Iron Lake

by William Kent Krueger

  “Somebody sick?” he asked. “Smells like you’ve been burning cedar.”

  “I purify the air, I purify the spirit,” the old man said. “Also, I have been baking. I have baked butter-milk biscuits. Will you eat with me?”

  They sat at the table and the old man brought the biscuits and butter and a clay jar of honey. “I have blackberry tea,” he told them. He turned to the stove, but before he could move toward it, the blue tea kettle jumped and rattled of its own accord. Molly jerked, startled, and the dog leaped up growling fiercely.

  “Go back to sleep, Walleye,” the old man said to the dog.

  “What was that?” Molly asked breathlessly.

  “A Windigo is about,” Meloux replied, and went to fetch the tea. Cork explained the myth of the Windigo, the cannibal giant whose heart was ice, and Molly looked with wide eyes at the tea kettle in Meloux’s hands.

  “Don’t worry,” Meloux told her. “The Windigo is not hunting you.” To put her at ease, the old man entertained them, made them laugh with his stories of all the years in that place. He told stories of Sam Winter Moon and the pranks he used to play as a young man on the Iron Lake Reservation.

  “He was hunting once near the edge of the reservation,” Meloux said. “A duck fell right out of the sky at his feet. As he picked it up, a white hunter appeared and claimed the duck was his because he’d shot it. Sam Winter Moon pointed out that the duck was on reservation land, and so the hunter had no right to it. The hunter claimed it was his because the duck was not on reservation land when he shot it. Sam Winter Moon looked at the man who was angry and at his rifle and suggested a way to decide. ‘We will have a contest,’ he said. ‘We will kick one another in the nuts and whoever is still standing will get the duck.’ The white hunter, who was a very big, meanlooking man, agreed. Sam said he would go first. The white hunter braced himself and Sam Winter Moon gave him a good kick. The man turned red then blue then white. He staggered around holding himself in great pain. After a few minutes he drew himself up and said to Sam Winter Moon, ‘Now it is my turn.’ But Sam Winter Moon said, ‘You win,’ handed him the duck, and walked away.” Meloux laughed. “He was a good man. He was a warrior. His Anishinaabe name was Animikiikaa, which means ‘It thunders.’ ”

  When they rose to leave, Meloux said to Cork, “I have something for you.” He went to a basket set in a corner and pulled something out. He returned to Cork and pressed a bit of dried root into his hand.

  Cork nodded and turned to Molly. “Could you wait outside for a moment?”

  “Sure.” Molly left, closing the door behind her.

  “I need to ask you something, Henry.”

  “Ask, then,” the old man replied.

  “You said you heard the Windigo call a name as it passed overhead. What name?”

  The old man shook his head. “With the Windigo, you cannot help, Corcoran O’Connor. I do not think you are the one to fight the Windigo.”

  “Tell me this. Was the name Judge Parrant?”

  The old man laughed. “That is a name I would not mind the Windigo calling, but it was not the name I heard.”

  “Was it Paul LeBeau?”

  “Joe John’s boy? No.” The old man put his hand on Cork’s shoulder. “It will do no good, but I will tell you the name I heard. The name the Windigo called was Harlan Lytton. And that is another name I do not mind the Windigo calling.” He walked Cork to the door. “Thank you for visiting. I am grateful for your concern over an old man.”

  Cork hesitated before leaving.

  “What is it?” Meloux asked.

  “Sam told me once that a man knows when the Windigo is coming for him. Is that true?”

  “A man who listens will hear his name.” The old man stared at him a moment. “You heard.”

  “No.” Cork shook his head. “I’m sure it was just a trick of the wind.”

  “A man knows the difference between the Windigo and the wind.”

  “Thank you, Henry.”

  The old man touched Cork’s chest with the flat of his hand. “Mangide’e,” he said. Be courageous.

  Molly was waiting for him on the lake. She already had her skis on. As Cork clipped his boots onto his skis, he said, “Come on, I’ll race you back.”

  She beat him by a hundred yards and at the Bronco turned to him scolding, “It’s those coffin nails you smoke.”

  “No,” Cork replied as he came up to her. “I just liked the view from behind,” and he kissed her. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small gift Meloux had given him.

  “What is that?” Molly asked.

  “A little bit of root from a wild pea plant.”

  “What for?”

  “It’s supposed to be a lucky charm for a man in a dangerous situation. It’s supposed to ensure that everything turns out for the best.”

  She looked at him carefully. “Cork, are you in some kind of danger?”

  “Meloux seems to think so.”

  “But you don’t?”

  He put the charm back into his pocket. “If I am, I don’t know why.”

  “The Windigo thing you told me about in there. Is that for real?”

  “Just an old myth,” Cork said. He released the clips on his skis and stepped out.

  “Old myth.” She glanced back toward Crow Point. “Something made that kettle jump.”

  “Do you know what a tchissakan is?” He could tell by her blank expression she didn’t. “It’s an Anishinaabe magician. It also means juggler. It’s a person who can juggle the elements of our world and the world of the unseen. Sometimes a tchissakan communicates with the dead. Can actually bring forth a voice from the dead. So I’d guess a tchissakan is probably a ventriloquist as well.”

  “Meloux?” she asked.

  “There aren’t many, and Henry Meloux has never admitted to being one, but I’ve heard different.”

  “So it was the trick of a—”

  “A tchissakan. Probably.”

  Molly looked unconvinced. She leaned to him and kissed him hard.

  “What was that for?” he asked.

  “Like the pea root,” she replied. “For luck.”

  12

  CHRISTMAS LIGHTS TWINKLED in shop windows along Center Street as Cork pulled into Aurora. With only a week to go until Christmas, the stores would be open late. Cork spotted a woman standing in front of Lenore’s Toy and Hobby Shop. Although the temperature was in the teens, she wore only a light sweater. Cork pulled into a parking space, stepped out of the Bronco, climbed over a snowbank, and walked to where the woman stood.

  “Christmas shopping, Arletta?” he asked.

  Arletta Schanno glanced at him and a frown came to her pretty face. “Wally?”

  “Corcoran O’Connor.”

  “Sheriff O’Connor.” She suddenly brightened. “I can’t seem to remember if I’ve bought gifts for the children.”

  “Here,” Cork said. He took off his leather jacket and put it around her shoulders. She was shivering.

  “Janie told me she wanted a game this year. Clue, I believe. I think that sounds fine, don’t you? Clarissa says she wants a Barbie doll, but she has so many already.”

  Janie was thirty-five and lived in Baltimore. She worked for the post office there. Clarissa taught high school geography in St. Paul.

  “How about a ride home, Arletta,” Cork offered. “I just happen to be going that way.”

  “I don’t know,” Arletta Schanno said. A distressed and helpless look clouded her face.

  “I’ll bet Wally would like to help with shopping, don’t you?”

  “Wally’s so busy.”

  “Not too busy for Christmas shopping. Come on, let’s go home.”

  Cork urged her gently into the Bronco and drove to the Schannos’ house. Wally Schanno opened the door, and Cork could tell from the relief that flooded his face he’d been worried sick.

  “I found her Christmas shopping,” Cork explained.

  “Sheriff O’Connor was very k
ind, dear,” Arletta said.

  Wally handed Cork back his coat. “Thanks,” he said. “You’re chilled, Arletta. Why don’t you go put on a warmer sweater.”

  “I think I will.” She smiled and walked down the hallway toward the back of the house.

  “I called everywhere. The housekeeper had to leave early. It was just a few minutes. Just a few goddamn minutes,” Schanno said miserably, “and she was gone.”

  “Not many places to get lost in Aurora, Wally,” Cork said.

  Schanno shook his head. “It only gets worse.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Not your doing,” Schanno said, offering his hand to Cork. “Thanks again.”

  Cork started to turn away.

  “By the way,” Schanno said, “I called Doc Gunnar this morning. Sandy Parrant was absolutely right. The judge was in bad shape. Riddled with cancer. Gunnar said he only had a few months to live. Guess we’ve got a motive for suicide.”

  “Did Sigurd authorize an autopsy?”

  “You know how much an autopsy costs, Cork. Sigurd didn’t see anything he felt justified an autopsy.”

  “How about the LeBeau boy? Any word?”

  “Darla says she got a call from the boy last night. She says he’s with his father. Safe. Maybe it’s true, maybe it isn’t. It’s clear she doesn’t want me involved. Unless Darla makes an official complaint, I can’t do anything anyway.”

  Arletta Schanno stepped back into the room wearing a heavy white wool sweater. She came toward Cork smiling warmly.

  “Sheriff, what a nice surprise.”

  Cork glanced at Schanno, who looked down.

  Molly had talked him into a sandwich at her place—hummus, sprouts, and tomatoes—that he’d washed down with a beer, so he wasn’t hungry. But he still had a while to kill before his meeting with Father Tom Griffin. He drove to Sigurd Nelson’s mortuary on Pine Street. The sign on the front door directed him to ring the buzzer in back and Cork complied. In a moment Nelson opened the door, sock-footed and with bread crumbs at the corner of his mouth. He looked surprised to see Cork.

  “Sorry to bother you, Sigurd. Wally said you’ve finished with the body.”

  “Haven’t even started,” the coroner said.

  “I mean in your official capacity.”

  “Oh, that. Wasn’t much to finish.” He stepped back. “Come on in before this house gets full of winter.”

  They stood in a long hallway at the back of the mortuary. The place was actually a house, a beautiful old two-story affair, one of the nicest in Aurora. The first floor was for business. A showroom up front displaying coffins, to one side a large chapel for memorial services. In back a business office. Over his years in Aurora, Cork had been to the chapel many times. The time he most remembered his father had been there, too, laid out in one of Sigurd Nelson’s coffins, a strong, practical man gone to rest in a box lined with satin.

  “Who is it, dear?” Grace Nelson, called from upstairs. The second floor of the house was the living area for the mortician and his wife.

  “Cork O’Connor, Gracie.”

  “Your dinner’s getting cold,” she warned him gently.

  “I’ll be right there,” Nelson called back. “What are you doing here, Cork?” he asked impatiently.

  “I just wondered why you decided not to autopsy.”

  “Because I’d have difficulty explaining it to the taxpayers of this county is why. Christ, the man had cancer everywhere. He blew his brains out because he was going to die anyway. What’s to autopsy? Open-and-shut case.”

  “But you looked at the body carefully yourself?”

  “Sure I did. And I found just what I expected. He died because he blew his brains out. Period.”

  “No other marks on his body?”

  “Why would there be other marks?”

  “Mind if I have a look?”

  “Of course I mind. Why are you here, Cork? You’re not even the sheriff anymore.”

  “Come on, Sigurd. Open-and-shut case. You said it yourself. What harm can it do letting me see the body? Just for a minute.”

  “He’s a mess.”

  “I’ve seen him before.”

  Nelson didn’t look happy, but he finally turned and led the way.

  The basement was divided into several rooms, all with shut doors. Sigurd opened one of the doors, turned on the light, and stepped in. In some ways, the prep room reminded Cork of a scientific laboratory. Red tile floor, off-white walls, cabinets, embalming pump, and flush tank. On a row of pegs along the wall hung Sigurd’s blue prep clothing and the plastic face shield he wore when preparing a body. The judge’s naked corpse lay on an old white porcelain prep table near the embalming pump.

  “He’s all yours,” Nelson said with a wave toward the table.

  The corpse lay on its back. The face was pallid and the features relaxed. Above the eyebrows, the cavity that had at one time held a very bright, but in Cork’s opinion very devious, brain was nearly empty. With the top of the skull blown away, the head was crowned by a blood-crusted rim of jagged bone. Cork looked carefully at the neck, the wrists, the ankles, the ribs.

  “If you’re looking for bruises, you won’t find any,” the coroner told him. “He wasn’t tied up, beat up, or strangled. He just blew his brains out, okay?”

  Cork looked closely again at the judge’s arms, then at his thighs, and finally his abdomen. “Help me turn him over, Sigurd.”

  “Why?”

  “Just help me, will you?”

  Nelson gave a reluctant hand. Cork studied the judge’s shoulders, the back of his arms, the small of his back, the cheeks of his buttocks.

  “What the hell are you looking for anyway?” Sigurd demanded.

  “Nothing. Just looking.”

  “Just looking?” Nelson grunted as they turned the body onto its back again.

  “Chalk it up to idle curiosity, Sigurd,” Cork said.

  “Idle curiosity? I swear to God—” the coroner said growing red with indignation. “I’ve got a perfectly good dinner getting cold.”

  Nelson draped the body with the sheet and flipped off the light switch. He followed Cork upstairs. At the door he warned, “Cork, I got half a mind—” But he didn’t finish.

  “Thanks,” Cork said, and started away.

  At his back, Nelson slammed the door.

  The coroner had a right to be upset. Cork had no business looking at the body, no business thinking about the case at all. But an Ojibwe boy was missing and Henry Meloux was sure that a Windigo was about, and although Wally Schanno was a good cop, he was one hundred percent white, and neither the boy nor the Windigo would matter as much to him as they did to Cork. Cork sat in the Bronco thinking about the body of the judge. He’d come because he was always suspicious of an easy explanation. Few things were so sure and simple that they could be taken at face value. If he’d believed Sigurd had done a decent job as coroner, he might not have asked to see the body. He was glad he had.

  He was running late, but he wanted to stop by Darla LeBeau’s house. The place was dark, the side-walks unshoveled. He rang the front bell anyway. No one answered. He started back to the Bronco, but didn’t get in. He studied the woods from which had come the voice Meloux said was the call of the Windigo. The evening was dark and still. Stars dusted the black sky. Cork could see the glimmer of other houses in a small subdivision a hundred yards away, but on the deserted part of the road where he stood, there was no light, no sign of life, no sound but the whisper of his own quiet breathing.

  He walked toward the woods, stepped in among the trees. He stood still, listening, watching. The woods felt empty and Cork felt alone.

  “Why do you want me?” Cork spoke softly to the stillness. His eyes darted all around. “What have you come for?”

  If he expected an answer—and he wasn’t certain that he didn’t—he was disappointed. He told himself he had imagined the voice in the wind. The Windigo was a myth.

  But there was a part of him t
hat knew different. Sam Winter Moon had cautioned him long ago that it was best to believe in all possibilities, that there were more mysteries in the world than a man could ever hope to understand.

  13

  THE RECTORY DOOR WAS OPENED to him by Ellie Gruber, a stout woman in her late fifties who’d been housekeeper for the ancient Father Kelsey more than a decade. She told him Father Griffin wasn’t there yet, but she showed him to the priest’s office and brought him coffee. Cork could hear a television in another room. Ellie said the Timberwolves were playing the Bulls. Cork could also hear Father Kelsey mumble and groan and occasionally toss in an unpriestly expletive.

  “The Timberwolves must be losing.” Cork smiled.

  Father Tom Griffin’s office was a mess of papers and books covering every flat surface of the room. The furniture consisted of a desk with a telephone and a small brass lamp, three scarred wooden chairs, an ancient green filing cabinet, and, in front of the window, a typing table with an old Olivetti electric. A crucifix hung on one wall; on another were several framed photographs; against the third stood a bookcase with every shelf crammed full. Cork gravitated to the photos. He believed a lot could be inferred from the photographs a person chose to display. In Father Tom Griffin’s case, Cork saw much of the road the man had traveled to reach that cluttered office. One photo showed a young Tom Griffin, a long and lanky college kid in a Notre Dame baseball uniform with a self-confident and likable grin. Another, taken much later, showed him in his collar standing with the pope. The pope looked small and severe next to the tall priest, who was relaxed and smiling. Several of the other photos seemed to have been taken in Central America. They were village shots, dusty streets or cobble-stone, and shy, emaciated mestizo kids smiling for the camera. The last picture was quite recent, taken on the Iron Lake Reservation, and showed Tom Griffin standing beside the mission building he was restoring. With him stood Wanda Manydeeds. It was fitting. The priest and the Midewiwin. Wanda looked serious as ever. The priest, although he had a black eye patch now and he’d let his hair go shaggy, was still smiling just as broadly as the kid in the photo who’d played ball for Notre Dame.