Lone Wolf - J.R. Rain Page 0,41

a little bit paranoid.

Call me crazy…

The reservation was comprised of maybe twenty or so single-story buildings that looked like white rectangles with gray, flat roofs. Nondescript in appearance, they all pretty much looked the same. Their layout wasn’t as predictable because the buildings appeared to be sprawled this way and that with no definite pattern in mind. It was almost as if they’d been scattered by a tornado and allowed to land where they did.

“Can you tell me where I can find Amala Johnson?” I asked the first person I encountered, who happened to be a little girl who was maybe six years old. She was bundled up for the cold weather from head to toe. Judging by the fact that she’d just pulled what looked like a frozen Barbie out of the snow, I figured she’d come out to retrieve it.

She just looked at me blankly for a second or so, as if trying to figure out where I’d come from and how I’d ended up in her village, but then she immediately turned around and ran back into her house, without so much as saying, “boo.”

“She lives in the house at the end of the street,” a boy’s voice announced from directly behind me. I twirled around and found a handsome young man facing me. He couldn’t have been more than ten or maybe eleven.

“Thanks,” I responded and then fell silent because he was looking at me in such a way that it seemed he wanted to say more. I’ve learned that sometimes the best way to encourage more information is to keep quiet.

“You police?” he asked as he eyed me narrowly.

I nodded. “Yes, I am the chief, as a matter of fact.”

“A woman?” he scoffed and shook his head as if he didn’t believe it. His long, black hair obscured half his angular face to the point that he reminded me of Mowgli from The Jungle Book.

“Yes, a woman,” I responded immediately, finding it suddenly annoying that sexism seemed drilled into boys at a very young age.

“What are you doing here?” he continued as he circled me, looking like a feral cat about to pounce. Or maybe a wolf. “We don’t see police much.”

“I’m here to talk to some of the people who live in your town,” I answered with a shrug, not wanting him to distrust me or alert anyone that I was here. It would be lots easier to get in and out without a scene. Not that I was expecting one…

“Is someone in trouble?” he asked as he stopped walking and stood still right in front of me so I couldn’t continue forward either.

“No, no one is in trouble,” I replied. Not that I could remove anyone from the reservation anyway, not without tribal police permission. “I’m just here to talk.”

“Why you wanna talk to Amala?” the boy continued as he stepped aside and walked in time beside me.

“Well, that’s private,” I responded and offered an apologetic smile. “But I appreciate all your help.”

“Is it about her boy?” he pressed.

Had I been a dog, my ears would have stood at attention. I immediately glanced down at him and tried not to look too interested. “Which boy?”

He shrugged as an expression of guilt spread over his features. It was as if he thought he’d said too much. “Either one, I guess.”

“Yes, I’m here to talk to Amala about her sons,” I said, deciding to tell him the truth to see where it might get me. It was a risk, but there it was. Once the silence stretched between us, I looked over at him again. “What’s your name?” I asked.

“Irniq,” he answered. “But my English name is Thomas.”

Like Donovan and Alex, Irniq had an English name, too. It actually didn’t come as much of a surprise because the Inuit had been subject to assimilation for centuries. Even now, the only school on the reservation was funded by the Alaskan government and taught mostly in English.

“Which name do you prefer?”

“Irniq,” he answered with a succinct nod.

“Thanks for your help, Irniq,” I offered before something occurred to me. “What are you doing outside when it’s so cold anyway?”

He smiled broadly and seemed proud of himself. “Well, I saw you walkin’ down our street and I’ve never seen you before, so I thought I’d ask you some questions.”

I laughed. The kid was precocious but good-natured. “You better get back inside before you turn into a popsicle.”

“Bah,” he answered, shaking his head as he waved my comment away. Apparently,