Manitou Canyon

by William Kent Krueger

“Have you heard from my dad?”

  “No. He’s in the Boundary Waters. No cell phone service.”

  “He took a satellite phone, and he was supposed to check in with the sheriff’s office. They haven’t heard from him. I thought he might have called you.”

  “He hasn’t.”

  Rainy listened as Jenny explained about her conversation with Stephen.

  “One of those dark premonitions of his,” Jenny said. “You know how that goes.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think Henry might have some idea about Stephen’s darkness? I mean, would it help if I came out and talked to him?”

  “I’m sure Uncle Henry would be willing to talk to you, but I don’t know how that will happen tonight. It’s too late to be traveling out here now.”

  “I know the way well,” Jenny said. “And I wouldn’t mind getting a little, you know, comforting advice.”

  “It’s different here coming at night, particularly in this weather. I think it’s best to wait until morning.”

  It wasn’t audible, but Rainy could feel Jenny’s deep sigh of regretful acceptance on the other end.

  “You’re right. And I suppose it’s nothing. I just . . .”

  “I know,” Rainy said. “Tomorrow morning, first light, be here.”

  She put the phone back into her pocket.

  “Much can happen in one night.”

  She turned and found her great-uncle sitting up on his bunk.

  “It was Jenny O’Connor.”

  “A concerned Jennifer O’Connor,” the old man said. “Concerned about her father?”

  He rose and Rainy heard the crack of his old bones. He took a moment to straighten himself fully. Then he smiled, and in that moment, he was ageless.

  “No one’s heard from Cork. And Stephen called. He’s sensed something bad. You know Stephen.”

  Henry gave a nod, then walked to the pot where the stew simmered, leaned into the rising vapor, and took a deep breath.

  “You have many things to learn about healing, Niece, but cooking I think you have mastered. When do we eat?”

  She knew him well and knew not to press the issue of this disturbing feeling that had descended on Stephen and what it might mean for Cork. She dished the stew and they ate, and then the old man said, “Let us build a fire.”

  The drizzle that had fallen most of the day had ended, but the sky was still overcast. The clouds blocked any light that might have come from the moon or stars, and Crow Point lay in a darkness so profound that Rainy couldn’t see her feet or the ground on which she set them. She brought a flashlight, which she could have used to illuminate their way, but her great-uncle had traveled every inch of Crow Point for almost a hundred years and his own feet knew the way unerringly. He led and she followed and Ember came after them both. The path the old man took cut through a small rock upthrust to a stone ring surrounded with hewn log sections as seating. In the blackness beyond, invisible at the moment, lay Iron Lake.

  Her great-uncle stopped and she stood beside him and felt the soft brush of Ember’s warm, old body against her leg.

  “Crack this darkness a little, Niece,” he said.

  She turned on the flashlight and the beam lit the scene with a harsh light that felt like a violation and was, in its way. A supply of firewood had been laid up against the rocks and covered with a canvas tarp. Under the tarp, too, was a box full of dry kindling. In ten minutes, Rainy had a good blaze going inside the fire ring.

  The old Mide stood in the dancing light and offered tobacco to the spirits of the four directions. He and Rainy smoked tobacco from the pipe he’d brought, and they sat together a long time in silence.

  “Stephen O’Connor listens,” he finally said. “The heart knows much that the head ignores. If we pay attention, our hearts speak to us. Stephen O’Connor has always listened. His father not so much.”

  Rainy knew what he meant. Though she loved Cork, Rainy understood that he was often blind to his own feelings, sometimes purposely so. He thought of himself as ogichidaa, which was an Ojibwe word that meant “one who stands between evil and his people.” It was hard and sometimes required his heart to be like stone. He carried scars all over his body and she knew his spirit was scarred, too. Sometimes when she held him at night in her bed, she could feel his pain so acutely it made her want to cry.

  “Does this feeling Stephen has mean something’s wrong with Cork?”

  “Only Stephen O’Connor knows the true meaning of what his heart has said.”

  “I’m afraid, Uncle Henry.”

  “That is what it is to be human, Niece.”

  “And to love,” she said.

  The old man nodded. “Sometimes.”

  CHAPTER 9

  In black night, Cork woke to the call of nature. He was warm in his sleeping bag, but it was icy cold in the tent, and he lay there awhile, working up the will to go out to relieve himself.

  He hadn’t built a fire that evening. With the drizzle, the available wood was wet, and although he could have stripped away the damp bark, doing so was more trouble than he wanted. Their rain gear kept them dry and the wool layers kept them warm. By the light of Cork’s old Coleman lantern, they’d eaten a meal of freeze-dried chili that he’d prepared on his one-burner camp stove. He’d made coffee for them, too, which probably accounted for him being awake in the dead of night.

  Cork had tried to check in with the sheriff’s office on the sat phone, but once again could not get a signal. He knew it might be worrisome to Marsha Dross, but there was nothing he could do about it.

  After that, over the coffee, Lindsay Harris had told him a bit more about herself and her grandfather.

  “After my folks were killed in the car crash, he tried to do his best. At first, he took us with him when he went to build his dams. But he was mostly gone and we were taken care of by paid housekeepers or sometimes a nanny, and our schooling was sometimes an iffy proposition. Trevor was a handful, always in some kind of trouble. And there were the women. We definitely put a crimp in Grandpa John’s love life.” She’d sipped from her cup. “This is good.”

  “Cowboy coffee,” Cork had told her.

  “Eventually, he decided it was better for everyone if Trevor and I went to boarding school,” she’d gone on. “So Trevor got shipped off to Choate, and I went to a Catholic girls’ school in the Twin Cities. We saw each other on holidays, and we’d join Grandpa John at one of his houses over the summer. But even then, he’d have to be gone for long periods sometimes. How can you have a family when one of you is never there?”

  For that question, Cork had had no answer.

  He could no longer put it off, and he unzipped his bag. He unrolled the pants and sweater he’d been using as a pillow and slipped them on, then put on his cold boots. He unzipped the tent and stepped outside.

  “Where are you going?” Lindsay asked from the dark of her own tent.

  “To see a man about a horse.”

  “I think I need to see that man, too.”

  He heard the rustling as she put on her coat, then the growl of the tent zipper, and she stepped outside.

  “Okay,” she said.

  “You’ll need a light.”

  “I’ve got it.”

  She turned on the headlamp she’d worn when Cork had finally snuffed the flame of the Coleman lantern.

  Lindsay headed for the primitive pit toilet that was a part of every official campsite in the Boundary Waters. Cork picked his way slowly through the dark down the little path that led to the lakeshore. He had a flashlight, but chose not to use it. He relieved himself against the trunk of a pine tree, then stood looking across the lake. Sometime after they’d turned in for the night, the drizzle had finally ended, and now the cloud cover had thinned just enough that the phantom of a nearly full moon was visible. The lake reflected a
gray, ghostly light, and far out in the water, Cork could see the black outline of the big island called Raspberry.

  As Cork stood watching, his eyes caught a pinpoint of light high up on the rock ridge that formed a wall on the far side of the island. It was there for only a moment, then gone.

  He heard Lindsay returning, but she’d turned off her headlamp and came in the dark.

  “Funny how quick your eyes adjust out here, even in the least little light,” she said. “And there’s something about an artificial beam that feels out of place. Know what I mean?”

  He did.

  She stood beside him awhile, silent in the same way he was silent. “A beautiful place,” she said. “Until it eats someone you love.”

  “It’s not a monster, Lindsay. There’s a logical explanation for your grandfather’s disappearance. We just haven’t found it yet.”

  “But we will?”

  “I try not to make promises I can’t keep.”

  She caught her breath, an audible gasp. “Did you see that?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  The pinpoint of light had come again, then gone.

  “What was it?” she said.

  “If I don’t miss my guess, someone on that island has struck a couple of matches. Maybe to smoke a cigarette or light a pipe.”

  “We’re not alone?”

  “We’re not alone.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Boundary Waters enthusiasts maybe.”

  “Why didn’t we see them earlier?”

  “It was hard to see much of anything in that mist today.”

  “What time is it?”

  Cork pushed the stem on his wristwatch, and the face lit up. “Two-thirty-eight.”

  “Who’d be up at two-thirty-eight in the morning?”

  “Someone seeing a man about a horse, maybe. Or someone just craving a smoke. We’ll ask them.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Tomorrow’s soon enough.”

  “I’m going back to my tent,” she said. “You coming?”

  “In a minute.”

  He studied the black outline of the island. There was an official BWCAW campsite on the lakeshore, but the two bright pinpricks had come from atop the ridge. He’d climbed that rock wall during the search for John Harris. It was tough even in good light and in good weather. What would anyone be doing atop the rocky ridge in the dead of that kind of night?

  As he stood there wondering, clouds once again gobbled the moon. The island vanished from sight and the lake became a black emptiness. Cork felt his way back to his tent. Inside, he pulled off his boots, slipped off his pants and sweater, rolled them again into a pillow, and zipped himself into his bag.

  He wondered if Lindsay Harris had gone back to sleep. Probably not, he thought. Probably her brain was pinballing, bouncing among a lot of unanswered questions. He knew there would be no answers that night, so he closed his eyes and let himself sink into oblivion.

  * * *

  “I’d kill for a cup of coffee.” Lindsay came from her tent, breathing clouds of gray vapor. She looked like hell, but Cork knew that everyone did first thing in the morning in the Boundary Waters. She wore the red-and-white striped stocking cap that she’d worn the whole trip so far and that Cork couldn’t look at without thinking of Where’s Waldo? In its way, it was kind of cute, and because her grandfather had given it to her, he appreciated its sentimental value.

  “No need,” he said and handed her a cup.

  “How long have you been up?”

  “Long enough to make coffee.” And although he didn’t tell her, long enough to have tried the satellite phone again with the same disappointing result. Then he’d taken out his field glasses and carefully studied the island. He could see the official campsite there, but saw no tents or canoes or any other sign of human life. The same was true for the top of the ridge where the lights had been.

  “Not so grim this morning,” Lindsay observed.

  “Still gray, but no precipitation. That helps.”

  She hugged herself as if for warmth. “Must be near freezing.”

  “It’ll warm up.”

  She took a long drink of her coffee. “Ahhh, that helps. Breakfast?” She nodded toward the pot Cork had on the camp stove burner.

  “Oatmeal. Then I’ll fry up some bacon and rehydrate some eggs.”

  “What’s the plan?”

  “The island first. See if we can track down whoever was over there last night.”

  “Then?”

  “Like I said yesterday, I’m hoping something will come to me.”

  “That’s it? That’s your plan? All of it?”

  “Do you have a better one?”

  She looked disappointed but clearly had nothing of her own to offer.

  They ate mostly in silence, and Cork cleaned up from the meal while Lindsay visited the pit toilet. Then they went down to where the canoe lay tipped. A translucent skin of ice had formed around the rocks nearest the shoreline.

  “Winter comes early here,” Lindsay said, as if it were a sudden revelation.

  “That’s why we won’t be staying long. If the lakes ice over, it’ll be hell getting out. Same if it decides to snow much.”

  “But if we find something?” she said hopefully.

  “If we find something, we’ll figure what to do then.”

  They put in to the water and made for the island. Cork guided them to the landing for the BWCAW campsite, a little sandy area edged with rocks. They lifted the canoe from the water and tilted it on the shore. Cork studied the sand.

  “No footprints. If someone was on this island yesterday, they didn’t land here.”

  “Where else?”

  “A couple of other possibilities, but this landing makes the most sense.”

  “Hello!” Lindsay called.

  The suddenness and volume of her voice startled Cork, and he shot her a look.

  She shrugged. “Seemed like the easiest thing.”

  She was right, and Cork gave a holler. “Hello! Is anyone here?”

  “Maybe they can’t hear us,” she said.

  “It’s so quiet you can hear bark growing.”

  “Maybe they left.”

  “They got off awfully early then. I was up at first light. Let’s just have a little look around.”

  He followed the shoreline to the west side of the island, where there was a break in the rocks just large enough for a canoe to slip up to a spot covered in pine needles. It was out of sight from where he and Lindsay had camped the night before, and if there’d been canoes, he wouldn’t necessarily have seen them leave. He knew the spot from the earlier, thorough search for John Harris.

  “What are we looking for?” Lindsay asked.

  “Any sign someone was here.”

  “And were they?”

  “I can’t see any indication.”

  “You said there were a couple of places.”

  “The other one’s a little tough to get to from here. I’ve got another idea. Follow me.”

  He led her back to the first landing and then along a faint trail that cut inland through a thick stand of pines. They came to a place where the rock shot up from the dirt in a long wall sixty feet high.

  “They were up there last night?” Lindsay craned her neck toward the low, dirty-looking sky.

  “On top. If what we saw is what I think we saw.”

  “What now?”

  “I’m going to climb.”

  “Me, too,” she said without hesitation.

  “The rock’s wet, bound to be slippery.”

  “You think you can make it?”

  “I do.”

  “Then so can I,” she said gamely and started up the wall. She’d gone only a few feet when her boot slid from under
her and she fell to the ground.

  “You hurt?”

  “Only my dignity.” She studied the wall again. “I think I’ll wait here.”

  Cork took his time, choosing his handholds and footholds carefully. In five minutes, he’d mounted the ridge. He walked slowly along the top, which was mostly rock. Some aspens had managed to put down roots, but they were a hardy few. He stood on the ridge, with a good 360-degree view of the lake, and saw no sign of humanity except the campsite on the mainland where he and Lindsay had spent the night.

  Then he glanced down. On a flat stone just to the left of where he’d planted his feet, he saw what looked like black ash. He removed his gloves and bent and touched his right index finger to the stone. He lifted the finger to his nose and smelled tobacco char. Someone had smoked there. Whoever it was must have smoked after the rain had stopped or the little fall of ashes would have been washed away. Cork walked along the ridgetop studying the ground more carefully. He found a place between the rocks that in summer had been filled with wild grass. That now dead grass lay pressed down in a long outline that had probably been made by a sleeping bag.

  It was an odd place to camp. To haul gear to the top of the ridge wasn’t an easy thing. There was no shelter from the inclement weather, and no particularly comfortable places to sleep. The only advantage to being there might be the view. In the dull gray of November, that view was hardly worth the climb.

  There were only two ways into and out of Raspberry Lake: the portage to the south, which was how Cork and Lindsay had come the day before, and the portage to the north, a long, difficult trek nearly two miles to the next lake, which was called Baldy. If whoever had been here had canoed the lake to either portage that morning, Cork would have seen them. Which meant that they had left when it was still dark. Or they were still on the island.

  Cork went back to the place where he’d climbed up the rock wall. He looked down to where he’d left Lindsay Harris. She was nowhere to be seen. The only evidence of her was the stocking cap she’d been wearing, which was lying on the ground at the bottom of the wall, looking very much like a piece of Waldo that had been severed and left for carrion.

  CHAPTER 10