“Monte told me that after it was evident the girl in the grave wasn’t Olivia, they pretty much took off. They certainly weren’t looking for a second grave. But that second spirit could be Crystal Two Knives. Or, I suppose, Olivia Hamilton.” Daniel looked toward the mudroom where Waaboo had gone. “How’s our little guy handling all this?”
“Pretty well, all things considered,” Jenny replied. Then she seemed to get the true intention behind her husband’s question. “You’re thinking of taking him back there, aren’t you? You can’t be serious.”
“You said yourself that he appears to be doing well.”
“He’s a seven-year-old boy, Daniel, not some scientific instrument of law enforcement investigation.”
“If there’s another girl buried out there, don’t you think we should do everything we can to locate her body?”
“There must be some other way. Cadaver dogs?”
“If Waaboo senses something more concrete now, we’ll get the cadaver dogs out there or whatever we need. Look, Jenny, the spirit of a young girl is begging for help. How can we deny her that?”
Jenny’s lips went into a hard line, and she was silent a long time. “All right,” she finally agreed. “But I go, too.”
Waaboo’s only question had been “Can we pick blueberries?”
Now he sat in the rear seat of Jenny’s Subaru Forester, singing softly to himself. Daniel, who was driving, recognized the tune, “Jambalaya,” which Waaboo often requested when Daniel brought out his accordion for an evening singsong at the O’Connor house. In the rearview mirror, he watched his son’s head bob up and down as he sang very softly “me-oh-my-oh.”
They were still a couple of miles from the turnoff to Erno Paavola’s cabin. Daniel had called Monte Bonhomme on his cell phone and explained what he was doing. Monte said he would meet them.
“Dad,” Waaboo said.
“Yes?”
“Why don’t you play the accordion like you used to?”
“What do you mean?”
“You haven’t played it in a long time. I like it. You smile when you play and you make me smile and want to dance.”
“Glad to hear that. I’ll keep it in mind.”
Waaboo went back to singing to himself, and a few minutes later, Daniel pulled to a stop at Paavola’s cabin on the hilltop. He lowered the windows and turned off the engine. It was early afternoon and hot, not a breath of wind blowing through the trees.
“Erno Paavola was living in that?” Jenny said. “It looks like a good kick would knock it over.”
“Cork said nobody’s lived there since Paavola died.”
“It looks haunted,” Waaboo said.
They sat quietly for a couple of minutes, the only sound the buzz of insects in the still summer air.
“I’m bored,” Waaboo said. “Can we go pick blueberries now?”
“You picked blueberries all morning with Henry Meloux,” Jenny said.
“It’s fun. I could pick blueberries all day.”
“We wait here for Monte,” Daniel said.
“Then can I at least look at the haunted cabin?”
“All right,” Jenny said. “But just look. And stay where we can see you.”
Waaboo jumped from the car and ran toward the dilapidated structure.
“He’s right, you know,” Jenny said.
“Waaboo? About what?”
“You don’t play your accordion anymore. And you haven’t written a line of poetry in forever.”
“Not inspired, I guess.”
“It’s been that way since you joined the tribal police.”
“Not an easy job,” Daniel said with a shrug.
“Talk to me,” Jenny said.
Daniel gathered himself, trying to give voice to something he’d wrestled with for a while. “When I was a tribal conservation officer, folks appreciated what I did. Preserving the rez resources, keeping our waters clean, catching white poachers. Now I give those same folks tickets or arrest their relatives or break up fights where neither side is happy with me.”
“That’s not everyone on the rez.”
“Maybe not.” Daniel kept his eye on Waaboo, who’d stopped short of the cabin and now stood staring at it. “But sometimes I feel so limited in what I can do. Besides just get folks riled up at me.”
“Is this about Crystal?” Jenny said. “You did the best you could.”
