Date: Tue, 25 Feb 2014 17:21:48 -0500
From: Jake Preston <jemtling@gmail.com>
Subject: Psychic Detective 9

Psychic Detective 9
By Jake Preston


This is a work of erotic gay fiction, intended for readers who enjoy a
murder mystery in which fully developed characters interact sexually and in
other ways. Their sexual encounters are sometimes romantic, sometimes
recreational, sometimes spiritual, and almost always described
explicitly. My attention is equally divided between narrative, character
development, and sex scenes. If you don't care for this combination, there
are many other excellent "nifty" stories to choose from. And remember that
while nifty stories are free, maintaining a website is not. Please think
about donating at http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html

Writing is usually a solitary avocation, but not necessarily so on
nifty.org, where a longer story appears in installments. If my characters
and my story grab your attention, you can always intervene with suggestions
for improvements. All sincere comments will get a response!

Jake, at jemtling@gmail.com

*  *  *  *  *  *

Chapter 9
Peyote Coyote


	Dark Eagle stepped forward and placed his hands on David's
head. "You didn't fail us, Niizho-manitou," he said. "These visions come
from Manitou. He speaks in riddles. Oracles. It's our responsibility, not
yours, to think them through. Each detail must be pondered, especially the
ones that elude our senses." He spoke to the group: "It's an Ojibwe custom
to invite comments about messages sent from Manitou. Give us your
thoughts. Help us to understand, if you can."

	Svenson used the interval to retrieve his clothes, and Winik's. He
knew that they would have to say something. It would be better to be
dressed than naked.

	"I can't comment on David's vision, but I remember seeing
something," Dmitri said.

	"I remember seeing something, too," David said.

	"We'll talk about that tomorrow," Winik said while fastening the
belt on his trousers. "If we take witness statements from you today, they
won't stand up in court. A defense attorney will argue that they were
tainted by peyote."

	"We must look for two additional crime scenes, I'm sure of that,"
Svenson said. "One is in Oregon, possibly in the Wallowa Mountains. That'll
be like looking for a needle in a haystack.  One is somewhere in between
here and Oregon. My guess would be South Dakota, somewhere in the Lakota
Nation, but it could be North Dakota, or Montana, or even Idaho."

	"Sergeant Svenson has dedicated a lot of time to these crimes,"
Winik pitched in. "He researches them all day and dreams about them all
night, twenty-four-seven. He's shared his theories with me, but they're
speculative. Even so, some of his theories intersect with details in
David's vision. These are details that have not been mentioned in the
media. I could talk about them, too, but it would be better if they came
from their source, if the Sergeant can be prevailed upon."

	All eyes were on Svenson. He was glad he got dressed. "There are
two killers," Svenson said. "Let's call them Killer Number One and Killer
Number Two. Number One is a Caucasian male in his forties or early
fifties. He has killed before, but Eight Eagles is the first crime scene
that is known to us. Our psych consultants in Duluth think he's a sociopath
and his partner is an accomplice, meaning that the planning of crimes and
their execution is done mainly by Killer Number One. But the psychologists
are wrong on both counts. Killer Number One is a psychopath, but not in the
classic sense. He's what psychiatrists call a 'successful psychopath',
meaning that he is most likely able to hold down a job and keep out of
trouble with his neighbors, but he's 'almost psychopathic' in his relation
to others, and he distorts reality. Unlike classic psychopaths, he's in
touch with reality when he kills. He knows what he's doing, and he's
clever, but not intelligent. Killer Number One is responsible for the
torture and execution of Victim Number One, who, as David says, was almost
certainly a shaman, or at least a tribal leader. Killer Number One thinks
of himself as an avenging shaman, a shaman of the Dark Side, as it
were. Killer Number One is probably responsible for the Indian-like
symbolism in the crime scene. We'll know more about that when we find
another crime scene, and there will be one, possibly in the Lakota nation
in South Dakota. That crime scene already exists. For the moment, I'm
giving top priority to David's hypothesis that Victim Number One was a
Lakota shaman who was kidnapped in South Dakota and brought to Eight Eagles
for human sacrifice.  Alternatively, Victim One might have been killed in
South Dakota and his body transported here.  That's a trail that will lead
us to a second crime scene. The identity of Killer Number One is closely
bound up with four themes that must consider separately if we want to keep
things clear in our minds. These are location, Indian-like symbolism,
torture, and homophobia.

	"Killer Number Two is a darker companion. He is much more than an
accomplice. He is responsible for killing the other four victims. These are
men in their twenties. They were not chosen randomly. They were chosen
because by a sort of 'planned opportunity'. If Forensics succeeds in
identifying them, they will turn out to be either hitchhikers or gay men
who hang out at bars or other places frequented by gay men. Killer Number
Two is a sociopath. He's a good conversationalist, and charming, and a
reasonably good looking man in his later twenties.  He picks up his victims
at bars, or in parks, or on the road, and he wins their trust in order to
set up an opportunity to kill them. By contrast, Killer Number One is
creepy and would rarely succeed in winning the trust of his victims.

	"Now about location: so far we have only location-Eight Eagles-but
we know there's another, the place where Victim One was kidnapped and
possibly tortured and killed. I accept David's hypothesis that we must look
for two more locations further west, probably in South Dakota and
Oregon. But location is a two-part problem. The first part is that there
must be a second location, and probably a third. It's customary in the
scientific literature to classify serial killers into three groups:
Stationary killers who kill where they live and bury the bodies in the back
yard, or in the basement; territorial killers like Jack the Ripper who roam
in a neighborhood or a city; and nomadic killers who kill on the
road. Nomadic killers almost never get caught. I think that Killer Number
Two is a nomadic killer, whilst Killer Number One is territorial. The
phenomenon of three locations is a compromise between the two, or perhaps
an eclectic blending of styles.

      "Again about location: the second problem pertains to the Island of
Eight Eagles, for Eight Eagles presents us with two crime scenes, not
one. This is where I part company with the psychologists and with others in
the Sheriff's Office. There are two separate crime scenes, indicating two
separate crimes perpetrated simultaneously in the same location, by
perpetrators who assisted each other but who planned their crimes
separately, because each killer has his own ideas about choosing his
victims, executing the killings, and staging the bodies. Crime Scene Number
One is focused in its imagery: a victim is suspended from trees, tortured
in a most atrocious way, and decorated with Indian-like symbols. Crime
Scene Number Two is diffuse, unfocused, and sloppy. That's why we found
some body-parts that give Forensics something to work with.

      "Now about Indian-like symbolism: it's eclectic, and
inauthentic. Neither of our killers are Native Americans, but both of them
grew up in the West, either in the Plains or the Mountain States. They use
symbolism borrowed from books. The assimilation of Victim Number One to
Manitou almost certainly was borrowed from Red Hawk's Ojibwe Monument. I
attribute the symbolism to Killer Number One, who reads books about Indians
and attended the Summer Solstice Powwow at least once, possibly in 2010 or
2011.

	"The tortures that the killers inflict on their victims are unlike
any historical Indian tortures known to me. The examples seem rather
literary. The corrugated rod thrust through the anus and torso of Victim
Number One reminds me of King Edward II, in history and in Christopher
Marlowe's tragic drama. The mutilated penis of Victim Two, in the mouth of
Victim Three, bears a remote resemblance to an episode in Dante's
Inferno. I doubt that our killers are readers of Dante or Marlowe. They
probably get their ideas from a popularized history of torture, or from
more than one book. Red Hawk has been collecting books of this sort, in an
effort to find the sources. It's sorrowful to say, but we probably won't
find the sources unless we encounter more crime scenes. It's sorrowful to
say, but our next crime scene will disclose a diversity of tortures, with
no repetition from previous crimes. Our killers have distinct
personalities. Killer One is a middle-aged psychopath. Killer Two is a
young sociopath. What is the bond that keeps them together? My guess is
that they share an obsession with torture, and act out their fantasies in
concert.

	"Now about homophobia: an early theory in the Sheriff's Office was
that the tortures are 'staged homophobia', intended to mislead us into
thinking that the killings were performed by a homosexual cult of some
sort. In a way, that's rather silly, since no one ever heard of such cults.
But who knows what notions lurk in a psychopathic mind? Certainly our
killers are obsessed with gay sex. This might be another link to the Ojibwe
Monument. Remember that the first Summer Solstice Powwow began with the
wedding of Sam Black Bear and Ben Hasek. It caused a dispute in the
newspapers, owing to the claim that the marriage was legal under Ojibwe
law, and therefore was the first legal gay wedding in Minnesota. Red Hawk
doesn't mention it Ojibwe Monument, nor in his transcripts and translations
of the Dark Eagle birch-bark scrolls, but he does mention it in some of his
Summer Solstice lectures. If Killer Number One has a hit list, it's
possible that Sam Black Bear and Ben Hasek are on it. It's even more likely
that the killer has Dark Eagle and Red Hawk in his sights. Remember the
warning from Niizho-manitou: 'The hawk must be protected'. David said it
three times."

	Jim Beaver Trail had a question for Svenson: "Why do you think the
killers are Caucasians? Is it because most serial killers are white men?"

	Svenson: "That's true, but there are other factors. Four of the
victims were either Caucasians, or in one case could have been mistaken as
Caucasian. Usually a serial killer chooses victims from his own ethnic
group, especially if he's a sociopath. If Killer Number Two is Caucasian,
Number One must be, too. These men are racists. They don't cross ethnic
lines for companionship."

	Jimmy Brave Heart had a question: "If the killers are caught, what
effect would the peyote ritual have on their trial?" It was a young man's
question.

	Svenson: "That's a good question, Jimmy Brave Heart. There are a
lot of variables. If the killers are caught in the act of a similar crime,
or with dead-to-rights evidence, the peyote-ritual probably wouldn't come
up at trial, if there were a trial. If the evidence is circumstantial, any
good defense lawyer would make hay with the ritual in an effort to
discredit the investigation as a whole. The opposition would summon David
to the trial and ask him if he really thinks he's a prophet of
Manitou. They'll represent Manitou as a heathen god. They'll ask him how a
Jew can reconcile himself to shamanism. They'll drop hints about illegal
drugs-even though they know that our use of peyote is legal. They'll try to
drop hints about homosexuality, but there the Judge would stop them. Still,
Dark Eagle's ecumenicalism will take them by surprise, and if they appear
to be bullying David, the strategy might backfire with the jury. Their
attack on the peyote-ritual would be unique, but it's similar to what would
happen if we consulted a psychic."

	Jimmy Brave Heart: "And would you consult a psychic?"

	Svenson: "I might, if I knew one. Let me explain it this way. Most
serial killers never get caught. The killers are so disconnected from their
victims that we have few clues to work with.  The trail of evidence runs
cold. Once that happens, I'd try anything that would break the
impasse. Even if a so-called psychic is really just a creative thinker,
sometimes it helps to look at evidence from a radically different
perspective. That's why I'd consult a psychic, if I knew one."

	Jimmy Brave Heart wasn't the only person in the room who had heard
the rumor that Göran Svenson was psychic. His analysis of Eight Eagles
seemed to confirm it. But Jimmy had the good manners not to pursue the
issue further. But Svenson did: "Let me draw another analogy. We did
consult three psychologists, professors at the University. They said what
we thought they would say, that Killer Number One is a sociopath and his
companion is a submissive accomplice. This is textbook stuff. There's no
doubt in my mind that the psychologists got it wrong. But that's okay. My
intuition told me they were wrong, but I couldn't think of a logical reason
why. That's when it hit me: on the Island of Eight Eagles, we've got a
palimpsest with two crime scenes, like one painting painted partially over
another by a second artist. If we hadn't talked to the psychologists, it
wouldn't have occurred to me to think of the crime scene in this way."


	Svenson spent the night giving himself to Jim Beaver Trail. It
wasn't just about sex. They discovered an old friendship that might have
been. "Eight years ago, I thought of you as one of the Ojibwe elders,
nothing more," Svenson said. "Now I feel differently. Maybe It's because I
finally grew up."

	"I'm still old enough to be your father," Beaver Trail said. He
took a plastic baggie from his pocket. Twelve peyote-chips scattered
between them on the bed. He sorted them into two groups of six. Their eyes
met. Göran took one of the chips and started masticating. Beaver Trail
took the other.

	"Yeah, I want this," Göran said. Beaver Trail changed the
subject. They talked about every detail of Eight Eagles.

	"You know, Göran, it occurs to me that one of the killers,
probably Number One, had contact with Indians for a prolonged time, maybe
during his childhood. There's something personal about the killings,
torture for revenge, and obsession, but with something more added.  He
might be borrowing details from books, but my gut tells me that he knows
things about Indian culture that you won't find in books, subtle
differences in thinking or speaking. It's hard to explain. It's like the
dialect differences between Ojibwe and Causasians here in Ashawa.  When
someone calls you on the phone, you can tell right away if he's Ojibwe or
Causasian."

	"That's possible," Göran agreed. "It might be a way to narrow
the search."

	They each took a second peyote-chip. "Two down and four to go,"
Beaver Trail said.

	"The countdown begins," Göran countered. It's gonna be a wild
night."

      "You know, Göran, everyone at Dark Eagle's thinks you're a
psychic, even though you explain things logically. You're not a
self-dramatizing celluloid psychic, but you always seem to notice some
detail that everyone else missed. Mrs. Ravitch thinks you're either a
psychic or a genius."

      "If that's an either-or proposition, you can rule out genius. I have
to work hard to get results. What do you think?"

      "I think you're 'almost psychic'," Beaver Trail said. He picked up a
peyote-chip and fed it to Göran, and took one for himself. "After the
ritual with David, you had insights that went beyond reason, yet they still
made sense when you explained them. The experience drained your
energy. Afterward, you seemed tired."

      "Not tired, but unhinged, Beaver Trail. Unhinged, and I still feel
it."

       "Is there anything I can do to get you hinged?" Beaver Trail asked.

      "You can master me."

      "Now you're saying words I've wanted to hear," Beaver Trail said. He
fed Göran a fourth peyote-chip, and took one himself.

      "Now you're saying words I've wanted to hear," Göran replied,
evenly, but his body trembled.

      "Time to get mitaakwa," Beaver Trail said.

      Göran stripped off his clothes and tossed them on a chair across
the room. He lay on his side facing Beaver Trail. Four peyote-chips
remained between them. "I still have the physical memory of your dick up my
butt," Göran said.

      "How do you know that wasn't Matt Aseban?"

      "Who could forget a wedgy wide seven-inch uncut cock?" Göran
countered. "Ahhh! I didn't know Ojibwe could blush!"

      "I hope your offer includes pain," Beaver Trail said.

      "It does," Göran replied. "And before you ask, the answer is no, I
don't know what I'm getting myself into." They helped themselves to their
fifth peyote-chip. Beaver Trail fondled Göran's cock. Göran
moaned. "I haven't had much experience with erotic pain, but the little
I've had seems to make me feel 'hinged'."

      Beaver Trail pulled out a vibrator, a pair of nipple-clamps, a string
of multicolored beads, two pairs of handcuffs, a butt plug, and a
twelve-inch dildo. "These belong to Tom," Göran said.  "Pick one, Beaver
Trail. If we use them all, we won't have a reason to get together again."

      "Does that mean we might?" Beaver Trail asked.

      "Of course we will, if you'd like. We're fond of each other, aren't
we?"

      "I guess I feel unsure of myself, being the older man," Beaver Trail
said.

      "Line up the toys and let's see what you think," Göran said.

      "Nip clamps, maybe for a time when we're concentrating on upper
body. Right now we're thinking lower down. Vibrator, always possible, but
it's pure pleasure, no pain. Anal beads, possibly. Butt plug: it's like nip
clamps, you can't do that much with it. Dildo, twelve inches, still in its
cellophane wrapper, " Beaver Trail said. "Have you ever had an anal orgasm,
Göran?"

      "Anal orgasm-I thought that was a myth."

      "And you've never been fucked by a dildo?"

      "It's a virgin dildo. I'm a dildo virgin," Göran replied.

      "We must give him a name. I suggest 'Little Caesar'."

      "Named for the pizza?"

      "Named for the Roman Emperor: Little Caesar can be quite a tyrant,"
Beaver Trail said.  "You and Little Caesar can lose your virginity
together." He slapped the dildo into the palm of his hand. "I'd be honored
to be the holder of your virginity."

      "Tell me more," Göran said. "So far I haven't said yes, but I
haven't said no. I'm not trying to be coy. You've got me curious, but I
need to know what's entailed."

      "What's entailed is your tail," Beaver Trail laughed. "Seriously,
every move we make would be about how you feel inside. Have you seen
dildo-fucking on youtube?"

      "I have."

      "Well that's kabuki sex. It takes one guy less than a minute to stick
a dildo up his partner's ass. Then he reams it fast, like a
crankshaft. It's not like that in real life, and it's not like fucking with
cock. Twelve inches: it'll take a long time to get it inside you, maybe an
hour, maybe longer. Every move I make must be slow and gentle. Even the
slightest twist or nudge feels like an earthquake. And we have to keep a
dialogue going. With every move I make, I need to know how you feel, and
you need to know what I'm doing, and what I'm planning to do. If I'm any
good at my job, I'll bring you through the pain and pleasure you in ways
you've never felt before. It's best done with Crisco rather than lube."

      Göran and Beaver Trail got into their blue-jeans and fetched a
small can of Cricso from the kitchen. When they got back to bed, they
helped themselves to their sixth peyote-chips.  Fondling and fellating by
turn and in 69, peyote fueled their passion. Beaver Trail fondled Göran
aggressively, sliding fingers up and down his cleft and into his portal. He
spread Göran's ass- cheeks apart. "Why Göran, your hole is beautiful,
wild rosy pink but with delicate folds that make it look like the North
Star, a twinkling star hidden in a mysterious cleft!" Beaver Trail
exclaimed. "I've always admired your shapely butt with its deep curve of
cleavage, but I never seen such an aesthetic asshole, tight at the center
too, with traces of brownish pink and vermilion, so tight, a challenge for
me and for you."

      "Thanks," Göran replied.

      "When Little Caesar opens you up, you'll have a gape right here, at
the center. It'll bring out different shades of red, like a flower, to
accentuate your pink aureole," Beaver Trail said.  "Just let me know when
you're read to get started."

      Göran lay on his back. Beaver Trail nudged a pillow under his
butt, and knelt between his legs, holding Little Caesar in one hand, and a
glob of Crisco in the other. "Crisco works better than lube. It lasts
longer. Still, there will be times when we'll have to apply more Crisco,
whenever you feel friction. Let me know when you need a Crisco break,
Göran."  Their eyes met. Göran looked bewildered, like a young
boy. Beaver Trail's gaze was stern resolution while his fingers worked
Crisco into the target. He coated Little Caesar with Crisco, and positioned
the head of the dildo at Göran's rosy hole. He pushed it through
Göran's sphincter. Göran groaned.  Little Caesar was thicker than any
cock that had ever passed through the portal. Beaver Trail waited for
Göran to regain his composure.

      "I'm going to give you a couple inches, Göran," Beaver Trail said
softly. He kept on pushing Little Caesar until Göran groaned
again. "That was three inches," Beaver Trail said.  "Your ass is giving
Little Caesar a welcome reception."

      "It's so big," Göran said. "It takes me a while to get used to the
volume."

      "Little Caesar says he wants to slide through your inner sphincter,
Göran," Beaver Trail said. "It's gonna hurt."

      "Do you think so?"

      Beaver Trail pushed another three inches. Even the peyote could not
prevent Göran from yelping and howling like a timberwolf. "Take deep
breaths, and concentrate on your breathing," Beaver Trail said. He kept on
pushing. "Are you okay, Göran?" Beaver Trail asked when the howling
stopped.

      "Yeah, I'm okay, God that hurt!"

      "You've got eight inches, Göran. We won't go in deeper just
yet. We can fool around a bit, with eight inches."

      Göran reached down to feel the dildo. He ran his finger along the
remaining four inches.  Beaver Trail gave the dildo a nudge. Göran
gasped. Beaver Trail pulled the dildo a couple inches out, and pushed it
back in. Göran gasped. Beaver Trail repeated the fucking maneuver,
several times, slowly. Göran's discomfort was mixed with twinges of
pleasure. Beaver Trail sucked Göran's cock and moved the dildo
slowly. "Little Caesar says he wants a hug," Beaver Trail said. Göran
squeezed his sphincter around the dildo. It felt good. He did it
again. "That sweet ass sure looks good wrapped around Little Caesar,"
Beaver Trail said.

      "It feels good. I like it," Göran said. Beaver Trail dildo-fucked
him with longer strokes, but he kept the motion slow. He pulled it all the
way out, and inserted a fresh supply of Crisco.  He coated Little Caesar
with Crisco, and pushed it back in, past the eight-inch target. Göran
groaned and gasped, but then the pleasure returned.

      "I think we can make it all the way," Göran said while Beaver
Trail sucked his cock. "I think we can make it all the way. I want you to
deflower me, Beaver Trail."

      "We'll make it, Göran, but not all at once." He twisted the dildo
clockwise, then counterclockwise. Göran gasped and moaned. He alternated
between long slow fuck-strokes, and slow rotations of the dildo.

      "I'm feeling something strange," Göran said, "a crackle, pop, pop
deep in my ass. It feels great."

      "You're starting to have anal orgasms," Beaver Trail said. "They'll
come and go, every five minutes or so." He was right. The orgasms
returned. Beaver Trail continued alternating between rotations and long,
slow fuck-strokes. Each time he did this, Little Caesar burrowed deeper.

       "Beaver Trail, I'm ready to bite the bullet and take Little Caesar
all the way," Göran said.

      "I've got good news for you, Göran. Little Caesar is already
there." Göran didn't believe it. He reached down for a feel. Sure
enough, the base of the dildo was at his asshole. "I'm going to pull it out
now, so I can fuck you," Beaver Trail said. "Let's check out this asshole,"
Beaver Trail said when the dildo came out. "Sure enough, a cute reddish
gape," he said.

      The fuck was pleasantly furious. Beaver Trail spooged Göran. After
another application of Crisco, he prodded Little Caesar all the way
in. Little Caesar's progress was eased by the silky santorum-smoothed
lining in his anal canal. Beaver Trail sucked Göran's cock while he
fucked.  Göran spooged Beaver Trail's mouth.



      In the morning (Monday, July 7), Göran drove Beaver Trail to his
worksite-a lumber road five miles west of Lake Ashawa. For almost ten years
he had worked for Jake Preston's cousin, who owned a limber concession on
State land. "Your lumbering sites have always been around here," Göran
observed. "Did you ever consider moving to Ashawa? It would be easier than
driving forty miles from Crane Lake-eighty miles a day."

      "I have my duties as an elder to consider," Beaver Trail
replied. "Besides, I own my home in Crane Lake. There are four of us who
work here and live there. We carpool, and enjoy each other's
company. Still, I guess I'd stay here sometimes on weekdays, if I had a
place to live."

      "What about Jake Preston's farmhouse on Rice River?" Göran
asked. "Now that you've moved the Ojibwe artifacts into the museum, the
farmhouse is vacant. Why not designate it as a retreat for the Ojibwe
elders?"

      "That depends on what you mean by elders," Beaver Trail replied. "If
you mean senior citizens, maybe; if you mean the four elders, it would be a
transgression. The Ojibwe are an egalitarian people. An aristocracy of
elders isn't possible."

      Göran changed the subject. "Peyote Coyote, that's who you are," he
said. Beaver Trail smiled slyly. "In case you're wondering, my butt still
feels corn-holed. How many times did you fuck me? I lost track, but I sure
had a powerful itch, Coyote!"

      "That was the santorum effect," Beaver Trail replied.

      "Santorum effect?"

      "Yeah, you know, santorum-a mixture of lube, semen and traces of shit
after fucking.  When the lube used is Crisco, about an hour later an itch
develops in the anal canal. That's the santorum effect."

      They drove two miles into the woods on a newly-carved lumber road. In
the lumber business, making temporary roads in the woods is the most
expensive investment. Beaver Trail's fellow Ojibwe lumberjacks were already
there: Steve Waabooz, Roger Johnson, and a younger man, new on the job,
named Don Lewis. It was his first day on the job. Göran introduced
Beaver Trail to him as Peyote Coyote. Steve Waabooz laughed. "If Indians
can give new names to white guys, I guess white guys can give names to
Indians," he said.

      'Coyote' has diverse meanings in gay culture. In many parts of the
country, it's an epithet applied to any lascivious gay man. Sometimes it
implies that the guy is a sexual predator. But in the Lake Country,
'coyote' is an affectionate term applied to a man who has succeeded in
possessing his partner in some unique way. When Göran referred to
'Coyote', he let the others know that Jim Beaver Trail had 'owned' him, by
seducing him into a new level of sexuality. It meant that in Beaver Trail
was the holder of Göran's cherry in some secret sense. It was a
compliment to Beaver Trail for his sexual prowess, all the more so because
Göran acknowledged it to Beaver Trail's friends.

      How much of this Don Lewis knew about coyotes, it's impossible to
say, but Don read the situation well enough to see that Beaver Trail and
Göran had been sexual partners and that Beaver Trail had played the
active role. Neither Beaver Trail nor Göran failed to notice Don's
interest in the man called Peyote Coyote. As he departed, Göran wrote
Beaver Trail's phone number on a slip of paper, and pressed it into Don's
hand.

	Göran and Harvey Winik drove north to Crane Lake to interview
David and Dmitri.  Harvey spoke with Dmitri in the ceremonial wigwam.
Göran spoke with David on the dock.  They compared notes on the road
back to Duluth. During their romantic adventure on No Name Island, also
known as Five Spirits Island, and (by the Ojibwe) the Island of Eight
Eagles, Dmitri and David had glimpsed two figures, partially obscured by
balsams. One was a tall man, and white-not Caucasian white, but actually
white, with curly snow-white hair. The man with him was shorter, and
darker, with dark brown hair and a complexion that could have been either
Indian or Mediterranean: "complexion and hair like Dmitri's," David
remarked, "though not nearly as handsome."