Cork hadn’t checked in on the sat phone the next morning, but Marsha Dross again advised patience. The cloud cover, the location, the unreliability of sat phones in general. There could be so many reasons for the silence from the Boundary Waters.
It was barely light out when Rose, Jenny, and Waaboo left the house on Gooseberry Lane and headed north out of Aurora. They passed the turnoff to Sam’s Place, and Rose glanced across the railroad tracks at the Quonset hut sitting all alone on the shore of Iron Lake. Although Cork continued to use it in winter as the office for his private investigations, it looked abandoned at the moment, a shell with no life inside. Which was how, these days, she sometimes thought of Cork. Something was missing in him, something vital, something life-giving, and she didn’t know what it was exactly and so had no idea how to help him find it.
“I always hate it when we close up Sam’s Place for the season,” Jenny said. She was behind the wheel. Waaboo, who’d been wakened early, sat glassy-eyed in his car seat in back. “It always feels like a small funeral.”
“And then in spring, there’s the resurrection,” Rose said brightly.
“In November, spring always seems a long way off,” Jenny replied.
She turned onto a county road that paralleled the western shoreline of the lake, drove past cabin after abandoned cabin. Tamarack County swelled every summer with seasonal residents, and every winter was deserted except for those hearty few for whom it was home.
“I called Daniel last night,” Jenny said. “He’s going to meet us on Crow Point.”
“Good,” Rose said.
She quite liked the man Jenny was to marry. This would be a merger of families and cultures that felt right to Rose and was, in truth, something she’d prayed for.
Near the north end of Iron Lake, they parked next to a double-trunk birch tree that stood at the side of a gravel county road and marked the beginning of the trail through the woods to Crow Point. The sky had lightened, though it was still lidded by thick clouds.
Jenny unbuckled Waaboo from his car seat and lifted him out. As soon as the icy air hit his face, Waaboo seemed to wake up and become energized. He’d been on the path to Crow Point many times, and he was off and running.
“Waaboo!” Rose called after him. “Wait for us.”
He slowed, found a long stick of great interest to him, and poked at the fallen leaves that covered the path.
“Everything’s all stiff,” he said.
“Things froze a little last night,” his mother told him. “Winter’s coming.”
“Snowballs,” Waaboo said happily. “And sledding.”
“Twenty below,” his mother said. “And flu season.”
Waaboo walked ahead, his feet crunching the frozen, fallen leaves.
It was two miles to Crow Point, a long walk for a four-year-old, but Waaboo was used to the hike. When they broke from the trees and he saw the two cabins and the smoke that poured from the chimneys, he began to race along the path across the meadow. Because they were expected and welcome, the two women let him go. Rose saw the door of Meloux’s cabin open. Rainy stepped out. Little Waaboo ran to her and she caught him up in her arms, and Rose heard his cry of delight. After a good hug, Rainy set him down and he disappeared inside. Rainy closed the door but remained outside, waiting for her visitors.
“Daniel?” Jenny said.
“Here already, inside with Uncle Henry. And now Waaboo.”
The women exchanged hugs, and Rainy ushered them in.
Like Rainy, Daniel English was full-blood Lac Courte Oreilles from Wisconsin. He was tall, tawny, handsome, and impossible not to love. When he’d met Jenny, he was working as a game warden for the Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources. They’d fallen in love, and he’d left Wisconsin and his family and moved to the Iron Lake Reservation, where he’d been hired as a tribal game warden. He had an apartment in Allouette, the larger of the two communities on the reservation. After the wedding, as was the tradition in Ojibwe culture, and also because they couldn’t really afford to do otherwise, he would move in with his wife’s family, joining the O’Connor clan in the house on Gooseberry Lane.
Jenny kissed him hello.
Waaboo was sitting with Rainy’s great-uncle on the old man’s bunk, and Meloux was showing the boy a wooden flute that he’d carved. Ember sat at Meloux’s feet, watching the old Mide and the boy.
“When a young Anishinaabe man wants to woo a young Anishinaabe woman,” Meloux explained, “he plays music to her on a flute.”
“What’s woo mean?” the boy asked.
“To win her love,” the old man said.
Waaboo looked up at Daniel English. “Is that what you did?”
“I don’t play the flute, Waaboo,” Daniel said. “I play the accordion.”
Jenny laughed. “So he wooed me with polkas and zydeco.” She kissed him again.
“I’ve made coffee,” Rainy offered. “And biscuits. And for Waaboo, or anyone who’d care for some, my own wild raspberry tea.”
The little cabin smelled wonderful to Rose, filled with the aroma of the biscuits and coffee and raspberry tea. And filled, too, she knew, with the love of family. But there was another sense that underlay these things, a sense of concern, which Henry Meloux soon addressed.
“My niece has told me of this feeling that has so troubled Stephen O’Connor,” he said. “I would like to talk to him.”
“He’s flying in today, Henry,” Jenny said. “I could bring him here later.”
“Good,” the old man said.
“How worried should we be?” Rose asked.
“Airplanes are very safe these days,” Meloux replied.
Rose said, “I meant about this feeling Stephen’s had and about Cork.”
“I know what you meant,” the old man said with a smile. “Worry is useless. It takes you nowhere. But a laugh, that is always a good thing.”
She wondered how he could joke so easily. Then she realized that he was right. At the moment, except for Stephen’s troubling feeling—and who knew what that meant?—they had no real reason to worry. Cork was a capable man who understood the Boundary Waters. He wasn’t foolish. And what could possibly threaten him that he would not know how to handle?
Jenny said, “The visions Stephen’s had in the past, and these feelings he gets, they’ve always been right and they’ve always meant trouble.”
Rose knew that a decade before his mother went missing, Stephen had begun to have visions of the place her body would eventually be found. Until the tragedy happened, they’d all thought these were simply a recurring bad dream. Then before he was shot, Stephen had had a vision of the man who would shoot him. Only a year ago, before Cork and Jenny had walked into a deadly showdown outside Williston, North Dakota, Stephen had warned that they would be in danger.
“And Dad still hasn’t checked in on the sat phone he took with him,” Jenny added.
“I can think of plenty of reasons why the sat phone might not be working,” Daniel said. “The clouds, the terrain, the tree cover, the age and quality of the sat phone.”
A knock came at the cabin door, which seemed to surprise them all, even Meloux, who was seldom surprised in this way. Rainy opened it up, and in came a woman who was a stranger to Rose.
Rainy stepped back, as if a strong wind had shoved her. “Aunt Leah? What are you doing here?”
The woman was slight but had an imperial bearing. She was also Native, gray-haired and with sharp eyes that took in the cabin and everyone in it. Her gaze settled at last on Henry Meloux.
“Hello, Henry.”
“Boozhoo, Leah,” the old Mide said. “It has been a very long time.”
“How did you find this place, Aunt Leah?” Daniel asked.
“I can read a map, even a crude one.” She held out a sheet of paper, and Rose could see a penciled drawing.
“I asked at the coffee place in Allouette. The woman behind the counter drew this for me. You must be Jenny. You’re even lovelier than I imagined.”
“Hello, Leah,” Jenny said, a little tentatively. She glanced at Daniel.
“This is my great-aunt Leah Duling, Jenny. Who, last I knew, was in Africa. The Congo, maybe?”
“The Central African Republic. It’s lovely to see you again, Daniel. You’ve grown and become quite handsome. And you, Rainy, you seem healthy and happy. How nice for you.” She looked at Rose. “And you are?”
“Rose Thorne,” Rose said. “I’m Jenny’s aunt.”
“And this fine young man?” Leah opened her arms wide toward Waaboo as if he were a mountain she wanted to embrace.
“I’m Aaron, but everybody calls me Waaboo. It’s short for Waaboozoons.”
“Little rabbit,” Leah said, smiling as if the name pleased her greatly.
“Did you come for my mom’s wedding?”
“I wasn’t invited, child,” the woman said. “But I came anyway.”
In the awkward silence in the room, the question of why lay obvious but unasked.
Leah answered it, however. She leveled her sharp, dark eyes on Meloux and said, “I want to make sure this old fraud doesn’t screw up your mother’s life the way he screwed up mine.”
CHAPTER 11
“Lindsay!” Cork called from the top of the ridge. “Lindsay Harris!”
To which he received no reply. There was the sudden caw of a crow startled from the branches of a tree below and the flap of wings as the bird took flight. Cork watched it grow small in the distance, black as an ash against the gray of the sky.
He thought maybe the young woman had gone into the cover of the pines to relieve herself or back to the pit toilet of the island campsite. But there was something else that was a possibility, a thought that came to him because of all the loss he’d suffered due to violence, a thought fed by the mysterious appearance of the lights on the ridge the night before and the mysterious disappearance of whoever had been there. And fed as well by the inexplicable vanishing of John Harris. Someone had taken Lindsay Harris.
He could have climbed down the wall the way he’d come up, but he decided on a different tactic. He moved to the far side of the ridge, the long palisade that fell precipitously to the water. He loped east along the ridgeline until he found a fold in the rock that might hide him as he descended. As carefully and quietly as he could, he made his way down. At the bottom, he found himself in a small copse of aspen, bare in this season, the shed leaves on the ground wet and blessedly silent as he made his passage through the trees. He entered the pines, where the forest floor was a soft, deep bed of brown needles. He crept soundlessly toward the place where Lindsay’s Waldo-looking hat had been dropped, a thoughtless oversight maybe. Or maybe a bit of bait to lure him down.
He spotted movement beyond a line of raspberry bushes. Although the thicket was empty of foliage and berries, the combined bramble was too dense to see through clearly. He bent low and crept nearer. He still could barely make out what was on the other side, but he could hear the whisper of voices.
“What’s he doing up there? What’s taking so long?” A woman’s voice, but not Lindsay’s.
“Patience.” A deeper voice, older, offering a piece of advice that might have come from Henry Meloux.
“When I see him, should I shoot him?” A young voice, male. Afraid or, at the very least, terribly uncertain.
“No.” The man again, firmly in charge. “You wait for my say-so.”
Cork had brought no weapon, had no way of defending himself or Lindsay. This was not at all what he’d expected. But he wasted no time considering the whys of the situation. He needed a plan. These people had come in canoes—there was no other way—and had probably hidden them somewhere on the island. They’d have to return at some point, and if he could find those canoes, he’d be waiting. He slipped quietly away.
They weren’t difficult to locate. As he’d told Lindsay earlier, there were only three good landing places on the island, and they’d already investigated two of them. The third was not far from the fold in the rock wall where he’d made his descent. Just inside the cover of the pines near the shoreline, he found the canoes, two of them, tipped behind a fallen log, hidden from the sight of anyone moving past on the lake.
Which would have been Lindsay and me, he thought. They’d been waiting. But why? What was it about this place or the missing man that was so important people were ready to kill because of it? Were they there to protect something? Take something? Lindsay? Her grandfather had disappeared. Did they mean to make her disappear as well? Cork hadn’t seen her with the others or heard her. Had she been able to hide?
He didn’t so much hear as sense the danger. He spun, and the man came at him with the knife. Cork reacted instinctively, his mind and body trained across a lifetime of law enforcement. He parried the assailant’s thrust with his left forearm and punched his right fist into the man’s throat. The man staggered back, still gripping the knife. Cork was on him, and they fell to the ground, grappling. The man’s breath came in desperate rasps, rattling through his damaged throat, but he fought with surprising strength and delivered a jolting blow to Cork’s jaw. Adrenaline had pumped into every muscle of Cork’s body. He barely felt the impact. He battled with the thoughtless instinct of survival. They rolled across the soft mat of pine needles, each in the grip of the other, their bodies twisting. Cork broke away and was on his feet quickly. His assailant rose more slowly, and as he came up, Cork delivered a kick to the side of his head that sent him tumbling. Cork tensed, prepared for the next attack, but it never came. The man lay facedown on the ground, unmoving. Cork was on top of him in an instant. The man made a little sound, like the last bit of air from an emptying balloon, and was still. Carefully, Cork stood up and stepped away. As he watched, a pool of blood spread from beneath the downed man. Cork bent and rolled him to his side. The knife handle protruded from his chest above his heart. As Cork watched, the stranger bled the last of his life out onto the pine needles that were his deathbed.
Cork stood slowly. He felt the ache of his jaw now where the man’s fist had connected. His head rang. He staggered a little. He had time for only a few breaths before what felt like the kick of a mule hit the back of his head, and he sank into a blackness empty of everything but one last moment of dread.
* * *
He came to gradually. The first words he heard before he opened his eyes were “Kill him now.”
They were spoken by a woman, the voice he’d heard from the other side of the raspberry thicket. This time the words weren’t whispered.
“No,” replied the other voice, the voice that had reminded him of Meloux. “We need him.”
Cork opened his eyes and at first saw only the flat, slate sky between the pines. He slowly turned his head, and the others came into his line of vision. A tall man, grayed, powerful-looking, Native. A woman, maybe forty, with murder in her eyes, also Native. A kid, sixteen or seventeen at most, holding a rifle, looking nervous. He, too, was Native. Cork didn’t see Lindsay Harris.
“He’s awake,” the kid said.
The man knelt beside Cork. “Can you hear me?”
“I hear you,” Cork said.
“This is how it stands. Do what we tell you or you’re dead. It’s that simple. Do you understand?”
“I understand.”
“Can you get up?”
“I’ll try.”
“Keep him covered,” the man said to the kid.
Cork heard the slide of the bolt on the rifle. He rolled and drew himself up on his hands and knees. His head throbbed and he felt dizzy. He pushed himself up fully, swayed a little, then got his footing.
“Cork?”
At the sound of Lindsay Harris’s voice, he turned. She stood near the tipped canoes with her hands bound
behind her back.
“You okay?” he asked.
“For now.” She eyed their captors in a frightened way.
“What do you want?” Cork asked the strangers.
“Your silence and your muscle,” the man said. “Help us get him into a canoe.”
He nodded to where the body of the man who’d attacked Cork lay in a pool of blood that had turned the brown pine needles a wet scarlet.
“He touches my brother, I’ll kill him,” the woman said.
“You’ll load him then?” the man asked her.
“With your help.” She walked to the dead man and stood over him, her face as hard as the wall Cork had scaled that morning. She looked at the tall man expectantly.
“Put one of the canoes in the water,” he instructed Cork. To the kid, he said, “Stay with him. Shoot him if he does anything except what I’ve asked.”
Cork went to the nearest canoe and, even as he bent to the work of lifting it, admired its construction. It was birch bark, handcrafted, light and sturdy and made with no iron fasteners. It rose dramatically at the bow and stern, in the way the Ojibwe had once fashioned their canoes. He lifted it easily onto his shoulders, carried it to the lake, and set it in the water.
“Steady it,” the tall man said.
Cork stepped into the lake and did as he was asked.
The woman gripped her brother’s legs and the tall man took the shoulders. They carried the body between them to the canoe and laid it in the center.
“Now the other canoe,” the tall man said, and Cork obeyed.
“Give me the rifle,” the tall man said to the kid. When he held it, he pointed the barrel at Cork and spoke to the woman and the kid both. “Go fetch the gear.”
His companions walked into the woods and disappeared, leaving Cork and Lindsay Harris with the tall, graying man.
“What now?” Cork asked.
“You’ll see soon enough, O’Connor.”
“Should I know you?”
“We’ve never met.”
Cork looked at the canoe where the dead man lay. “He attacked me.”
Manitou Canyon Page 7
