Iron Lake

by William Kent Krueger

  His luck didn’t hold. When he was within thirty yards, the headlights of the little machine went dark and the snowmobile suddenly tunneled into the snowy night and was lost to him. He switched on his own headlights, but it was too late. The snowmobile was nowhere to be seen. He braked and the Bronco spun on the ice. It did a full 360 degrees before it came to a stop. Cork rolled his window down and listened. He heard the whine of the snowmobile cutting east, heading toward the reservation, the nearest forest land, where thick woods would swallow it quickly. Cork turned the Bronco in that direction.

  He kicked his lights up to high beam. The flurry of snowflakes flew at him like a swarm of white moths. He wanted to floor the accelerator, but he was heading into a section of the lake popular with ice fisherman and he didn’t want to risk a collision with a shanty. He kept his window rolled down and leaned his head out. Although the wind rushed at him with a dull roar, he could still hear ahead of him the persistent high pitch of the snowmobile feverishly speeding away.

  Then he heard something else. The sound of impact. Splintering wood followed by the thumping of heavy metal, and finally silence. He slowed and listened. The night on the lake had become still again, deceptively peaceful.

  He crept the Bronco ahead. Within a minute his lights picked up the wreckage of a small shanty that lay on its side amid fragments of splintered boards. One wall was caved in, a ragged hole torn open. Cork couldn’t see the snowmobile, but from the line of scattered debris, he could guess the trajectory it must have taken after glancing off the shanty. He turned the Bronco slowly until the headlights swung onto the snowmobile. It was standing upright, as if it had simply been parked. Vehicular accidents were like that sometimes. A car could flip two or three times and come to rest on its wheels as if nothing had happened. The driver of the snow-mobile was nowhere to be seen.

  Cork gripped the .38 and stepped out. He looked carefully around, saw no one, listened, and heard only the distant, steady thrum behind him of a freight train moving slowly through Aurora. He’d taken a few cautious steps toward the snowmobile when a figure in goggles and a green parka popped up from behind the machine, laid an arm across the hood, and pulled off two rounds before Cork could move. The headlight beside him exploded and he felt a numbing blow to his right hand. He hit the snow and rolled under the Bronco. His hand had no feeling and it no longer held the revolver. The green parka let loose another round. Cork heard the bullet chisel into the ice near the rear tire. He reached out and swept through the snow with his left hand, desperately searching for the gun.

  Illuminated in the beam of the remaining headlight, the green parka straddled the snowmobile again. The engine kicked over twice, then caught. The machine swung out of the light, following an arc into the darkness that would take it back toward Aurora.

  Cork scrambled from under the Bronco. He wanted to find his gun, but knew it would take precious time. He jumped back in behind the wheel and cried out when he wrapped his right hand around the knob of the gear shift. In the glow from his dashboard lights, he could see something protruding from the glove on his hand between his thumb and index finger. He gave a quick, agonizing jerk and pulled out a jagged piece of glass two inches long. He hadn’t been hit by the round, but by a chunk of the shattered headlight. Although his glove was soaked with blood, he found he could manage with the glass fragment out. Using the heel of his hand he pushed the Bronco into gear, swung the vehicle around and headed in pursuit of the green parka.

  In the chaos of the chase Cork had lost a feel for exactly where on the lake he was. The snow curtained the shoreline and he had nothing from which to get his bearings. He knew he was headed in the direction of Aurora, but he had only a general sense of distance. Although he wanted desperately to catch the snowmobile, he resisted the temptation to bear down on the accelerator. The near disaster with the ice hut had been a resounding caution against blind speed. Also, his luck had returned in a way. In the collision, the snowmobile had sprung an oil leak and was leaving a clear, black trail for Cork to follow across the lake.

  He was intent on the trail of oil when out of the corner of his eye he caught a flash of orange at the far right fringe of his headlight beam. He realized it was one of the signs warning of open water ahead, and he pumped his brakes, fighting to keep from sliding into an uncontrolled spin as he attempted to turn the Bronco. He felt the wheels drift over the ice as the vehicle slid sideways. A brief, panicked vision came to him of the Bronco gliding unchecked off the ice and plunging into the black depths of Iron Lake. He eased the wheel into the spin and managed to regain control. From behind the curtain of falling snow ahead, the blackness of the open water came at him like a gaping mouth. He continued to slow and to bring the Bronco around. Then he heard the ice groan and crack beneath him. Steadily he pushed down on the accelerator, running parallel for a moment to the open water, trying to keep the weight of the Bronco moving ahead of the breaking ice. His right hand ached, but he held tight and carefully brought the wheel around until he was moving back to safety. He made a wide full circle. When he came across the black train of oil, he centered it in the beam of the headlight, illuminating the stretch of ice between him and the open water. He killed the engine and got out. He could hear wild flailing in the water ahead. From the glove compartment he grabbed a flashlight.

  He stopped well back from the edge of the ice. Using the flashlight, he located the snowmobile that appeared to have skipped twenty yards over the surface of the water before it stopped and began to sink. The hood was still above water, the green parka clinging to it desperately. Cork spun around and began to run, cutting the darkness right and left with the beam of his flashlight. He found what he was looking for, a safety station. He pulled the white life ring loose and the loops of yellow rope, then he ran back. The green parka was still holding to the hood of the snowmobile, although there was not much left above water. Cork unlooped the rope. He tried grasping the ring with his right hand, but the wound from the glass chunk hurt too much. He switched it to his left, brought it back, and heaved it. This time the pain was in his ribs. The ring fell several yards short and to the right.

  “Swim for it!” Cork yelled.

  The green parka started for the ring but stopped inexplicably and grabbed again for the snowmobile.

  Cork hauled in the rope. He held the ring in his right hand this time and chucked it underhand, crying out as the pain knifed into him. The ring arched and fell within easy reach of the figure in the water. The green parka grabbed the ring just as the snowmobile slid from sight.

  Cork began to draw in the rope hand over hand. But something was wrong. Although it hurt like hell to pull, he shouldn’t have felt much resistance. Yet tug as he might, he couldn’t budge the green parka from the spot where the snowmobile had gone under. Then to his shock, he felt the line slipping from his grasp. Despite his tortured ribs, he looped the rope around his own body. The pull at the other end began to drag him toward the water. He was confused. The life ring should have come easily, but it was as if Cork were in a battle with something that wanted the green parka more than he did. Vainly he dug at the ice with his heels. When he looked up, he saw that the green parka was grasping the ring desperately, beating at the water, and was still being dragged inexorably under. Cork strained against the rope as he was inched nearer and nearer the edge. He heard the thin ice crack under his weight and knew that in a moment the water would have him, too.

  He let go. The green parka slid from sight, swallowed by the lake as if by a hungry giant. The rope continued to jerk for another minute, and then it was still.

  Cork’s right hand throbbed. His ribs hurt so much that he could barely breathe. He realized he was shivering, although he wasn’t cold. He could hear the wail of sirens somewhere off to his right. Wally Schanno was getting help. He stared at the black water. White flakes of snow drifted down onto the surface and melted. The lake looked so calm, so peaceful, as if swallowing a man was nothing.

  The flashing lights
brought out a lot of spectators from town. They gathered along the shoreline and watched as if it were an event. Cork spotted Sandy Parrant speaking with some of the deputies and nodding authoritatively as they gestured toward the open water. Their eyes met briefly, coldly, then Parrant left. Cork refused to leave until the divers from the fire department had brought the body up. Near midnight, they hauled it dripping onto the ice and laid it in the glare of the flood-lights that had been set up a safe distance from the perimeter of the water. The divers said they had to cut a shoe free; the lace had become entangled in the track of the snowmobile. Although the body had been in the water more than an hour, standard procedure required the paramedics to attempt revival. They pumped on his chest and tried administering oxygen, but even a blind man could see that their efforts were useless.

  The face of the man in the green parka was a lighter color than Cork had ever believed it could be. And maybe more peaceful. Russell Blackwater, the man with the hungry hunter’s eyes, would hunt the earth no more.

  27

  HE SLEPT LATE, slept through the ringing of the telephone, thought he heard a knocking at the door and slept through that, too. It was cold in the Quonset hut but warm under his blanket, and he didn’t want to leave that very small place where he curled for safety. Finally the deep, ceaseless throbbing of his hand forced him to get up. He took a couple of the extra-strength ibuprofen the resident on duty at the community hospital emergency ward had given him when he stitched up his hand. The doctor had also x-rayed the place along Cork’s ribs where his skin had turned a deep brooding purple. Nothing broken. In the bathroom, he studied himself in the mirror. He looked old, a decade older than a week before. His eyes were dark circled, his face puffy. There seemed to be a brutish aspect in his appearance that he’d never recognized before, and he felt a cold, abiding despair sunk all the way to his bones. Who was this man staring at him? What was he becoming?

  It was late morning when he stepped outside. Snow no longer fell, but the sky was heavily overcast. A wind blew across the lake, harsh and steady, and tore at the edges of a note he found tacked to his door. “Call me.” It was signed by Father Tom Griffin. Cork checked the headlight that had been shattered by the bullet from Blackwater’s gun. It would have to be fixed, but he wasn’t in any hurry. He went to the storage shed and hauled out his auger and ice spud. He loaded them in the back of the Bronco, and he put his fishing gear there, too. He went once more into Sam’s Place to fill a bucket with grain, and then he headed down to the lake. The geese were gone. After last night, that didn’t surprise him. He stood a moment, looking across the choppy, gray water. There’d been something welcoming about it when the geese were there. Now the open water seemed only menacing. He emptied the bucket and left it in the snow.

  He hated hospitals. He couldn’t get beyond the idea of them representing death. In his experience, people went to the hospital to die. His father had died in a hospital with Cork helpless beside him. He hated the sinister cleanliness of their look and smell, the hush of them as if holding a big insidious secret. In so many ways, the scent of burning cedar and sage and the chant of the Midewiwin seemed more real and hopeful.

  Wally Schanno was no longer in the Aurora Community Hospital. Cork spoke with the resident, a young man named Dr. Ferman, the same one who’d stitched up Cork’s hand and who’d been on duty since early morning. He looked even more tired than Cork. Schanno had checked himself out several hours ago against the doctor’s advice. The gunshot wound was clean, no bone or artery hit, but Dr. Ferman would have liked a day or so for observation anyway. The doctor said that a little before noon Sigurd Nelson visited Schanno, and a short time later the sheriff told the station nurse he was leaving. Dr. Ferman had come down and argued with him.

  “He’s a grown man. He can make his own decisions.” The exhausted resident shrugged. “He signed the waiver. My hands are clean.”

  Cork called the sheriff’s office from a hospital pay phone. Schanno was there.

  “Get over here,” the sheriff said, sounding tired but pretty excited for a man with a hole recently torn through his leg. “I’ve got something you’ll want to see.”

  Sandy Parrant sat in a chair near Schanno’s desk. He looked at Cork with a blank expression. Cork returned the look in kind.

  “Hope you don’t mind if I don’t get up, Cork,” Schanno said with a big grin and a nod toward his leg, which was hidden by the desk. Leaning against the wall directly behind him was a pair of crutches. “Come on in. Hang up your coat.”

  “How’s the leg feel?” Cork asked.

  “I’m on painkiller right now, so not so bad. The doctor said I’d have a couple of scars, but nothing to worry about.”

  “Voters like scars on their lawmen,” Cork said.

  Schanno gave an appreciative laugh.

  Cork said, “Those painkillers sure seem to help your humor, Wally.”

  “It’s not the painkillers. I think I’m just about ready to close the book on what’s been going on around here. It’s pretty simple in the end.”

  Cork sat in an old wooden chair near the window. He crossed his legs and looked at the two men. He saw Schanno’s eyes shift for the briefest instant toward a small, white three-drawer filing cabinet sitting on the floor near Parrant. It was out of place with the tall green cabinets in which the sheriff kept the regular files.

  “Any of your people find my thirty-eight last night out where Blackwater collided with the ice hut?” Cork asked.

  “I don’t know. Check with the desk officer on your way out.” Schanno seemed irritated that Cork had jumped to a different track suddenly, but the pleased look came back to him as he went on. “I found something very interesting this morning. A folder Harlan Lytton had that I think explains everything.”

  “One file,” Cork considered. “And it explains everything?”

  “Have a look for yourself,” Schanno said.

  He picked up a manila folder in front of him and offered it to Cork. The typewritten name on the folder, read “Blackwater, R.” Inside were several pages of computer printout with figures and money amounts arranged under headings and columns that clearly dealt with the Chippewa Grand Casino. In several places the figures in the columns had been highlighted with a yellow marker.

  Midway through the pages, Cork glanced up, questioningly.

  “I know. They don’t look like much,” Schanno admitted. “I wasn’t sure about them either. So I asked Sandy here to take a look, considering his association with the casino.”

  Cork swung his gaze over to Parrant.

  “It doesn’t take a genius,” Parrant said, “to see that the figures have been juggled. A good accountant would spot it eventually. Or someone who knows the casino operation well. Like Dad or me.”

  “Embezzlement?” Cork asked.

  Parrant nodded. “From just the cursory look I took, I’d say at least a hundred thousand. A complete audit will probably turn up a lot more.”

  “How did he expect to get away with it?” Cork asked. “If you saw it right off?”

  “Regulations regarding Indian-run casinos are extremely lax. An audit wouldn’t necessarily take place for years. We tried to negotiate a contract with the Iron Lake band that would give management responsibility to Great North, because we have all the business expertise they need. They chose to manage it themselves, with Russell Blackwater at the helm. This is the result.” Parrant shook his head disdainfully.

  “How’d Lytton get hold of this report?”

  Parrant shrugged. “Paid off someone in the business office. It wouldn’t be that hard.”

  Schanno sat back in his chair, looking pleased. “I told you the ATF was interested in Lytton and the Minnesota Civilian Brigade. They believed money had become suddenly available to finance arms. I figure Lytton was blackmailing Blackwater. Sure would be a good way to come by lots of untraceable income.”

  “So you think Blackwater killed Lytton to end the blackmail,” Cork said.

 
“I think once Jack the Ripper was out of the way, it looked like a piece of cake to Blackwater. If the Ripper had still been alive, maybe Lytton would be, too.”

  The accusation in Schanno’s words wasn’t wasted on Cork.

  “I’m taking Cy Borkmann off his surveillance of Lytton’s cabin,” Schanno went on. “He’ll be happy he can sleep at home nights. Maybe I can sleep now, too.”

  Parrant stood up and put on his coat. “If you don’t need me anymore, I’d like to get back to the office. I think I’ve done what I can in all this.”

  “Thanks for your help, Sandy. I’ll be in touch.”

  Parrant offered Cork a cool nod in parting.

  “Crazy world, Cork,” Wally Schanno observed after Parrant was gone. He swiveled in his chair, grimaced a little and held his leg a moment. Cork saw the distortion under his pants that was the thick rounding of bandages about his thigh. “Crazy world,” Schanno went on, “but it makes a lot more sense to me now than it did yesterday.”

  “Seems that way,” Cork said.

  “Seems?” Schanno shot him an unpleasant look. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Where’d you get this folder, Wally?”

  “Like I said, Lytton had it.”

  “Where?”

  “Does that matter?”

  “It might. Did Sigurd bring you the file?”

  “Sigurd?”

  “They told me at the hospital our coroner visited you this morning. You left right after. Did he bring you the file?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” He reached into his desk drawer and brought out a key that he handed to Cork. “He brought me that.”

  The key was silver with “Aurora U-Store” engraved on the head along with the number 213.

  “He found it on Lytton when he took a look at the body in his official capacity. My men must’ve missed it.”

  “So you went over and found the shed that fit the key.”