Copper River co-6

by William Kent Krueger

  “In summer. In fall, most of the trolls stay on the road and just drive around looking at the color from their cars.”

  “All right.” Cork climbed back onto the ATV. “Let’s see that trestle.”

  They rode for another fifteen minutes. The river rushed past tall cliffs and channeled through narrow cuts. Beside it, the ATV climbed hills and bounced across stony brooks. Ren felt the grip of Cork’s hands around his waist, holding tight for balance. It made him feel good-important-to be involved this way. It made him feel as if he were doing something for Stash and Charlie’s father and the dead girl. He was thinking that his father might be proud of him, too.

  The old trestle loomed into sight, a black spiderweb of posts and beams. Ren stopped beneath it, and once again Cork dismounted and considered the area. This time Ren saw a dark stain on the inside thigh of Cork’s jeans.

  “You’re bleeding,” he said.

  “I know.” Cork didn’t even look down. His eyes ran across the trestle from one end to the other. The south side broke from a stand of maples deep red with fall color. The north side disappeared into blue-green spruce. “You said this railroad isn’t used anymore?”

  “That’s right. Not for years, I guess.”

  “Where does it come from?”

  “An old logging camp at the edge of the Copper River Club, maybe five miles north. Like, twenty miles south, it connects with the main line to Marquette.”

  “The Copper River Club, you said?” He glanced back at the boy.

  “Yeah. You know about the Copper River Club, right?”

  “Some. But tell me what you know.”

  The Copper River Club was one of his favorite subjects, a favorite subject of everyone in Bodine, and Ren eagerly filled Cork in.

  “There were these really rich guys a long time ago, like a hundred years, see? I mean the richest guys in the whole country. Henry Ford and guys like that. And they didn’t want the Huron Mountains to be spoiled by logging the way the rest of Michigan was. So they bought up most of the land and built cabins for themselves and their families, and they won’t let anybody in there who’s not a member of the Club. They protect the woods and try to keep everything like it always was. Like, once there were plans to build a road from Bodine to L’Anse over on the Keweenaw. These guys kept it from happening. So there aren’t roads or anything that go through that part of the U.P. Now movie stars and famous writers and people like that belong or they visit. A couple of years ago I saw Tom Cruise in Bodine. He was stopping for gas on his way up.”

  Cork nodded and looked impressed. “Tom Cruise? That must’ve been something.”

  “It was sweet.”

  “The river. Where does it go from here?”

  “Keeps going northwest. In a few miles it becomes the west boundary of the Copper River Club.”

  “All right,” Cork said. “Let’s keep going with the river.”

  “You’re sure? Maybe we should look at your leg.”

  “I’ll be fine, Ren.” He limped back to the ATV and climbed on.

  Ren revved the engine and they took off.

  A while later they came to a creek where the trail seemed to end. Ren killed the engine.

  “This is Staples Creek, as far as we can go. Everything on the other side belongs to the Copper River Club.”

  “So we’d be trespassing?”

  “That’s right. And they have these guys who patrol looking for trespassers.”

  “Have you ever trespassed, Ren?”

  He had, lots of times. It was a kind of challenge. Because the area was so vast and he never did anything to damage the land, he thought of it as harmless and not really wrong. It wasn’t hard to avoid the men who patrolled. More often than not they traveled in pairs and talked, so you could hear them coming.

  “Yes,” he admitted.

  “What’s along the river?”

  “Nothing. Well, almost nothing. A couple of miles from here there’s a cabin that belongs to one of the security guys. I’ve never really been any farther than that.”

  “What happens when people get caught trespassing?”

  “They just get asked to leave. These people, I guess they don’t want a lot of trouble.”

  Behind him, Ren could feel Cork’s eyes steady on the forest ahead of them. Although the Copper River Trail ended, on the far side of the creek was another trail, so faint that unless you knew it existed, you probably wouldn’t see it. It was where the security guys walked when they patrolled. Secretly he hoped Cork would say to go on. Given the importance of their mission, and the fact that Cork was a sheriff and all, it seemed okay. Ren figured there was probably some legal right that allowed them to trespass in pursuit of answers to a crime.

  Cork said, “Let’s see how far we get before we’re stopped. What do you say?”

  “All right!” Ren lifted his arms as if they’d just scored a touchdown.

  He eased the ATV ahead, through the foot-deep water of Staples Creek and onto Copper River Club land.

  Before they’d reached the creek, they’d passed a number of “forties,” tracts of land forty acres each that had been logged. Ren knew that in the early days Henry Ford himself had walked those woods, handpicking the trees that would be cut and milled for the side panels on his early station wagons. The trees on Copper River Club land had never been cut, and the forest felt different there, sacred in a way. When he’d trespassed on foot, it had been all right because he’d been careful where he walked. Now he was conscious of the destruction the ATV wrought in its passage: the torn underbrush, the ugly tracks, the noise and smell of the engine, which seemed like a desecration in that quiet place. He slowed, stopped, and killed the engine.

  “What is it?” Cork asked.

  Ren didn’t quite know how to say it, and he mumbled.

  “I didn’t hear,” Cork said.

  “This doesn’t feel right.”

  “Are we lost?”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  Ren could hear the river to their left, a low steady murmur over stone. The sky was solid blue and out of it came a wind like a long breath exhaled. The trees swayed and the branches rubbed against one another with a sound that reminded him of old men complaining. He smelled the dank of wet earth and rotting leaves and felt the fullness of summer gone and the patient steady tread of winter coming from far beyond the horizon. All this belonged. The machine did not.

  Cork was quiet, then said, “I understand. Let’s go back. I’ve probably seen everything I need to anyway.”

  Before the boy could hit the starter again, a voice to their right commanded, “Hold it right there.”

  Ren turned and said under his breath, “Oh shit.”

  The man who’d spoken wore a green billed cap with Copper River Club in gold across the crown. He was dressed in a green uniform with a patch that said CRC Security on the shoulder of the right sleeve. Above the left breast pocket was stitched Calvin. The rifle he carried didn’t need a patch or badge or identification. It pretty much spoke for itself.

  He came through the trees with the stock of the firearm resting on his hip and the barrel pointing skyward. He walked carefully and didn’t take his eyes off Ren and Cork. When he was a dozen feet away he stopped and let the weight of his glare sit on them. He was tall and thin. His pink, bloodless lips reminded Ren of the spongy underside of a mushroom.

  “You’re trespassing on private property.”

  “I’m afraid we got a little lost back there,” Cork said from behind Ren. “The trail we were on just kind of ended.”

  “There’s a sign where that trail ends tells you to turn around.”

  “Didn’t see it. Must’ve blown down in the storm last night.”

  “I’ll check on that. Right now you just turn around and go on back the way you came.”

  Cork nodded toward the rifle. “A Remington 7600?”

  “It is.”

  “That could do a lot of accidental damage.”

  The ma
n cradled the rifle lovingly in his hands. “Nothing accidental about the damage I intend to do with this baby. We got ourselves a mountain lion skulking around here.”

  “No kidding?” Cork replied. “A cougar? You sure?”

  “Saw it with my own eyes a couple of days ago. Came nosing around my place up the river. I got a shot off, hit it I’m pretty sure, but it didn’t go down. Means it’s wounded and real pissed off. I was you I’d stay clear of the woods for a while.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” Cork said.

  The thin man settled his gaze on Ren and squinted. “You’re Jewell DuBois’ boy.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then you ought to know better than to be on Copper River Club land. I catch you here again, I’ll fry your skinny little ass, understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you,” he said to Cork. “Next time, the Copper River Club will press charges. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Perfectly, Calvin.”

  Under the security guard’s stern scrutiny, Ren made a careful U-turn with the ATV and headed back the way they’d come. When they crossed Staples Creek and were on public land again, Cork tapped his shoulder and called over the sound of the engine, “That guy, his name tag said Calvin. His last name wouldn’t happen to be Stokely, would it?”

  “It is,” Ren said.

  “Calvin Stokely.” Cork was quiet a moment as if he was thinking. “Your mom told me about him, said he used to scare her when they were kids.”

  “He still does.”

  “He’s got himself a uniform, a big rifle, and an inflated sense of authority. Ren, I can’t think of much that’s scarier than that.”

  Ren laughed.

  “You did great back there,” Cork told him.

  “Really?”

  “You kept your cool. Didn’t volunteer anything you shouldn’t. Not easy when you’re facing a man with a rifle. Now, think you can get us back to the cabins before I bleed to death?”

  “You bet I can.”

  Ren smiled to himself with the pleasure that came from fair praise, and he guided them swiftly home.

  32

  M uddy Waters was on Main Street in downtown Marquette. It was a long, narrow room with high-backed booths like church pews along one side and tables along the other and a counter far at the back. Light came from the front window and from lamps in the ceiling, and there was a dim, intimate feel to the place. It smelled of strong brew and cigarettes.

  They found the kid whose name was George but whom Charlie referred to simply as G.

  “G hangs at Muddy Waters,” she’d said. “He drinks coffee, smokes, writes. He says he’s going to write a book just like some other famous guy who bummed around and wrote a book.”

  “Kerouac?” Jewell had said.

  The girl shrugged her shoulders. “Dunno.”

  G was all arms and legs, lanky, awkward looking, sprawled on one side of a booth toward the back. He wore his hair in dreadlocks that fell like ropes over his face as he bent to scribble in a cheap wire-bound notebook. An empty cardboard coffee cup sat at his elbow. Smoke curled up from a cigarette wedged between the fingers of his left hand. He wrote with his right, using a Bic ballpoint. Jewell pegged him at seventeen, maybe eighteen years old.

  “G,” Charlie said.

  The kid looked up. His eyes were sharp blue, his face the color of coffee full of cream. “Charlie. Whazzup?”

  “Can we sit?”

  “Who’re they?”

  “Like, friends.”

  He took a drag off the cigarette while he considered the two women. He waved his hand toward the high-backed bench on the other side of the table. Dina and Jewell sat there. He took a stuffed backpack off the bench where he sat and dropped it at his feet to make room for Charlie. He slid his notebook aside.

  “I’m Dina,” Dina said. “This is Jewell.”

  “Social workers?” G asked.

  Dina shook her head. “Like Charlie said, just friends.”

  G put his right arm across the bench back behind Charlie and turned his blue eyes on her. “Haven’t seen you in a while. Things between you and your old man must be okay.”

  “He’s dead.”

  G took the news without any visible reaction. “Sorry.” He considered his cigarette. “On the other hand, maybe not. You okay?”

  “Yeah. But they think I did it.”

  “No shit?” His cigarette hand moved toward his mouth. “Did you?”

  Charlie slugged him in the side, not hard enough to hurt. He looked at the women. “Not social workers, huh? Cops?”

  “No.”

  “They’re trying to help me,” Charlie explained.

  “So what are you doing here?” he asked her.

  “G, Sara is dead.”

  That hit him hard. The diffidence he’d affected cracked and as the pieces of that facade fell away the face of a hurt child emerged. “You’re lying.”

  “No. Swear.”

  “Fuck.” He threw his cigarette into the empty cup. “How?”

  “Somebody killed her, G.”

  “Ah shit, no. Jesus.” He looked away, toward the empty wall at the end of the booth, and balled his fist as if he were going to hit something, someone. After a moment, he dropped his hand into his lap. “They know who?”

  “I don’t think so,” Charlie said.

  “Like they’d even care.”

  Dina spoke quietly. “I’m a private investigator, G, and I do care. I’d like your help.”

  He brought his wet blue eyes to bear on her. There was still anger in them. “Yeah? How?”

  “When was the last time you saw Sara?”

  He stared at her, maybe trying to remember, maybe trying to decide something about Dina. Jewell couldn’t tell.

  “Week and a half ago,” he finally replied. “Just before she disappeared from Providence House. I should’ve known right away something was wrong.”

  He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of American Spirits. He tapped a cigarette free, jammed it into the corner of his mouth, and lit it with a plastic butane lighter. He blew smoke toward the ceiling.

  “Sara, she was on her way, you know? She had a compass, direction. She was going somewhere with her life. Talking with her was always trippy because she was always up. Believe me, that was something, considering all the shit before she came to Providence House.”

  “She told you?” Dina asked.

  “We talked a lot.”

  “You’re a writer,” Jewell said, indicating the notebook. “What do you write?”

  “My life. And hers.” He tipped his head toward Charlie. “And Sara, and all the rest of us, the fucked and forgotten, the trash in the gutters of America’s streets.” He sucked on his cigarette and shot smoke out his nostrils.

  Dina said, “Do you always notice when one of the kids is gone?”

  He gave a quick shake of his head. “They come and go. Sometimes they talk, sometimes they keep it to themselves. And I’m not there every night.”

  Jewell wondered where he stayed other nights. G had money for cigarettes, for coffee. The dreads took time and care. His clothing was clean and decent. She knew that prostitution was a possibility.

  “You watch,” G said. “The cops’ll make a show of trying to get to the bottom of it, but they won’t come up with anything, and after a while everyone will forget about it. Who cares about a dead cat beside the road if it’s not someone’s pet, right?”

  “Do you think she went back to prostitution?” Dina asked.

  “No way. She was on a ladder and she was looking up.” He took a long drag. “Damn.”

  “Talking to you, did she ever mention any names, anyone she might have been seeing?”

  “Like a boyfriend? No. She was focused solid, I mean like a laser, on getting her life in order. She didn’t have time for a guy right now.”

  “How about adults?”

  He shook his head faintly. “Maybe at school, I suppose. Or he
r job. Plenty of adults there. There’s the staff at Providence House. But she never said anything, and we talked about everything, I mean deep.” He seemed to be wilting. “Look, I need some time with this. Alone, you know? You mind?”

  “No, that’s okay. Thanks for your help, G.”

  Jewell stepped from the booth and Dina scooted out after her.

  “You go on,” Charlie said. “I’ll be right there.”

  They left Muddy Waters and walked into the late morning light. Down the street to the east, Lake Superior filled the gap between high buildings. Above it floated the paler ephemeral blue of the autumn sky.

  From her purse, Jewell dug out her pack of Newports. “Cigarette?”

  “No, thanks,” Dina said. “I quit a long time ago.”

  “Me, too.” Jewell lit up. “So where did that get us?”

  “She probably wasn’t tricking,” Dina replied. “She wasn’t involved with anyone. She was putting her life together. So…” She looked up at the sun and squinted. “Either what happened to her was completely random or there’s a connection we’re still missing.”

  Jewell looked back through her reflection on the front window of the coffee shop. As she did, Charlie leaned to G and they hugged as if they were survivors of a great tragedy. Charlie got up to leave.

  “Street kids are tight,” Dina said. “They look out for each other. I wish everyone did.”

  Charlie stepped out the door and Dina put her arm around the girl’s shoulders.

  “When I was on the streets, I knew a guy like G. He called himself Rimbaud, after a poet.”

  Charlie eyed her skeptically. “You were on the street?”

  “In Chicago. When I was sixteen.”

  “How long?”

  “A few months. It felt like forever. But it was better than home.”

  Charlie did something that surprised Jewell. She buried her face against Dina, and for a minute she wept.

  Jewell reached out, stroked the girl’s hair, and whispered, “It’ll be okay, Charlie. It’ll all be okay.”

  When she’d cried enough, Charlie pulled away and wiped her eyes with her coat sleeve. Then she walked with the women toward the car, looking less like a kid than a veteran of some long, horrible conflict.