Boundary waters co-2

by William Kent Krueger

  “And you?” she said to Benedetti. “You really want her out alive?”

  “I’d die for that girl,” he replied.

  “All right.” Jo held up a finger as if asking the men to follow her in her train of thought. “Let’s assume for the moment, just for the sake of getting somewhere, that neither of you was responsible for the murder of Marais Grand or for what’s happening here now. The question is, if not you, then who?”

  Both men appeared to be a little startled by the concept and it took a while before they stopped glaring at one another and the anger between them seemed to dissolve. Benedetti stared thoughtfully at the wooden beams above him. Nathan Jackson slid his hands into his pockets and turned toward the long windows to gaze at the gray outside. Harris put a finger to his lips and tapped lightly. Metcalf put a new log on the fire, and the bark burned quickly with a sound like someone was crumbling wrapping paper.

  “It would have to be a professional in Shiloh’s case,” Harris finally said.

  Jackson turned back to listen.

  Harris went on. “The murder of Elizabeth Dobson was a clean job. Professional. Not a shred of evidence left to trace him.”

  “And the shrink,” Vincent Benedetti said. “Whoever torched the shrink and her records knew his business.”

  Jackson looked from one to the other. “Same person, you think?”

  “Maybe two,” Angelo Benedetti offered. “Working together. Different talents, covering one another.”

  Harris looked toward Metcalf, who’d sat the whole time at the table that held all the electronic equipment. “Feed what we know to the computer at the L.A. field office. See what you come up with.”

  Metcalf moved to his laptop.

  “Angelo and I will make some inquiries of our own,” Benedetti said.

  Jackson squared himself in front of the chair that contained Vincent Benedetti. “I’ve held you responsible for Marais’s murder for fifteen years. For Shiloh’s sake, I’m willing to reconsider. But I’m not letting go yet.”

  “There’s an old Sicilian saying,” Benedetti replied. “A man who drinks the wine he’s made never tastes a bitter glass.?Maybe we’ve both been drinking our own wine too long.” He leaned toward Angelo and said, “Take me out.”

  Angelo Benedetti gathered his father in his arms. Schanno lifted the crutches and opened the door. Jo followed them all out. Joey had the black Lincoln running, warm and waiting. He held the back door open and helped Benedetti settle his father. Then he popped the trunk for Schanno.

  “I’ll be at my office,” Jo told Angelo Benedetti. “Or at home. Call me if you find out anything.”

  “I will.” He looked back at the cabin. “You didn’t buy that, did you?”

  “All I want is to get to the truth, Mr. Benedetti. I’m trying to keep an open mind.”

  He looked disappointed in her. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Schanno stood with Jo as the Lincoln pulled away. “What do you think?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, Wally. I get the feeling truth and lies are all jumbled up like a ball of snakes here.”

  “I know what you mean. Look, I’ve got to get back to my office, oversee the search-and-rescue. The men should be at Embarrass Lake pretty soon. What about you?”

  “I’m going back to my office for a while, then out to see Sarah Two Knives. I think she should know what’s going on.”

  “Do you know what’s going on?”

  Jo eyed the cabin and saw that Harris was watching through the bunds. “Does anyone?”

  33

  Late afternoon was on them when Louis lifted his hand and said, “She’s up there.”

  The men feathered their paddles and stared through the mist at a ridge backed by the vague dark shape of forested hills. Cork had been in and out of the Boundary Waters his entire life. He’d never before felt menace in the land, but he felt it now as he looked at the shoreline, trying to pierce the gray veil, trying to divine what might be awaiting them when they landed.

  “There’s a stream,” Louis said. “About a quarter of a mile back is another lake, a real small one.”

  Cork took out the map and studied it. “I don’t see anything indicated here.”

  “Uncle Wendell said you’d never find Nikidin on a map. He said it was protected.”

  “Protected,” Sloane said. “By what?”

  “Manidoonsag,” Louis replied. “Little spirits.”

  Cork pulled ahead. “I’ll go in first. If things look okay, I’ll signal you.”

  “I should go first,” Sloane said from the canoe he shared with Arkansas Willie.

  “And I’m not going to wait here.” Willie Raye was firm. “Every minute is important. Now that we’re this close, let’s just go.”

  “Not until we know what we’re walking into,” Cork told him. “A few hours ago, a man nearly killed us all. I don’t want something like that again. All of you stay until I signal it’s safe.”

  A lot of years as sheriff had given Cork a voice of authority that emerged now and again of its own accord. It brooked no argument.

  “We’ll do what the man says,” Sloane told Raye. He gave Cork a thumbs-up.

  No one said anything further as Cork veered away from them.

  Cork had his. 38 out and ready as he approached the shore. He saw the small stream Louis had spoken of, and he heard the bubble of the water as it tumbled over a scattering of smooth stones near its mouth. There was hardly any other sound. No birds. No wind. Only the susurrus of the water as the canoe glided through and the scrape of the bow against the shore. He was out of the canoe quickly, like a marine on a beachhead, and he crouched low, scanning the trees near the water. Nothing showed itself. Nothing moved. He spotted a trail that shadowed the stream and he made quickly for the cover of the brush there.

  A quarter mile inland, Louis had said, was the lake where Shiloh would be. Cork moved down the trail a few yards at a time, stopping to listen, to check the deep woods around him. He came to a place at the edge of the stream where the bed of pine needles was cleared to mud. The mud was full of tracks-deer, raccoon, rabbit, squirrel-animals who’d come there to drink. There were other tracks. Ridged boot soles. Cork knelt and studied them carefully. Two distinct sets: one small enough to be a woman’s; the other, larger, deeper, though not as huge as might have been made by the man who’d ambushed them that morning. The distance between strides was not great. Whoever had made them didn’t seem in any great hurry. He couldn’t tell if the two people had traveled that way together or if the woman had been followed.

  A rush of movement to his right brought him around quickly. He had his. 38 leveled belly high into the trees. He froze in that readied position, his whole body tuned to his senses, watching, listening. He saw only the deep, empty gray among the trees and heard only the ubiquitous drip of the drizzle that, having fallen silently, gathered into heavy droplets on the foliage and fell again. He caught a familiar scent, something that gave him a moment of hope. The smell of wood smoke. But he saw no fire.

  The movement came again. Something big rushing left to right. Cork’s finger tightened on the trigger. Then he saw the white flag of the deer’s tail as it bounded away, and he nearly collapsed with relief.

  He followed the trail until it broke from the trees and he confronted a high ridge. He could see that at one time the stream had worn a passage through the ridge. But that passage was blocked now by tightly packed rock fragments that formed a ragged dam nearly a hundred feet high. Water seeped among the rocks and reformed into the stream that ran to the lake. Cork found the prints again at the base of the wall. Along the top of the ridge, he saw a quivering among the last of the fall leaves. The wind was slight but evident, coming out of the west, over the wall, bringing the scent of the wood smoke from a place he couldn’t see. He returned to the shore and signaled the others.

  “I found tracks,” he said, and pointed toward the trail. “Shiloh’s, I’d bet, and someone else’s.”

  “
Uncle Wendell’s?” Louis looked hopeful.

  Cork said. “We’ll know soon enough.”

  “Should we leave someone with the canoes?” Sloane asked.

  “I think it’s best we stay together,” Cork said. “Leave the gear. Bring the weapons.”

  Sloane handed Stormy his handgun. “That’s a ninemillimeter Clock. Think you can handle it?”

  “I’ll do fine,” Stormy said.

  Sloane lifted the rifle from his canoe.

  Arkansas Willie surprised them all by reaching into his pack and pulling out a pistol of his own. “It’s only a twenty-two,” he said apologetically. “But I’m pretty good with it.”

  Cork led them to the wall.

  “The lake’s back there?” he asked Louis. The boy nodded. “We have to climb. There’s a trail on top of the ridge. It leads to the cabin at the other end.”

  “Smell,” Stormy said.

  “Fire.” Cork looked up at the top of the ridge, anxious to check the other side.

  “Think someone’s cooking?” Sloane asked.

  “Let’s hope it’s dinner and there’s plenty.” Cork gave him a fleeting smile.

  They went slowly, one at a time, covering each other as they climbed. At the top, they found themselves looking down at a narrow lake walled by steep rock topped with aspen. The far end was hidden in mist.

  “There’s the trail.” Louis swung his hand toward a faint parting in the brush.

  Cork knelt down. “Look here.”

  He pointed at a place in the muddy ground where there were more boot prints. But there was something else.

  “A dog?” Arkansas Willie asked.

  “Wolf,” Cork said.

  “What do you make of that?”

  “It’s a good sign,” Louis said firmly.

  “I hope you’re right, son,” Raye told him. “I hope to God you’re right.”

  They moved single file up the trail. They left the brush and entered a bared area strewn with boulders. Finally they were among the aspen atop the ridge. They’d walked into clouds, into a deep, cold mist, into the wet kiss of snowflakes on their faces. The lake below was a dark gray slit in the earth-gray from the overcast and dark from the depth of the water. The ridge on the far side was slate colored and mounted by leafless trees. The pines, just visible at the other end of the lake, seemed like another dark wall.

  A wall, Cork realized, with a black snake climbing the top and crawling into the clouds.

  “Smoke,” he said. “Lots of it.”

  “Too much for a wood stove,” Stormy said.

  “The cabin?” Sloane asked.

  “Oh, God.” Arkansas Willie broke from them suddenly. He started down the slope of the trail toward the dark pines. “Shiloh!” he cried.

  “Willie!” Cork called after him. “Stop!”

  But he knew it was too late. Whatever it was they were moving into, they had to move quickly now.

  “Stormy, stay here with Louis. Let’s go, Sloane.”

  He broke into a run, following Raye down the ridge toward the cabin hidden in the pines. Arkansas Willie surprised him with his speed and the fluidity of his movement. The man leaped rocks like a runner over hurdles. Cork understood that if it were Annie or Jenny down there, he’d probably be running hell-bent for leather, too. As it was, he kept himself in check on the downslope. He wanted to be able to stop quickly and fire his. 38 if necessary.

  He glanced over his shoulder. Sloane had dropped back. That was probably best. If they were stirring up hornets, they wouldn’t all get stung.

  Raye disappeared among the pines. Almost immediately, Cork heard a gunshot. He reigned himself in and drew up beside the trail. Sloane reached him a moment later, puffing like a big, black steam locomotive and sweating like a racehorse.

  “You… you… hear… that?” he stammered between breaths.

  “Sounded like a small caliber,” Cork said. “Maybe Will’s twenty-two.”

  “Shooting at what?” Sloane gasped.

  “I’ll circle right, you go left. You okay?”

  “Nothing an oxygen mask wouldn’t fix. Go on,” Sloane said. “I’ll be fine.”

  Cork made first for a big rock a dozen yards distant. Then to where the ridge fell away to the lake. The ground was strewn with mossy boulders, and Cork dashed from one to another until he reached the edge of the pines. He paused and listened. A steady groaning came from somewhere ahead and to his left. He caught a flick of motion out of the corner of his eye. Sloane slipped into a kneeling position behind a big pine, leveled his rifle, and panned the woods. He glanced at Cork and shook his head. Cork signaled them forward.

  They came on Arkansas Willie sprawled in the mud on the trail. His face was squeezed in pain. He held his right knee. His. 22 was on the ground beside him.

  “Slipped and fell,” he said between clenched teeth. “Twisted my fucking knee.”

  “We heard a shot,” Cork said.

  “Gun went off when I hit the ground.” Raye eased himself into a sitting position, still grasping his knee.

  Sloane asked, “Can you walk?”

  “Christ, I’ll crawl if I have to. Just get me to her.”

  “What’s up?” Stormy and Louis approached on the trail behind them.

  “I told you to wait,” Cork snapped.

  “We only heard one shot,” Stormy replied. “Didn’t figure that was enough to kill you all.”

  “We might as well stay together now,” Sloane said. “We’re sure not going to surprise anybody, and we can cover one another.”

  “What about him?” Cork nodded impatiently at Raye.

  “Here.” Sloane handed Cork his rifle. “Come on, Willie. Lean on me.”

  Sloane helped Raye to his feet and let the man slip an arm around his big shoulders.

  “Thanks,” Raye said.

  “No problem, man.”

  “What’s ahead of us, Louis?” Cork asked.

  “A stream. The cabin’s just on the other side.”

  Cork made sure there was a round chambered in the rifle, then he said, “Let’s see what there is to see.”

  The stream lay only a few dozen yards ahead. Cork paused when he reached the bank. The others moved up around him and stood silently.

  On the other side, the remains of the cabin stood smoldering in the drizzle. A charred, ragged suggestion of walls enclosed a jumble of collapsed roof beams black as old chicken bones. A big potbellied stove stood in a heap of ash near the center, its stovepipe jutting up into nothing. Flames had bared the lower branches of the pines nearest the cabin and sooted the bark of the trunks, but the thick, wet air had saved the trees from fully catching fire.

  “My God,” Raye whispered. “Shiloh.”

  They found no sign of the woman. Sloane moved carefully among the ash and char, sifting and poking with a long stick. Much of the area still glowed with embers, and licks of flame danced up here and there. Sloane stayed clear of the hot spots. He came out shaking his head.

  “Nothing here.”

  “What do you mean?” Arkansas Willie sat on a stump that had a webbing of ax bites across the top where wood had been split for kindling. He was obviously in pain far greater than any caused by his wrenched knee.

  “He means,” Cork said quietly, “there’s no indication that Shiloh was in the cabin when it burned.”

  “Bones don’t burn so well, and teeth not at all,” Sloane said. “And there’s a smell to burned flesh that’s unmistakable. What I’m trying to tell you, Willie, is that there’s still a lot of reason to hope.”

  “Why did they burn the cabin?” Louis asked.

  Cork shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe they were trying to cover up something.”

  “Or destroy something,” Sloane suggested.

  “Or drive Shiloh out,” Arkansas Willie said miserably.

  “What do we do now?” Stormy asked.

  Cork looked up at the sky. Dark wasn’t far away. The temperature was dropping and what came out of the clo
uds now was mostly white. “Let’s get back to the canoes and set up camp before dark comes, try to figure what our next move should be,”

  “Shouldn’t we look around?” Raye said. “Maybe she ran into the hills. Maybe she’s hiding somewhere.”

  “The woods are big, Willie. And it’ll be dark soon. We’re hungry and tired. It’s best to regroup and see what we can figure. Can you walk?”

  Louis had found a long birch pole and offered it as a walking stick. Raye stood up, leaned on the stick, and took a few tentative steps.

  “It’ll be slow, but I can make it.” His voice and long hounddog face were full of despair.

  The clouds were charcoal and the darkness among the pines had turned deep black by the time they reached the place where they’d beached the canoes. As they came out of the trees, Cork stopped abruptly.

  “One of the canoes is gone.”

  Once again, his. 38 was in his hand, and he crouched to scan the trees along the shoreline.

  “Stay here.” He motioned the others back.

  He crept to the two canoes still drawn up on the shore.

  “Goddamn it,” he said.

  “What’s wrong?” Sloane called to him.

  He turned back to them grimly. “Someone’s put an ax through the hulls.”

  34

  Jo had meant to go straight to her office after she’d left Benedetti and Harris. Instead, she found herself heading to St. Agnes. She wasn’t sure if praying was what a strong lawyer would do at that juncture, but it felt right for her. More and more in the last year, she’d found herself seeking answers in a way that law books could never address. The church was empty and was dimly illuminated from the light above the altar.

  As she prayed, she heard the soft creak of the front doors. She glanced back and saw that Angelo Benedetti had entered. He crossed himself and stood in the dark at the back of the church, waiting respectfully. She finished her prayers.

  “I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he said when she approached.

  “What is it?”

  The quiet of the church seemed to touch something in Benedetti. His eyes moved over the soft curves of the pews, lingered on the stained-glass windows, drifted through the dark along the outer aisles. He reminded Jo of a boy at First Communion. In a muted voice, he said, “My mother used to take me to church with her every day. St. Lucia. She’d light candles for all the dead relatives back in Italy. There were a lot of them, believe me. I’d curl up on a pew, go to sleep. I remember how safe that felt. The church big and quiet. My mother murmuring her prayers. The candles like tongues of angels speaking back to her. I still go whenever everything seems all jumbled up. I’d guess things seem pretty jumbled to you right now.”