt like he’d taken a punch to the gut. Molly’s hair was pulled back into some kind of twisty thing, shiny and dark and thick. Her cheeks were round and the light brown of toffee. Her eyes were deep brown like the mud at the bottom of Moosehead Lake. And her mouth was a light pink, wide and soft and sweet.

Well, sometimes. At the moment, Molly’s mouth was pinched and hard as she opened her lips to speak to him. “Are you listening to me at all?”

“ ’Course I am.” Karl smiled winningly.

For some reason that just made Molly frown harder. “You need to find a real job.”

“I have a job. It’s kinda real.”

“No.” She shook her head slowly, making the light glint on her shiny hair. “Fixing things once in a while isn’t a job.”

Karl was pretty sure it was, but he offered another point instead. “I sled, too.”

“Which doesn’t pay.” Molly laid her hands on the Formica table. They were pretty little hands, with dainty fingers and dimples on the knuckles, but they were also strong hands. Karl had seen those hands write tickets for illegal fishing, haul traps with spitting raccoons around, and pat fry bread dough gently but firmly into shape. “You were so smart in school, Karl. I don’t know why you didn’t try for college.”

Karl looked at her, a bit appalled. Molly had gone to the U in the Cities—and he was damned proud of her for it—but Molly had been valedictorian of their class. College would’ve been god-awful for him. The only thing he’d liked about school was the girls and the chance to play hockey. Oh, and that taxidermy class old Mr. Shultz had taught. Stinky but fun. He kinda doubted they taught taxidermy at the U.

“Army was time enough away from the rez,” he said, being diplomatic. “Got to see Germany and Korea and then come home. I don’t really want to leave Minnesota or Crow County again.” He thought about that a second and then amended. “Well, not unless you want to visit Anchorage. I’ve always wanted to race the Iditarod and I know you like whales…”

He stretched a sly fingertip over the tabletop to stroke her dimpled knuckles, but her hand recoiled like a snail withdrawing into a shell.

Karl sighed and glanced around the café. The crowd was sparse today on account of all that snow last night and the warning of yet more to come. Most folks were probably holed up at home, not willing to battle the roads. But Karl would’ve tunneled through a mountain of snow to get to his weekly breakfast with Molly. She’d moved off the rez about a year back, to a small apartment in town, though Karl still couldn’t quite figure out why—everyone they knew was on the rez, and besides, the trailer she’d been living in hadn’t been that bad. The heat had worked most of the time.

The bell over the door tinkled as a tall guy in a navy anorak blew in, stomping powdery white snow on the already sodden mat.

Karl looked back at Molly. She was frowning into her coffee now, two deep lines drawn between her brows. He wished he could make those lines disappear. For a wild moment he thought about telling her about the money he was making—darn good money, even Molly would think so—but the method was just a shade—

There was an exclamation from the table next to theirs and suddenly all three black suitcases were on the floor.

“Ah, I am sorry, my friend,” the tubby Russian said loudly. He bent to pick up one of the suitcases.

George reached over and took the other end of the suitcase. “That is mine, I think.”

“Your pardon, but it is mine.” The Russian was smiling through gritted teeth.

Karl looked between them and then at the other two suitcases still on the floor. His eyes narrowed. “Is that my suitcase, dude?”

“No, I think this is yours,” the Russian said and shoved one of the suitcases on the floor over toward Karl.

Ooohhh, no he wasn’t going to be fooled that easily. Karl grabbed the third suitcase. “Actually, I’m pretty sure this one is.”

He grinned triumphantly as the Russian’s right eyelid began to tick.

“Then this suitcase is yours, Ilya my friend,” George said, pulling the suitcase they fought over out of the Russian’s hands and shoving the last suitcase at him.

For a moment all three men eyed each other and their suitcases.

“You should look to make sure,” Molly said.

Karl gulped. “No, that’s okay.” He pushed the suitcase under his feet.

Ilya clutched his own suitcase protectively to his chest.

“Ms. Jasper.”

Karl looked up. The guy from the door had come over. He had one of those deep, resonant voices that sounded good on movie trailers but were kind of silly in real life. He’d thrown back his hood, and Karl could see now that he was an Indian, his skin a deep hickory brown that might’ve been enhanced from a tanning bed. Also, he’d had the good fortune to get the high-cheekboned Indian genes as opposed to the round-face-and-possible-adult-onset-diabetes gene.

The fucker.

“Who’re you?” Karl said, pushing up his glasses aggressively.

“Oh, please call me Molly,” Molly said at the same time.

Karl narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Molly’s face had gone soft and her voice was all simpery.

The guy pulled off a lined leather glove and stuck out his right hand at him. “Gerard Walkingtall, Native Rights Council.”

Karl took the hand and squeezed. Soft, but the guy did have a good grip. Walkingtall? Really? Figured. Most of the Ojibwa Karl knew had either white names or names like Big Wind Blowing. Not quite as sexy as Walkingtall. “Cherokee?”

Walkingtall’s eyes widened and he smiled, revealing straight, white teeth, like a picket fence Karl had once seen in a grade-school storybook. “How’d you know?”

Karl shrugged, grinning himself. His teeth might not be perfectly straight or perfectly white, but they were all there. “Lucky guess.”

Molly shot him a look. “Gerard is here to make sure the dig up on the rez is okay.”

Walkingtall slid into the booth next to her without even asking and leaned forward across the table. “The white man has stolen enough from us already without stealing our people’s bones and grave goods as well.”

“Really.” Karl sat back, arms folded across his chest. If he shoved his fists under his upper arms, it almost looked like he had biceps. “I heard the dig is over fifteen hundred years old. That’s not Ojibwa.”

Walkingtall stared hard, a little frown on his severe lips. He looked like he was posing for a monument to Dead Indians Everywhere as he intoned, “All our people are as one.”

“Tell that to the Dakota,” Karl muttered.

“Huh?” Walkingtall looked blank.

“This?” Karl made a broad, sweeping arm movement, and did not knock over his water glass. Score. “Used to be Sioux land.” He dropped his arm, sitting straight. “Until the Ojibwa came along and kicked their asses into the Dakota badlands. Booya!”

Molly glared at him. What? She knew their history same as him.

“Only because the white man had pushed the Ojibwa west,” Walkingtall said.

Haley Anne hustled over, eyeing Walkingtall curiously. Between him and the Russian they were having a run on strangers in Coot Lake. “Coffee?”

Walkingtall looked at her. “Do you have herbal tea?”

“Um…” Haley Anne chewed her gum thoughtfully. “I think maybe Earl Grey?”

“That’s not herbal,” Walkingtall informed her like a pompous… ass.

“Yeah?” Haley Anne replied, looking bored.

Walkingtall sighed. “Just water, please.”

“ ’Kay. Anything to eat?”

“Yes. An egg white omelet, spinach and mushrooms, no cheese.”

Haley Anne scribbled on her notepad. “White or wheat?”

“Neither.”

She looked up. “Cornbread?”

Walkingtall shook his head.

“Biscuit?” Haley Anne tried.

“No—”

She looked doubtful. “We might have an English muffin in the back.”

“I don’t eat carbohydrates, thank you,” Walkingtall replied without even a trace of a smile.

Haley Anne just shrugged and turned to Molly. “Watcha want, hon?”

Molly slid a nervous glance at Walkingtall. “Um… I’ll just have a poached egg. And a bowl of oatmeal.”

“Brown sugar?”

“Yes, please.” She looked apologetic.

Karl snorted and when Haley Anne turned to him, he said, “A big stack of blueberry pancakes, lots of butter and lots of syrup.”

“Sure thing.” Haley Anne winked at him and pivoted off to head to the kitchen.

“Our ancestors preferred a diet of meat and what bounty the earth provided,” Walkingtall said. “Much of the white man’s food has led to health problems in our people. Alcohol. High fructose corn syrup. Dairy products.”

Karl double-checked. Molly couldn’t be taking this moron seriously? But she was nodding straight-faced.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Karl muttered under his breath.

“Karl!” Molly hissed.

“I beg your pardon?” The other man turned and Karl saw that his hair was slicked back into a thick single braid.

Most men’s braids had a tendency to look like a drowned rat’s tail. But Walkingtall’s braid didn’t look like a rat tail. It looked sleek and manly and actually kind of cool. Karl ran a hand through his own buzz cut, wondering if he maybe should grow it out, before he realized what he was doing and dropped his hand.

He scowled. Figured Walkingtall would even have good hair.

Walkingtall had turned to Molly and was expounding on… buffalo jerky? Oh, for God’s sakes. If the other guy had even seen a buffalo up close, Karl would eat his… shoe.

“So you probably need to get back to the rez,” Karl interrupted. Molly made an irritated face, so he tried to look earnest and encouraging. “Get right on that dig.”

“It’s winter,” Walkingtall replied as Haley Anne set a glass of ice water next to him. “The dig has been suspended since October.”

“No kidding,” Karl said. “So why’re you here if there’s no digging going on?”

Molly leaned across the table, her breasts nearly going in her coffee, which, for a moment, distracted Karl from her words. “Gerard thinks someone is stealing from the site. Digging up and selling our culture, our history, our people’s soul on eBay.”

“eBay?” Karl took a sip of his coffee, carefully not glancing at the suitcase by his feet. His eyes widened in what he hoped looked like innocent horror. “What could they sell on eBay?”

“Arrowheads,” Walkingtall intoned like Darth Vader after smoking a pack of Camels. “Somebody is selling arrowheads to collectors”—he spat the word, making Karl cover his coffee cup—“on eBay.”

“Golly,” Karl said. “Who would do that?”

This time he couldn’t help it—his gaze went to his battered black suitcase. The one nearly full of carefully, meticulously made fake arrowheads. ’Course, the people he sold them to on eBay didn’t know they were fake. And obviously both Molly and Walkingtall didn’t know, either.

Now if only Karl could keep it that way.