“Fanny!” he called at the front door. “It’s Cork O’Connor.”
He considered leaving, but reached for the doorknob instead, gave it a turn, and eased the door open.
“Fanny, are you here? You okay?”
Fanny Blessing had smoked all her life. She suffered from emphysema, and everywhere she went, a little tank of oxygen on wheels followed her. But she hadn’t given up her habit, and the odor of cigarette smoke permeated the house, coming off the furniture upholstery, the rug, the curtains. Fanny Blessing had given up housekeeping a while back, about the time the oxygen tank began following her like a puppy. Tom wasn’t the neatest of guys, so the place had a messy look. Cork proceeded carefully, as respectfully as possible for a trespasser. All the rooms were empty.
Back outside, he checked the LeSabre. The keys were in the ignition. He wondered if, in addition to everything else, Fanny had become forgetful. He walked to the old garage, where the side door was ajar, and stepped inside. The garage had no windows, and he waited a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dark. When they did, he saw Fanny sprawled on the dirt of the garage floor, the oxygen tank upright on its wheels beside her, like a loyal pet waiting for its mistress to awaken.
* * *
“Heart attack, maybe? Stroke?” Bob Arnold, one of the paramedics from the clinic in Allouette, was talking with Cork while they awaited the sheriff’s people. “This isn’t the first time we’ve been out here. Fanny’s been walking a thin line for years. Refused to give up her coffin nails.”
They’d lifted the garage door, and a rhomboid of sunlight fell across the floor and Fanny’s bare legs. She wore a housedress, nothing on her feet.
“What was she doing out here?” Cork said this more to himself than to Arnold.
The wood shelves of the garage were filled with cans of power steering fluid and brake fluid, containers of antifreeze and motor oil, a few miscellaneous tools. A couple of tires leaned against one wall. In a corner was an old power mower.
Arnold replied, “Looking for Tom, maybe.”
The crunch of tires approaching on gravel pulled Cork to the opened garage door, and he watched Sheriff Marsha Dross arrive in her TrailBlazer, Deputy Dave Foster following in his cruiser. Dross greeted Cork, shook hands with Bob Arnold and Karl Renwanz, the other paramedic, who’d been on the radio, communicating with the clinic.
“You found her and called it in?” she said to Cork.
“Yeah.”
She knelt, studied the woman’s gray face.
“She’s not wearing the oxygen tube,” Dross noted. “Why would she take it off?”
“Got me,” Cork said.
“Is Tom around?”
“Haven’t seen him.”
She rose, took in the scene of the woman’s death. “What was she doing out here in a housedress and barefooted?”
“Ran out of Wesson oil and was maybe going to cook breakfast with a little ten-thirty?” Arnold offered.
It was clear Dross didn’t appreciate the paramedic’s black humor. “I gave Tom Conklin a call,” she said. Conklin was the county’s medical examiner. “He’ll be here soon. I want him to have a look at her before we move the body.” She turned to her deputy. “See if you can get hold of Tom Blessing.”
“I already tried his cell phone,” Cork told her. “No answer. And he’s not at his office in Allouette.”
“Next of kin?”
“Beulah Love is her cousin. I spoke with her this morning. She was just about to head to work at the casino. Could probably reach her there.”
“Ned Love must be a cousin, too, then.”
“On the rez, just about everyone’s a cousin.”
“Did you find out anything from Beulah?”
“She hasn’t heard from Ned or Monkey in a while. That’s about it.”
“Check the house,” Dross told her deputy.
“Already have,” Cork said. “Empty.”
Dross looked around, then at Cork. “They have a dog, right?”
“A bulldog. Tornado.”
“Where is he?”
“Could be with Tom.”
“Like Cyrus was with Ned and Monkey Love? Foster, check the property. See if you can find the dog.”
“If he was here, wouldn’t he be barking, Sheriff?” the deputy offered.
“Just look.”
“Check the marsh,” Cork suggested.
Dross studied Cork, then nodded and said to her deputy, “Check the marsh.”
CHAPTER 14
* * *
It was ten minutes to opening, but his father wasn’t at Sam’s Place.
“He said he had things to do,” Jenny told Stephen. “That’s why I called Judy.” She swung a hand toward the woman preparing to open the serving windows.
“What things?” Stephen asked.
“Dad found Ned and Monkey Love’s dog shot and dumped in the lake at their cabin. The Loves weren’t around, so he headed to the rez to see what he could find out. Where have you been all morning?”
“Tell you later.” Stephen turned to leave.
“Where are you going?”
“To catch Dad at the rez.”
“You don’t know where he is out there.”
“It’s the rez. Somebody’ll know.”
“Be back at three. You’re on the schedule and we’ll need you.”
Luck was with him. He’d just swung around the southern end of Iron Lake and passed the turnoff to Desolation Mountain when he spotted his father’s SUV approaching from the direction of Allouette. He waved Cork down, pointed to the side of the road, and parked on the shoulder. His father made a U-turn and pulled up behind him.
Stephen was out of his Jeep in a heartbeat and spoke to his father through the lowered window. “Jenny told me about the Loves’ dog. Did you find out anything on the rez?”
“Whoa. Hold on a minute. Where’ve you been all day?”
“You’re not going to believe this.” Stephen related the details of his morning on Desolation Mountain and his interrogation by the man named Gerard.
“FBI?” Cork asked.
“Military, I think. Did you find out anything about the Loves?”
“Nothing. I went out to see Tom Blessing. He wasn’t there, but I found his mother dead in the garage.”
“Fanny? What happened?”
“Looks like it could have been a heart attack or maybe a stroke. We won’t know until the ME’s had a good look at her. But there’s a lot not right about it. Any idea what the guys on Desolation Mountain were looking for?”
“None.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Stephen, but the kid you say you saw up there, was he real or another vision?”
Real, Stephen had thought at the time, but as the moment receded, he’d begun to wonder if it wasn’t something else, another kind of seeing, not exactly a vision but akin. “He was pretty far away. I saw him through my field glasses. A lot of shadow involved.”
“What was he doing?”
“Same thing I was. Checking out the guys in military camo.”
His father looked past him, staring at where the lake was visible through a thin line of pines on the other side of the road. Stephen understood that the sparkle of the blue water probably wasn’t what his father was seeing.
“I want to check out the mountain,” Cork finally said.
“Not without me.”
His father shook his head. “They picked you up once and let you go. The next time they won’t be so lenient.”
“You’re not going without me.”
Stephen stood with his hands on the vehicle as if intending to hold it there until his father agreed.
“They know your Jeep. We’ll take the Expedition.”
* * *
Three miles up the cutoff to Desolation Mountain, a good mile shy of the logging road that had been blocked that morning, they came to another barricade that hadn’t been in place earlier. The two sentries posted there were dressed in military fa
tigues and wearing sidearms.
“One of them was there this morning with Gerard,” Stephen said. “The woman. She’ll recognize me.”
“Pull the bill of your cap down, turn up your coat collar, and drop your head like you’re sleeping. Don’t let her see your face.”
The woman approached and spoke through Cork’s open window. “Road’s closed, sir.” Except for her sidearm, she wore nothing that signified authority and had no ID badge.
“Because of the plane crash?”
“I can’t say, sir.”
“Closed for how long?”
“Again, I can’t say. You need to turn around and return the way you came.”
“Thank you, Sergeant . . . ?”
“Have a good day, sir.” The woman stepped back and gave Cork room for a U-turn.
Stephen sat up as they drove off. “What now, Dad?”
“There are other ways to get to the top of that mountain.”
He took old logging roads, some so ancient the forest had almost entirely reclaimed the cleared ground. It was slow going, but eventually they found themselves on the far side of Desolation Mountain. Cork parked, and he and Stephen began to make their way through a mix of evergreen, then gradually up the mountainside.
They crossed through the aspens that ringed the mountain near the top. Cork paused before they broke into the open, with a hundred yards of nearly bare rock between them and the dark outcrop that crowned Desolation Mountain. Devil’s Eye. For several minutes, he waited to be certain no one was there to see, then moved swiftly up the final bare face of the mountain. They were both breathing hard from the sprint and took a moment to catch their breath. The sky was an azure sea with islands of white cloud drifting across. The wind was gentle, out of the south, cooling their faces. The air smelled of the sun-heated rock against which they rested. To the east, forested hills rolled all the way to the Sawtooth Mountains, sixty miles distant, and beyond that was the great flat blue of the Shining Big Sea Water, Kitchigami, Lake Superior. It was a beautiful vista, and Cork understood why the mountaintop was a favorite destination for photographers. But the stories he’d heard on the rez all his life twisted his perception and he believed he could feel the evil in the place.
He nodded to Stephen, and they went to their knees and eased their way around the wall of the outcropping. What greeted them, Cork could never have predicted.
The man lying there was dressed in camouflage, not military but that of a hunter, the pattern all branches and leaves. He wore a sage-green stocking cap. On the rock beside him lay a firearm, a Sig Sauer, Cork could tell. The man had binoculars to his eyes and was studying the activity in the aspens below.
Stephen looked at his father. Cork put a finger to his lips and motioned for retreat.
Before they could move, the man grabbed the Sig, rolled to his back, and leveled the barrel at them. Then a smile spread across his lips.
“Cork O’Connor,” he said quietly. “It’s been a long time.”
CHAPTER 15
* * *
“Best you lie down,” the man said. “We don’t want them to spot us.”
Stephen followed his father’s lead and lay on the flat rock beside the man in hunter’s camo, who offered his hand. “Bo Thorson.”
“This is my son, Stephen,” Cork told him. “What are you doing here, Bo?”
“Same as you, I’m guessing. Trying to figure out what’s going on down there.”
“How’s Secret Service involved?”
“I haven’t been an agent for a long time, Cork. Went private like you, a few years ago.” He put the binoculars to his eyes again. “So, Stephen, when they took you in this morning, did they give you a hard time?”
Stephen was amazed. “How’d you know?”
“Watched it happen. I didn’t know who you were then.”
“Where were you?”
“In the trees down there.” Bo pointed to the aspens where Stephen had seen—or thought he’d seen—the kid from his vision.
“Did you spot anyone in the trees near where you were?” Stephen asked.
“Didn’t see anybody up here but you and the searchers.”
“Have you been on the mountain all day?” Cork asked.
“A couple of days now. Tried to get close to the crash site, but they’ve got that bottled up tight. Came up here thinking I might be able to get some kind of view, and that’s when I stumbled onto those guys down there. They’ve been going over the mountainside inch by inch.”
“Looking for what?” Stephen asked.
“That’s the question, isn’t it? I thought maybe the black box.”
“There wasn’t any black box,” Stephen said.
Bo smiled. “You believe everything you read in the papers?”
“There was a black box?”
“I can’t say for sure. But it’s one of the possibilities.”
Cork said, “Why would they be looking for it up here?”
“Why would they be looking for anything up here? But clearly they’re after something. Whoever they are.”
“Maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with the plane crash,” Stephen offered.
Bo gave Cork a wistful look. “Raised him on fairy tales?” He put the glasses to his eyes again. “We’re going to have to move our position pretty soon. They’ve just about covered the west side of this mountain.”
He slid himself back, behind the cover of the crowning rock outcrop, and stood in its lee. Cork and Stephen followed.
“I don’t think staying here is going to accomplish anything,” Bo said. “And I haven’t eaten since before sunup. What say we head somewhere, grab some lunch? We can fill each other in.”
Single file and in silence, they descended the eastern slope of Desolation Mountain. Bo had parked his Jeep ridiculously near the place where Cork had hidden his Expedition.
“I had a hell of a time getting here,” Bo said. “Hope you know an easier way out.”
“Follow me,” Cork told him.
Allouette was the nearest town, and they gathered at the Mocha Moose for coffee and sandwiches. Before casino money had helped with the revitalization of the rez community, the building the little eatery now occupied had been a run-down bait and tackle shop. Sarah LeDuc, who owned the Mocha Moose, had completely renovated the place, and instead of fish and worms and leeches, the air was redolent with the scent of fresh-brewed coffee, hot soup, and baked goods.
As they sat waiting for their sandwiches, Stephen took stock of this Bo Thorson. At just over six feet tall, he wasn’t imposing, but there was a tough feel to him that made Stephen think of leather. His eyes constantly swept the room, as if scanning for threats. His mind seemed to be constantly calculating, and although he had a ready smile, his face betrayed little of what was really going on in his head. His cheeks were heavily stubbled but his fingernails carefully manicured, which made Stephen wonder if the shadow of the beard was meant to roughen his appearance, make him seem more like a man who might naturally wear hunter’s camo.
Cork said, “So, if you’re not Secret Service anymore, you must be working for someone.”
Bo winked at Stephen. “Your father was always a quick study.”
“Who’s your client?”
Bo gave Cork a pained look.
“Okay, what can you tell us?”
“The people I’m working for aren’t ready to buy the pilot error story.”
“What do they believe?”
“They don’t want to jump to any conclusions. Right now, they just want more facts.”
“And they’re getting nothing from the official sources?”
“Is anyone getting anything from the official sources? It’s the same story over and over and always shy on details. There are rumors of terrorism, but every time someone advances that possibility, the people in charge crush it like a bug. They continue to pump out the pilot error theory.”
“NTSB is supposed to be in charge, but the FBI is definitely involved,”
Cork said. “Which would make sense if we’re looking at some kind of terroristic threat.”
“Those men on the mountain weren’t FBI,” Stephen pointed out. “At least they weren’t wearing anything that identified them that way.”
“They’re very careful about not saying who they are,” Bo acknowledged.
“They’re the ones who stand between us and them.” When his father and Bo looked at him oddly, Stephen explained, “That was the line Gerard fed me this morning when I asked who they were.”
“Gerard?”
“The guy in charge. Or one of them anyway,” Stephen replied.
“Movie dialogue,” Bo scoffed. Which was exactly what Stephen had thought.
“But they probably believe it,” Cork said. “You stood between the First Lady and death, Bo. You must have believed in what you were doing.”
“I was sworn to protect the First Family. A noble calling, I still believe that. But the downside of that whole affair was that it opened my eyes to what a government really is.”
“And what’s that?”
“Do you know the Hydra in Greek myth? The many-headed monster?”
Cork didn’t, but Stephen, the college kid, nodded.
“The government’s just like that. Each head has its own agenda, and God help you if you get in the way.”
“That’s why you left Secret Service?”
“One of the reasons.” He changed the subject, focusing abruptly on Stephen. “Why were you up on that mountain in the first place?” Then his eyes took a swing at Cork. “And why did you go back with him?”
Between them, Stephen and his father explained things: the vision, their time at the crash site, the missing Loves, the missing Tom Blessing, the slain dog, and the woman dead in her garage.
They’d just about finished when their sandwiches arrived, brought by Sarah LeDuc herself. Sarah had been married to George LeDuc, a hereditary chief of the Iron Lake Ojibwe and a longtime friend of the O’Connors. George and Cork’s first wife, Jo, had both died under the same black circumstances, a tragedy that had bound Sarah LeDuc and Cork O’Connor ever since. She was a few years younger than Cork, late forties, gone a little plump, filled with a goodness that shone in her broad face and mahogany eyes. But she was clearly concerned when she delivered the food. “I heard about Fanny Blessing. So sad. And I heard that you found her, Cork.”
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