The Shaman's Knife Read Online Free Page A

understand she’s being moved to Franklin House today if she keeps on improving.” Franklin House was like a hospice for Inuit unlucky enough to be away from their far north homes while taking hospital treatment. “They told me they think she’ll be better off convalescing outside of the hospital atmosphere for a week or two. And the hospital is short of beds.”
    â€œThey told me,” I said.
    â€œAny chance to go see her at Franklin House with you and maybe do an interview with you both?”
    I thought it over. I couldn’t see why not. “If she gets upset, I’ll just say so and you blow,” I said.
    We talked a bit more. When I hung up I called the hospital, got the nurse from Baker Lake, and told her that no one was to be allowed into my mother’s room unaccompanied. I went to sleep with the worry somewhat receding. My mother was tough. That I knew from other things that had happened in her long life, some while I’d been there.
    First phone call I got in my room that morning was from Maxine, at work, mostly brief and businesslike. I told her about Mother being well enough to move into Franklin House, and said I’d call her later when I knew what I’d be doing next.
    The second call was from the Justice Department of the Northwest Territories, housed in a downtown building near the hotel. Justice wanted a taped account from mother because of the very concern that now kept nagging me; that she was the only witness, even though she’d told me she’d hardly seen a thing except someone big hurtling at her, running her down.
    When I hung up from that call I made one of my own, to Corporal Steve Barker in Sanirarsipaaq. He did not sound happy to hear from me. He nosed around to find out if Ottawa had sent me to help him out—even though he must be expecting some sort of reinforcement from somewhere, with his holidays imminent and his temporary replacement, the Bouvier whom Maxine had mentioned, fairly new on the ground. He sounded a little more friendly when I told him I’d come mainly because of my mother being hurt. I was certainly going to get in on this case, with or without his invitation or Ottawa’s orders, but he didn’t have to know that yet.
    â€œYou got a suspect?” I asked.
    â€œWell, just a few hunches,” he said, and let that trail off.
    â€œTell me about your hunches.”
    â€œThere’s nothing clear enough, yet.”
    I said, “For Christ’s sake! You must have something!”
    He got the implication, which I guess wasn’t all that difficult. “I can’t tell you what I don’t know!”
    â€œThis happened Friday, right? Like eighty hours ago? What’ve you been doing?”
    â€œMaybe you better read my report.”
    â€œI can hardly wait.” I hung up.
    I let RCMP headquarters in Yellowknife know where I was, said I’d be over later, then went downstairs to eat breakfast at the street-level restaurant. It didn’t have quite the atmosphere of the eating place that used to be there, called the Miners Mess. Still, the mainly male clientele at the long crowded tables was almost entirely native—Inuit, Dene, Metis. There were a few non-natives as well. Some, both white and native, wore business suits. Parkas were hung on hooks or slung over chairbacks. There was a constant filing along the cafeteria line and people carrying trays looking for an empty chair. Some joined people they knew and took up conversations about last night’s hockey games, weather, work. They took on sausages, pancakes, eggs, bacon, toast, English muffins, jam, honey, coffee, juice, a few pots of tea. I had the sausages, pancakes with butter and syrup, grapefruit juice, Earl Grey tea. Some men stopped briefly to talk. Some who didn’t know me but had read or heard about my mother, asked about her. Two or three wondered if I was headed for Sanirarsipaaq.
    It was a pleasantly sunny