Desolation Mountain

by Krueger, William Kent

  “Why wouldn’t the pilot have turned on the lights?”

  Blaine shrugged. “From what I understand, he knew our airport. So, either an oversight or a misjudgment. Or equipment failure, I suppose.”

  “Equipment failure?”

  “There was lightning in the area that day. Maybe a lightning strike to the plane knocked out the electronics.”

  “Does that happen a lot?”

  “Pretty rare, but it does happen, mostly with small aircraft. As I understand it, after the Duluth control tower gave them their approach heading, there was no more communication from the plane, which wouldn’t be unusual unless they sent out a distress call.”

  “Wouldn’t the pilot have done that if they were going down?” Cork asked.

  “If he had time and didn’t panic.”

  “And if the radio worked,” Bo added.

  Blaine sat back. “Too bad there wasn’t a flight recorder aboard. Would have answered a lot of questions.”

  “Yeah,” Bo said. “Too bad.”

  “Did you tell anybody this?” Cork asked.

  “Talked to an FBI agent,” Blaine said. “He told me it probably wasn’t important. Haven’t heard anything since. Nobody’s followed up.”

  “Do me a favor, Cal. You hear from Tom Blessing, will you let me know?”

  “You got it.”

  As they walked to their vehicles, Cork said, “I hope the twenty thousand buys us some answers tonight.”

  Bo made no reply, but he couldn’t help seeing in his mind’s eye the image of the Argentine boy, his body curled in the trunk of an abandoned Saab and, except for his wrists and ankles bound tightly with white cord and the red gash across his throat, looking as though he might have been sleeping.

  CHAPTER 30

  * * *

  Once again, Stephen’s attempt at a sweat had been thwarted. The call had come just as he was preparing to enter the lodge. His father had called Rainy, who’d handed Stephen her cell phone. When he’d heard his father’s request, what could he say?

  Henry Meloux was there, recovered from his own sweat. On his arrival at Crow Point, Stephen had asked the old Mide if the sweat had given him the answers he was hoping for.

  “I did not ask for answers,” Henry had said. “I asked for understanding.”

  “Do you understand?” Stephen had asked.

  “I understand that an old man’s body is not so weak as you might expect.” The Mide had grinned. “And I understand that all things come in their time. That includes answers.”

  Although Henry had seemed satisfied, Stephen found this not helpful at all.

  He was on his way to Allouette now, driving the ATV side-by-side Leah Duling kept at her cabin and used when she wanted to go into town. In the winter, she drove a snowmobile. These were new additions to Crow Point, ones that Leah had insisted on when she took up residence there to see to Henry’s needs. It was a full five miles into Allouette. For most of his life, Henry had walked to the little rez town, or the farther distance to Aurora, with no problem. The old man seemed just fine letting Leah drive the noisy machines. Stephen suspected it had more to do with Leah’s weaknesses at seventy-plus years of age than Henry’s at over a hundred.

  All things come in their time. A variation on Henry’s usual mantra: Patience. So what had the sweat delivered to Henry that he didn’t already know?

  Then Stephen thought about Rainy, who was also a Mide, and who’d told him many times that one of the things a healer knows is that human beings already have within them an understanding of how to heal themselves. Often, all a Mide did was help guide them to this understanding. A sweat was like that, Stephen decided, and he wondered, So what do I already know that I need to understand?

  When he reached Allouette, he was still in the dark.

  He parked the ATV in front of Goodsky’s photography studio. When he entered, the place seemed empty.

  “Hello?” he called.

  A young teenager stepped through the curtains at the back of the gallery. Stephen had heard about Goodsky’s grandson, who’d come up from the Cities to live on the rez, but he’d never met the kid. He seemed fragile to Stephen and skittish, like a small animal in the forest. He didn’t look Stephen in the eye. He held a photograph of Iron Lake reflecting the fall foliage, and when he realized Stephen was looking, he turned the photo so the image was hidden.

  “I’m Stephen O’Connor.”

  The kid said nothing.

  “You must be Winston.”

  The kid nodded, still mute.

  “I’m looking for your grandfather. He’s expecting me.”

  “Wait here.” The kid disappeared through the curtains.

  Stephen strolled the gallery, studying the photographs that hung on the walls. He was no art critic, but he knew what he liked, and he liked very much what he saw. The photographs captured the spirit of the land he called home in moments of stunning beauty. Harmon Goodsky’s work was well represented, as were the works of other Native photographers. Stephen had never thought of himself as an artist, but the images on the walls in the little gallery made him wish that he were. Then he found himself thinking he’d probably be no better at art than he was at interpreting visions.

  “Anin, Stephen.”

  Harmon Goodsky limped through the curtains, all alone. He held a photograph out to Stephen.

  “I snapped this shot of one of the men who was watching Sarah’s place, and I blew it up.”

  The photo showed a man framed in the window on the driver’s side of a black pickup spattered with dried, rust-colored mud. He wore a jean jacket over a flannel shirt, and a black stocking cap. His face was broad, ruddy, with a diamond-shaped scar at the corner of his left eye.

  “You got a photo of only one of them?”

  “They were parked down the street from the Mocha Moose for a while, two of them. I walked down to confront them, but they took off. Not before I was able to snap that. I thought maybe your dad could use it to nail these guys before they cause Sarah or Beulah any trouble.”

  “I think this’ll help.”

  “They wouldn’t have something to do with Phil Hukari’s burned-out truck, would they?”

  “We’re trying to find out.”

  “What is it they want out here on the rez?”

  “We don’t know for sure, Harmon.”

  “Government men, maybe?” He pronounced the word as guvmint and squinted one eye as if taking aim. “Something to do with the senator’s plane crash?”

  “Might be.”

  Goodsky looked beyond Stephen, out the front window of the gallery. Across the street was the Mocha Moose, but Stephen understood that it wasn’t the coffee shop Goodsky was seeing. In the way he’d earlier sensed a great sickness in the man that wasn’t cancer, Stephen felt now an overwhelming sense of anger and anguish, and he understood that Harmon Goodsky had suffered a deep wound that had never fully healed. Stephen had seen Vietnam vets and, more recently, veterans on the rez who’d returned from Iraq and Afghanistan, men in whom he’d sensed a wounding of the soul and a poisonous festering. He’d witnessed the erratic, often destructive behavior that sometimes resulted. It wasn’t PTSD, though clearly some were suffering from that condition. And it wasn’t the slow debilitation that came from exposure to toxins like Agent Orange. It was a loss of the connection with the Great Mystery, the spirit that ran through all creation and united all things. Those men, Stephen understood, were lost, disconnected from others and from their true selves. Deep inside him, he felt the call to heal.

  “Harmon?” Stephen spoke quietly, but the man didn’t seem to hear. “Harmon?” he tried again, with no result.

  “Grandpa?” Winston Goodsky stood in front of the curtains, looking concerned. “Grandpa?”

  Goodsky stirred, returned from wherever his mind had taken him. “What is it, Winston?”

  “The television’s having trouble again.”

  “I’ll take a look.” Goodsky nodded toward the photograph in S
tephen’s hand. “Tell your father I want to know what he finds out.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  Goodsky moved past his grandson, and Stephen could hear his heavy, uneven footsteps as he mounted a stairway out of sight.

  “He gets that way sometimes,” Winston said. “Kind of lost. I have to watch him.”

  “If you ever need a hand, you call, okay?”

  The kid looked down, studied the floor, mute once again.

  Stephen crossed the street and found Sarah LeDuc inside the Mocha Moose, wiping down tables. Beulah Love was there, too, helping behind the counter.

  “Anin, Stephen,” Sarah greeted him.

  “Boozhoo,” he replied. “My dad sent me to make sure everything’s okay.”

  “All good here. What’s that picture you’re holding?”

  If he showed her, he’d have to explain that Harmon Goodsky was keeping an eye on her and Beulah, and he wasn’t certain how that might go down with her. But he didn’t really have a choice.

  “Harmon snapped this of one of the men who seem to be watching Ms. Love, and now you.”

  Sarah studied the photo. “Beulah?”

  Beulah Love left the counter and joined them.

  “Look familiar?”

  “Maybe. It’s hard to tell.”

  “Where did Harmon shoot this?”

  “Here in Allouette,” Stephen said. “They were parked just down the street.”

  “Chimooks thinking they wouldn’t stand out on the rez? They’re either awfully bold or awfully stupid.” Sarah winked at Stephen. “I know where I’d lay my bet. Can we keep this?”

  “I’d like to show it to my dad.”

  “Sure. I’ll get a copy from Harmon. Maybe take him some apple pie to thank him for keeping an eye on us. Tell your dad that Beulah and I are doing fine.” She turned to the other woman. “Aren’t we?”

  “We’re fine,” Beulah said, but not with any certainty.

  * * *

  Back at the ATV, Stephen sat on the photograph so that it wouldn’t blow away. He donned his helmet and headed off, intending to return the way he’d come, along a back road that followed the north shore of Iron Lake. The marina parking lot, as he passed it, was almost empty. On a summer day it would have been crowded with cars. This afternoon, only a couple of vehicles were parked there, one of them a black pickup truck spattered with rust-colored mud.

  He swung into the lot and stopped near the concession stand, which, in the fall, was open only on weekends. He dismounted from the ATV, removed his helmet, and set it atop the photograph of the man in the black pickup. Trying not to be too conspicuous, he walked toward the marina docks, past the truck, which was empty. The license plates, both front and back, were so mud-covered they were unreadable. He continued to the docks, where the slips were full of sailboats and launches that, in another month, would be dry-docked for the winter. As nearly as he could tell, he was alone.

  He figured that if the two men had a boat, they could linger on the water and with field glasses keep an eye on the comings and goings at the Mocha Moose, only a few hundred yards distant. But Stephen saw no boat. The shoreline was rugged, with a mix of hardwoods and tall undergrowth. He considered the possibility that the men had hidden themselves somewhere in the trees or brush and were surveilling the coffee shop that way.

  He took out his cell phone and made a call.

  “Stay where you are,” his father told him. “I’m calling Daniel. He’s at the Blessings’ place and can get to you faster than I can. But I’m on my way. Don’t, under any circumstances, approach these guys on your own.”

  Wait for Daniel. Wait for his father. It was clear he wasn’t trusted to handle things on his own.

  What kind of man do they think I am?

  He started into the trees, moving slowly, carefully, keeping low. He followed the shoreline as it edged Allouette. In the end, he found nothing and turned back, disappointed.

  They were waiting for him when he broke from the trees on his return to the marina. They flanked him, coming, it seemed, from nowhere. They were taller and broader than he, wearing sunglasses, and with their stocking caps pulled low.

  One of them held up the photograph Stephen had left under the helmet in the ATV. “Who are you?” His voice was like the rumble of distant thunder.

  Stephen’s throat had gone instantly dry and his heart had begun to leap. Maybe it was the surprise of the men’s sudden appearance, or maybe the realization that he was in over his head.

  “No one,” he replied.

  The other man said, “Who are you working for?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Where’d you get this?” They shoved the photograph at his face.

  “Why are you so interested in Beulah Love?” he fired back, anger taking over his fear.

  The man in the photo grabbed Stephen’s jacket in his fist and pulled him up to tiptoe. “Who was the old coot that took my picture?”

  When Stephen gave no answer, the man released his grip and gave him a hard shove.

  His companion’s eyes darted all around. “We need to take this somewhere private.” He reached inside his jean jacket and pulled out a handgun. “Let’s go, kid.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  The barrel of the gun clipped his face and Stephen went down. He was pulled immediately back to his feet and shoved toward the marina parking lot. He tried to resist, and the gun barrel again became a bludgeon across the side of his head. Once more, Stephen went down. This time, things went dark, his vision full of sparks, the world muted.

  When he came back to himself, he found Daniel English kneeling beside him.

  “Don’t get up.” Daniel put a hand gently against Stephen’s chest.

  “I’m okay.” Stephen could hear the weakness in his own voice.

  “You’ve got a couple of nasty cuts.” Daniel drew a clean handkerchief from his back pocket and folded it. “Here, hold that tight against your head.”

  Stephen pressed it to a place where he could already feel a goose egg forming.

  Daniel pulled out his cell phone and made a call. “I’m with him, Cork. They worked him over pretty good. We need to get him looked at. I’m taking him to the clinic here in Allouette. We’ll meet you there.”

  CHAPTER 31

  * * *

  The cut across Stephen’s cheek took three stitches. The cut across the side of his head, four more. Mary Gomes, the PA at the tribal clinic, advised Cork that to be certain the blows hadn’t done more significant damage, Stephen should be seen at the Aurora Community Hospital for a CT scan or MRI. Cork’s son absolutely refused to go but accepted the ibuprofen the PA offered.

  They talked in the clinic parking lot—Cork, Stephen, Daniel, and Bo.

  “Did you get a good look at them?” Cork asked.

  Failure was written all over Stephen’s damaged face. “They were wearing sunglasses, stocking caps pulled low.”

  “I saw the pickup swing out of the marina lot,” Daniel told them. “I didn’t know it was important until I talked to Stephen, so I didn’t get a plate number.”

  “You wouldn’t have anyway,” Stephen said. “The plates were covered with mud.”

  “What about the photo?”

  “They took it,” Stephen said. “They wanted to know where I got it.” He eyed his father, as if afraid some kind of accusation was forthcoming. “I didn’t tell them.”

  “I’ll get another print from Harmon.”

  “I blew it.” Stephen shook his head angrily. “I screwed up.”

  “Nothing’s happened that can’t be fixed.” Cork put his hand on his son’s shoulder, but Stephen stiffened under the touch.

  “All right, here’s the plan,” Cork said. “Daniel, I want you to take Stephen back to Crow Point. Put him into Rainy’s care.”

  “I’m fine,” Stephen insisted.

  “Your head doesn’t hurt?”

  “A little.”

  “I’m sure Rainy can help with th
at. You need to stay quiet for a while, just to be on the safe side.”

  “What about Leah’s ATV?” Stephen glanced in the direction of the marina.

  “We’ll see to that later. Okay, Daniel?”

  Cork’s son-in-law gave a simple nod, and Stephen, zombielike, followed him.

  When they’d gone, Cork said to Bo, “I’m going to see Goodsky, get another print of that photo. Then I’ll pop into the Mocha Moose and check on Sarah and Beulah. After that, I’m thinking I’ll out head to Crow Point.”

  “I’ve got some things to see to myself,” Bo told him. “I’ll have the people I know run those plates you gave me from the airport, see if we can get a better idea who’s involved in whatever’s going on up here. When the courier delivers the money for the exchange, I’ll give you a call and we can figure where to rendezvous.”

  “Thanks for your help, Bo.”

  “Goes both ways.”

  Cork walked the stone’s throw to the gallery, where Goodsky was hanging a photograph. The image was of a soaring eagle silhouetted against a cloud. There were only three colors involved. The black silhouette, the white cloud, the blue sky. It was so simple but so stirring in the emotions it evoked in Cork—freedom, flight, release, all of it somehow accompanied by a sense of peace.

  “I want that,” he said.

  Goodsky smiled. “Not for sale. It’s one of Winston’s. I just put it up so anyone who comes in can marvel at it. I’m good. My grandson? A genius. Did Stephen give you the photo?”

  “He didn’t have the chance. The man in it beat him up and took it.”

  Goodsky gave this somber consideration. “Did Stephen tell this thug where the photo came from?”

  “No, but he paid a price for his silence. Three stitches across his cheek and more across the side of his head.”

  “I’m sorry, Cork.”

  “Not your fault, but I need another print.”

  “I’ll have one for you in a few minutes. Can you wait?”

  “I’ll come back. I want to talk to Sarah and Beulah.”