All was quiet. Only the deathly stillness of a sub-zero night greeted me as I stepped onto the path to their cabin. And the undisturbed snow told me that if the police had been there, it was before the storm. A thin spiral of smoke reached upwards from the chimney to stars, made more brilliant by the frigid air, while from inside the faint glow of an oil lamp shone through the one unboarded window.
When I knocked on the door, I heard an exclamation of surprise through the thin wood and some shuffling, which started me wondering. Then Ajidàmo called out, “Who’s there?”
“It’s me, Meg,” I answered. “I’d like to talk to you. Could you let me in, please?”
More shuffling, and finally Ajidàmo opened the door. His grandmother stood behind him. Neither smiled. Neither said a word. Steam generated by the room’s escaping warmth billowed around them.
“Please, it’s about John-Joe.”
No response.
“Look, I’m worried. He could freeze to death if he spends another night in the bush.” As if on cue, the crack of a branch contracting from the cold pierced the stillness behind me. “And I’m afraid the police might know where he’s hiding.”
Fear flashed across Ajidàmo’s face. He rattled off something in Algonquin to his grandmother.
“Could you please let me in?” The cold was beginning to penetrate the double layer of fleece I’d worn.
More hurried discussion between the old woman and her grandson. Then finally both stepped back into the hot room to let me in. Contrary to my growing suspicions, I saw no indication that John-Joe had been in this room seconds before. The room was little changed from my last visit. A halffinished moccasin lay at one end of the table, while at the other end a child’s school workbook sprawled open at one of the lessons. The doors to the two back rooms were closed, but they’d been closed last time too.
However, I couldn’t help but sense the boy’s nervousness. I was fairly certain he’d been in touch with his nìtàwis, might even know his hiding place. The challenge was to get him to tell me. I decided the truth was the only way.
I explained how I’d found his cousin at his hunting camp after the murder, how I’d sheltered John-Joe following his first escape and how I’d promised to help him. I ended by saying that I still believed in his nìtàwis’s innocence and would do all I could to find the real killer.
While I spoke, Ajidàmo remained silent. Only his eyes responded, and they grew larger and larger until they seemed to occupy most of his thin face.
Finally I said, “Ajidàmo, I think you know where John-Joe is hiding. Could you either take me to him or tell him to come to Three Deer Point? I promise I won’t tell the police.”
His eyes darted to the closed doors behind me, then back to me. Before I had a chance to walk over and check out the rooms for myself, one of the doors opened and out stepped John-Joe.
“It’s good you’re here,” he said.
He looked more drawn than when I’d last seen him. His cheeks were now sunken hollows with dark bags under his eyes. At least on one side of his face. The other was purple and swollen, blotting out the scratches he’d received on his first escape. His eye was a puffy slit. Somewhere on his long journey, he’d rid himself of his prison clothes. Jeans, sweatshirt and a lumberman’s wool shirt now draped his lanky frame.
“And I’m very glad you’re safe,” I said.
He smiled his movie star smile, but with a slight alteration, a gap from a missing front tooth. Thumping his chest, he said, “Takes more than a little cold to kill me.”
“Maybe so, but it’ll certainly make you sicker.”
“Ah, what’s a cough or two. Besides, my cold’s pretty well gone.” And he gave his chest another resounding thump.
“We’ll see. So why did you run again? It’ll only make your defense that much harder for Tommy.”
“Couldn’t take any more shit. See this?” He pointed to his face, then lifted up his sweatshirt to reveal more bruises. “This is what the fuckin’ pigs do to Indians.”
“But Tommy said you’d been in a fight with other prisoners.”
He grunted. “Cops good at telling fairy tales, ain’t they? Two of ’em buggers jumped me when I was coming out of the shower. One held my arms while the other pounded the shit out of me.”
“Good God, why?”
John-Joe’s eyes flashed in anger. “One of ’em bastards asked if I had a sister. Said he liked fuckin’ squaw meat, so I spit on him.”
Unfortunately it would be their word against John-Joe’s. “Kind of makes it tricky going back, doesn’t it?”
“That’s what I figure.”
“You’ll need some place to stay where the cops aren’t likely to look. And it isn’t here. In fact, I’m worried they might be on their way now.”
John-Joe grinned. “Guess I’d better get going, eh? Got my gear ready. I was gonna leave tonight, anyway, and hide out in the bush.”
“Do that, and you’ll never be able to clear yourself. I have a better idea. Stay at my place, where there are more than enough hiding places if the cops do come sniffing around, and you can work with me to find Chantal’s killer.”
“Okay,” he said without hesitation and spoke a few words to his grandmother, who turned her solemn glance towards me and said, “Goood. Friend.”
“Before we leave, though, there are a few things I’d like you to clear up for me. One has to do with the money the police found on you. Did that come from Chantal?
He leaned back on his heels and crossed his arms over his chest. His shuttered face told me he was not about to answer.
“Look, I know you probably got it from Chantal. Her father’s reporting a large sum missing. I just want to know how it ended up in your possession.”
His face remained stubbornly impassive. “I will only help you if you’re are totally honest and open with me. Did she give the money to you, or did you steal it?” He continued his silence.
“Okay, that’s it. You’re on your own. I won’t help you any more.” I turned to leave.
“She gave me the money. She’s into drugs big time. She wanted me to get them for her.”
“Did you sell them to her? Is that why you didn’t tell the police where you got the money?”
Ajidàmo blurted out, “I didn’t tell her, Nìtàwis, honest, I didn’t.”
“Didn’t tell her what, Adjidàmo?” John-Joe asked.
“It was your friend. He brung us the stuff. You know, the guy you told me to be nice to.”
“Shit, that bastard. Wait till I get a hold of him.”
“Does he mean Pierre?” I asked.
“That bastard,” John-Joe replied with finality.
“And he was the source of the marijuana you and Chantal smoked at your hunting camp,” I said more as a statement than a question.
“Yeah.”
“And you bought it using Chantal’s money.”
He nodded, albeit with reluctance.
“So why did you tell me before that Chantal brought the grass with her?”
“I was afraid you were gonna