“That’s okay,” Jo said.
“You”—Rae laughed gently—“you would have made a great sister-in-law. Tell me about your life now. Everything.”
They talked for an hour, then Jo looked at her watch and said it was time to meet Rose and the children. She stood up, slung the canister strap over her shoulder, and gave Rae a parting hug. As she walked away, heading toward the primate house, Jo couldn’t help thinking that there were a lot of cages in the world, and not all of them had bars.
37
NO ONE KNEW the true age of Henry Meloux. He was already old when Cork was a boy. Meloux was one of the Midewiwin, a Mide, a member of the Grand Medicine Society. He lived on a rocky, isolated finger of land called Crow Point that jutted into Iron Lake at the northern edge of the reservation.
Cork parked the Pathfinder on the gravel at the side of the county road, locked up, and followed a trail that began at a double-trunk birch and led deep into the woods. For a while, the way lay through national forest land, but at some unmarked boundary it crossed onto the reservation. Cork walked for half an hour through woods where the only sounds were the chatter of squirrels, the squawk of crows, and the occasional crack of a fallen branch under his boots. When he broke from the pine trees, he could see Meloux’s cabin on the point, an old one-room log structure with a cedar plank roof shingled over with birch bark.
“Henry,” he called, not wanting to surprise the old man, though surprising Meloux would be a rare thing. The Mide had a remarkable knack for anticipating visitors. If that failed, the barking of Walleye, Meloux’s yellow dog, was usually warning enough. Meloux did not respond, and Walleye was nowhere to be seen. Cork approached the door, which stood open, and looked inside.
The interior of the cabin was always clean, though full of a hodgepodge of items that recalled other eras. On the walls hung snowshoes made of steam-curved birch with deer hide bindings, a deer-prong pipe, a bow strung with sinew from a snapping turtle. There was a Skelly gas station calendar forty years out of date, but the old man kept it because he admitted appreciating the young woman in the cheesecake photo whose breasts were big and round as pink balloons ready to burst. Resting on two tenpenny nails hammered into the wall was an old long-barreled Remington with a walnut stock. There was a sink but no running water, a hickory table and two chairs, a potbellied stove, and a small bunk. These were practically all the material goods Meloux possessed, but he was the most contented man Cork had ever known.
The open door didn’t bother Cork. In good weather, Meloux often left the door ajar for fresh air to circulate inside. It also allowed Shinnobs to bring and leave for the old Mide offerings of respect and gratitude. Cork could tell from the sacks on the table that the recent offerings had been manomin, wild rice. In the Ojibwe language, August was Manomingizis, the Month of Rice. In the final days of August and into early fall, the Anishinaabeg poled through the fields in the lakes, knocking the ripe kernels loose and filling their boats. After the rice was prepared, some would be eaten, some sold, and some given as a gift, as it had been to Meloux.
A distant bark brought Cork around. He gazed toward the trail he had followed, and in a moment he spotted Walleye bounding from the pine trees, his yellow coat full of burrs. Meloux was not far behind. He walked slowly but erect, his hair like white smoke drifting about his shoulders. He wore bib overalls, a faded blue denim shirt, deer hide moccasins that he’d made himself. In his hand was an ironwood staff ornamented with an eagle feather, and over his shoulder hung a beaded leather bag. He smiled when he saw Cork but didn’t change his pace. Walleye, however, ran ahead. When Cork knelt to greet him, the old dog eagerly nuzzled his palm.
“Anin, Corcoran O’Connor,” the old man said in formal greeting.
“Anin, Henry.” Cork eyed the bag hanging from Meloux’s shoulder. “Let me guess: mushroom hunting.”
“I have gathered a feast. I will make a fine soup with rice and mushrooms. Will you join me?” Meloux said.
“I have to decline.”
The sun was directly overhead, beating down out of a cloudless sky. Meloux shaded his eyes with a wrinkled hand and studied Cork’s face.
“You always come like a hungry dog, wanting something, but it’s never food.”
“Sorry, Henry.”
The old man lifted his hand in pardon. “It’s all right. Like a dog, you’re always grateful for even a scrap.”
“It’s more than a scrap I need this time.”
Meloux nodded. “Let me put away my harvest, then we will smoke and talk.”
* * *
They sat at a stone circle that enclosed the ashes of many fires. Down the slope a few feet away lay the water of Iron Lake, crystal clear along the shore, blue and solid as a china plate in the distance. The old man had listened to Cork’s story and now he smoked a cigarette hand-rolled from tobacco Cork had brought as a gift. Although he’d given up smoking more than two years before, Cork held a cigarette, too. The ritual he shared with Meloux had nothing to do with addiction.
“Stone,” Meloux said. “Like a Windigo, that one.”
In Anishinaabe myth, the Windigo was a cannibal giant with a heart of ice. The only way to kill a Windigo was to become one. Once you had succeeded in destroying the terrible creature, you had to drink hot wax so that you would melt back down to the size of other men. If that didn’t happen, you were doomed to remain a Windigo forever. Thinking of how Stone had killed his monster of a stepfather, Cork believed he understood what Meloux was saying. Myths were simple things, but they cut to the heart of brutal truths.
“What do you want of me?” the old Mide asked.
“You’ve lived in Noopiming all your life.” Noopiming, the Ojibwe name for the north country. “You know the woods better than anyone alive. Since I was a boy, I’ve heard stories of your prowess as a hunter. Henry, I need someone who knows the Boundary Waters and who can track the Windigo.”
The old man smoked awhile. Indian time. Never hurried.
“That was when I was a young man. It has been too many years to count since I was on a hunt, and this kind of animal I have never hunted. Stone, he will be dangerous.”
“Will you do it?”
Meloux finished his cigarette. He threw the butt into the ash inside the stone circle. “I’m old. Death and me, we’ve been eyeing one another for a while now. There’s not much left that scares me. One last hunt, that would not be a bad thing, especially to hunt the Windigo.” He used his staff to help himself stand. “When do we leave?”
38
WHEN THEY RETURNED from the zoo, Jo told the kids it was time to concentrate on schoolwork. Stevie was in the first grade and had no homework, so Jo gave him the book she’d brought along for just this occasion, Johnny Tremaine. Luckily, all the reading his parents had done at bedtime was paying off. Stevie loved to read. He took the book and settled onto the sofa without an argument.
Rose was down the hallway, in the kitchen.
“Did Cork call?” Jo asked as soon as she walked in.
“No. Worried?” Rose was washing her hands at the sink.
“He hasn’t returned any of my calls.”
“Try him again.”
Jo looked at the clock. Two-thirty. He should be at the office, but she was hoping maybe he was home, resting. God knew he needed it. And if he was, should she disturb him? She decided to.
The phone rang five times, then voice mail kicked in.
“You’ve reached the O’Connors. We can’t come to the phone right now, but if you’d leave a message, we’ll get back to you as quick as we can.”
It was Cork’s voice. Not him, but the illusion of him. Still, she liked what she heard, his words warm with easy hospitality, a genuine goodness in his tone. Or maybe she only heard it because that’s how she thought of him.
She’d left messages already and didn’t leave another.
“Still no answer?” Rose said. “Maybe you should try his office.”
“They won’t tell me a
nything.”
“They certainly won’t tell you if you don’t try.”
Jo called the Tamarack County Sheriff’s Department. Bos answered.
“No,” she told Jo. “He’s not in.”
There was something in her voice, a hesitancy, Jo thought.
“What’s wrong, Bos?”
“Nothing’s wrong, Jo. Cork’s been working hard on two investigations, you know. He’s just out a lot.”
“I’ve left him messages asking him to call me. He hasn’t. That’s not like him.”
Bos didn’t reply.
“Is Ed Larson in?”
“He’s out in the field, too.”
“Is anybody there but you?”
“We’re a little shorthanded.”
“Look, Bos, I’ve heard that Lizzie Fineday is a suspect in Edward Jacoby’s murder. Is that true?”
“You know I can’t talk about an ongoing investigation.”
She went hot with anger. “Goddamn it, Bos. What can you tell me?”
“Not much, and you know it.”
It was useless to strike out at Bos, who was just following Cork’s instructions. Jo breathed deeply, let go.
“Will you have him call me?”
“Of course. Just as soon as he can. And, Jo”—Bos sounded like a soothing grandmother now—“if there’s anything you need to know, I’ll make sure you know it right away, okay?”
Rose went to the refrigerator and pulled out a pound of raw hamburger and a package of sausage. She was about to start making a meat loaf for dinner. “So what’s going on?”
“I don’t know. Bos is keeping something back, but I have no idea what.” Jo’s whole body felt stiff, and she rubbed the tense muscles on the back of her neck. “It’s not like Cork not to call. Is he angry, do you think?”
“About what?”
“He knows that Ben and I have a past together. He knows that we were out last night.”
“I think you should give him more credit.”
“I know, but I feel like I’m stumbling around in the dark.”
Stevie wandered in to ask about a word in his book. He saw Rose working at the kitchen counter. “Whatcha making?”
“Meat loaf, for dinner.”
“Meat loaf! Sweet! You make the best meat loaf in the whole entire world.” He ran back down the hallway to share the good news with his sisters.
Rose said, “Can you call someone else—not one of Cork’s people?”
Jo leaned on the counter watching her sister shape the loaf. “I suppose I could call Ben.”
“Why him?”
“He hired someone to consult on the investigation of Eddie’s murder. He gets regular updates.”
“Seems worth a try. You’ll certainly be no worse off.”
Jo tried Jacoby’s cell phone, but got only his voice mail. She called his office and was told he was in meetings all afternoon. She left a message.
“What’s in the canister?” Rose asked.
The children had asked, too, but Jo had put them off. Now she unscrewed the cap, took out the canvas, and showed it to Rose.
“It’s beautiful,” Rose said.
Jo told her the history and that Rae had insisted she accept the gift.
“What are you going to do with it?” Rose asked. “Given your history with Ben Jacoby, I can’t imagine Cork would be thrilled to see that hanging in your home.”
“I know. I’ve been thinking. What if I gave it to Ben?”
“That might be the best thing, if he wanted it.”
“I’ll ask him.”
It was three hours before Ben called back, just as Jo had begun to set the table for dinner. The whole house smelled of savory meat loaf.
“I’m in traffic right now, Jo, and I’d rather talk in person anyway. What if I dropped by your sister’s place?”
His tone sounded a little ominous, and if it was bad news he was going to deliver, she wanted to be somewhere the kids couldn’t hear.
“Or,” he went on, “if you’d rather, we could meet at my house. It’s only about ten minutes from where you are now. I’ll be there in half an hour.”
Jo agreed and Ben gave her the address and directions. The house was on Sheridan Road, easy to find. She hung up.
“That didn’t sound good,” Rose said. She was at the stove, checking the potatoes. “What did he say?”
“It’s what he didn’t say, and how he didn’t say it.”
“Until you know the worst, anticipate the best.”
Jo said, “It’s already pretty bad because I have to leave in a few minutes, which means I’m going to miss the best meat loaf in the whole entire world.”
39
“WHY MORGAN?” Schilling asked.
They were gathered at the dock on Bruno Lake. The gear had been loaded into the canoes, and Cork was looking over the map one last time with Ed Larson and Simon Rutledge. Meloux already sat in the bow of the lead canoe, and Will Fineday had settled into the bow of the second.
Deputy Howard Morgan looked up from where he knelt on the dock, retying the lace of his hiking boot. “Because I do the Boundary Waters a lot. Because I have a sharpshooter rating. Because I don’t whine about assignments. And,” he added, standing up, “because I’m a bachelor.” He gave Schilling a light, friendly jab in the stomach.
“I just meant that I’d be willing to go.”
“I know,” Cork said, glancing from the map. He could have added one more reason it was Morgan who was going. That in a tight situation he’d prefer Morgan at his back.
“The chopper and the critical response team will be standing by,” Larson said. “Give the word and they’ll be there in no time.”
“Sure you don’t want a few more men along?” Rutledge asked.
Cork shook his head. “If I’m wrong about all this, we’d be taking deputies from where they’re needed. If I’m right, we’ve got the CRT for backup.”
“By the way,” Rutledge said, “Dina asked me to give you this.”
He handed Cork a gold medallion the size of a silver dollar.
“A Saint Christopher’s medal?” It seemed an odd gift, because Cork knew Dina was Jewish. “Where is she?”
“She left right after you headed off to recruit Meloux.”
Cork slipped the medallion in his pocket. “We’ll check in hourly with our location,” he told Larson.
“I wish I felt better about this.” Rutledge eyed Meloux with a look Cork interpreted as skepticism of the old man’s ability to be of any help.
“I wish I felt better about everything, Simon. And if you’ve got another idea for saving Lizzie Fineday, I’m still open to suggestions.”
Rutledge only offered his hand. “Good luck.”
Cork stepped into the stern of the lead canoe, and Morgan took the stern of the other. They pushed away from the dock and into the lake, paddling toward the Cutthroat River, which would take them north into the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness. Halfway across the lake, a great bird appeared in front of them, high up, the tips of its wings like fingers scraping against the hard blue ceiling of the sky. Meloux watched the bird closely.
“An eagle?” he asked.
“A turkey vulture,” Cork replied.
“Too bad,” the old man said, sounding disappointed.
“What’s it mean, Henry?” Thinking that for some reason the turkey vulture was not a good sign.
Meloux squinted at the bird and said with a note of sadness, “That my eyes aren’t what they used to be.”
Cork knew that Meloux’s physical senses weren’t those of a young man, but it was a different sense he’d hoped for from the old Mide, something that came from a lifetime not just of hunting but of understanding the nature of human beings. He prayed that this sense was still sharp.
The Cutthroat took them to Sugar Bowl Lake a mile north of Bruno. It was a round lake ringed by high hills, hence its name. The sun was at their backs. Their shadows moved ahead of them across the water, an
d behind followed a deep, rippling wake. Cork watched the slopes carefully. On top of his pack, which was situated directly in front of him, was a pair of Leitz binoculars. Beside the pack rested a Remington Model 700 police rifle. Morgan had brought an M40A1 sniper rifle and scope, and Fineday, who’d hunted all his life, had brought his own Winchester. Before embarking, they’d held a conference regarding the wearing of the Kevlar vests each man had been issued. Meloux and Fineday, neither of whom had ever worn body armor, were clearly not thrilled with the prospect of the stiff armature. Morgan commented that the vests were generally uncomfortable and would be particularly so during the kind of prolonged physical activity that the canoeing and portaging would demand. He also pointed out that they had every reason to believe that Stone, if he fired at them, would use armor-piercing rounds. Cork told them he’d prefer it if they wore the armor, but he understood their objections and drew up shy of insisting. They were, however, to keep the armor handy at all times and not hesitate if he gave the order to suit up.
The afternoon was still, the only sound the burble of water that swirled with each dip of the paddle.
“Should we be concerned yet, Henry?” Cork said.
The old Mide scratched his head and thought an unusually long time. “Not here. Not yet.”
The Cutthroat left Sugar Bowl via a series of rapids too shallow for the canoes. One followed the Cutthroat, the other veered west toward a little lake called Snail.
“Which way, Henry?” Cork said.
Meloux walked the trail along the Cutthroat, came back, and followed the other portage for a distance. He studied the rocky soil carefully, shaking his head with uncertainty. “Hard ground, no tracks,” he said.
Morgan spoke quietly. “Up here, it’s all hard ground and no tracks.”
Meloux stood where the trails diverged, looking west, north. Finally he pointed along the Cutthroat. “I think Stone would go this way.”
“You’re sure?”
“He would go quickly and far enough so that you would not bring the dogs. So north.”
“How far, Henry?”
The William Kent Krueger Collection 2 Page 58
