Blood Is the Sky: An Alex McKnight Mystery by Steve Hamilton Page A

lodge.”
    “Helen told me his name is Guy,” I said. “That should help.”
    “Guy.”
    “She also told me he was out on a hunt with that other group of men we saw yesterday.”
    “So?”
    “It was a four-day hunt,” I said.
    “Yeah?”
    “That means he flew out on Saturday.”
    “The same day Albright’s party flew back.”
    “Right. Their hunt was on a different lake, but they all take off from the same place. So he might have talked to them. Hell, maybe he did a little Indian bonding with your brother.”
    I headed due east on the empty highway. A sign told us that Calstock was fifteen miles ahead.
    “He had long hair,” Vinnie finally said. “He was maybe eighteen, nineteen years old. He was wearing jeans and a blue-and-white jacket. I think it had the Toronto Blue Jays emblem on it.”
    I looked over at him. “You saw him.”
    “Yes,” he said. “I saw him.”

Chapter Eight
    We hit Calstock just after noon. There was a truck stop where the access road hit the highway. I pulled over and gassed up. The man behind the counter hesitated a moment over my American money, then said something in French.
    “No parlez français,” I said. “English?”
    “Of course,” the man said. “I was just asking you if you want your change in Canadian money.”
    “Whatever you got,” I said. “How far up this road is Calstock?”
    “About five miles. When you hit the sawmill, you’re there.”
    We got back in the truck and continued north, bound on both sides by the thick walls of white pine trees. The sawmill came into view, just as advertised, along with a power plant that obviously burned all the bark and wood waste. The hot smell hung in the air.
    Constance Lake appeared on our left just as we entered the reserve. There was a big wooden sign to let us know we were on Indian land.
    “Are these Ojibwa up here?” I said.
    “No, they’re Cree.”
    “You guys get along?”
    “Why wouldn’t we?”
    “Weren’t they your mortal enemies?” I said. “No, wait, that was the Dakotas.”
    “The Cree and the Ojibwa are like family,” he said. “It’s been that way for hundreds of years. Now more than ever.”
    We passed a little shop that sold Indian crafts. Soon after that we were in the heart of the reserve. The houses weren’t all brand-new like in Michigan. Most of the windows were taped up with plastic to keep out the coming winter winds. Thin spirals of smoke rose from the chimneys.
    “How do we find Guy?” I said.
    “There has to be a tribal center. Keep going.”
    We drove by more houses. Eventually we saw a school and beside that a big cement building that had to be something official. We pulled up next to a police car. There was a round seal on the car door that read NISHNAWBEASKI POLICE SERVICE.
    “Maybe these police will be a little more accommodating,” Vinnie said.
    “Those two weren’t so bad,” I said.
    Vinnie stopped and looked at me. “Just because one of them was attractive …”
    “Has nothing to do with it,” I said. “They could have been a lot worse, is all I’m saying.”
    He shook his head and smiled. “Come on.” He got out of the truck and went in. I followed him. The door opened to a large meeting room, with a great round table in the middle. A young woman was vacuuming the floor. We stood there for a few seconds until she noticed us.
    “Pardonnez-moi,” she said. She had an unmistakably Indian face, with dark eyes and dark hair tied in a ponytail down her back. She wore thick boots under her long skirt. They clunked loudly on the floor as she came over to us.
    “We’re sorry to bother you,” Vinnie said. “We’re looking for a young man named Guy.”
    “Guy Berard?”
    “I’m not sure what his last name is,” Vinnie said. He looked at me and I shook my head. “We know he works over at the lodge on Lake Peetwaniquot.”
    “Yes, that’s him. I haven’t seen him around in a few days.”
    “Can you tell me where he lives?”
    The woman looked at