Copper River co-6

by William Kent Krueger

  33

  B y the time Ren brought the ATV to a stop in front of Cabin 3, Cork was exhausted. His leg hurt like hell, and the spot on his jeans where blood had oozed covered most of the inside of his thigh. He eased himself from the seat behind Ren and almost collapsed when he put weight on his leg.

  “I need to lie down,” he told the boy. “Maybe sleep a little. If I’m not up when your mother and the others get back, come and get me, all right?”

  “Sure,” Ren said. His eyes dropped to Cork’s thigh, and he winced at the big bloodstain. “Maybe I should look at your leg.”

  “I’ll take care of it. Thanks for driving me up the river, Ren.”

  Cork turned and hobbled up the steps to his cabin. Inside, he took off his boots and gingerly removed his jeans. The jostling of the ATV ride had worked the butterfly bandages loose. Blood smeared everything from his crotch to his knee, and it was still seeping from the opened wound. He washed in the bathroom sink, silently cursing for not asking Ren for more bandaging before he sent the boy away. He was drying himself when he heard a knock at his door.

  “Yeah?” he called.

  “It’s me,” Ren said from the other side. “I brought my mom’s medical bag. Just in case you needed something.”

  “Come on in.” Cork struggled to his bunk.

  Ren scooted a chair next to him, sat down, and bent to examine the wound. He didn’t seem upset by what he saw.

  “You probably shouldn’t have gone,” he said.

  “Can you fix me, Doc?” Cork asked.

  Ren grinned up at him. “Got insurance?”

  Cork watched the boy work, his hands moving surely through the ministration. It felt odd, being cared for by one so young, but in a way, he was glad. Through all these unusual circumstances, in the face of enormous challenge, Ren had kept his head. He’d risen to each occasion without confusion or complaint, shown great heart, and Cork couldn’t have been more proud of him than if the boy had been his own son.

  When a clean gauze pad was in place over the wound, Cork said, “Thanks, Ren.”

  The boy became intent on putting materials back into the bag. “I just thought, you know, you might need some help. How’s the pain?”

  “I could use another Vicodin. They’re on the sink in the bathroom.”

  Ren came back with the pill bottle and a yellow plastic tumbler full of water.

  “You know, I’ve been thinking about the hero of your comic book,” Cork said, after he’d taken the pill. “White Eagle.”

  The boy held the tumbler and eyed him uncertainly, waiting for him to go on.

  “I don’t know much about art, but I’ve heard the best comes when you tap who you are and what you know. I think you’ve got everything inside you to create a great hero, Ren.”

  The boy looked down and for a moment Cork thought maybe he’d trespassed, stepped over a line Ren held sacred.

  Ren smiled shyly. “You really think so?”

  “I do.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” He put the tumbler and pill bottle back in the bathroom. “When Mom gets home, I’ll let you know she’s here.”

  “And could you ask her for a pair of clean jeans and underwear?”

  “Sure.”

  “Appreciate it.” Cork let his head sink deep into his pillow.

  Ren paused at the cabin door. “Was it important? You know, what we did, going up the river?”

  Cork closed his eyes and tried not to concentrate on the pain. “What do you think we learned?”

  Ren was quiet for a while. When Cork opened his eyes, he saw the boy poking a finger thoughtfully into his chin.

  “I don’t know. She could have got into the river almost anywhere,” Ren said.

  “When did you spot her?”

  “Around sunset.”

  “And the shelter’s not far from the summer cottages, right? So if she’d been dumped in the river somewhere in the vicinity of the summer cottages, it would have been broad daylight.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Would that have been smart?”

  “I guess not. Someone might have seen them do it.”

  “Bingo. Upriver, where is there easy access if you were carrying a body?”

  “There isn’t. Not until you get to the trestle.”

  “Which connects with an abandoned logging camp on one end and a main line twenty miles away on the other. What would it take to come up that line twenty miles?”

  Ren crossed his arms and hunched his shoulders. “I don’t know. Something rugged. SUV or ATV maybe.”

  “Can you think of a reason someone would make that kind of trip into this kind of wilderness only to dump a body into a river that had the potential to deliver it back to civilization?”

  Ren shook his head. “That would be stupid.”

  Cork tried to fight his fatigue, but he could feel himself getting drowsy. He wanted to stay with Ren, to guide the boy to the end of this thinking.

  “If it’s true these people are trying to get rid of Charlie because she saw the body in the river, then it’s the river that’s important. Besides the summer cottages and the trestle, where upriver is there easy access?”

  Cork had to close his eyes again, he was so tired. He waited. Finally the boy said, “The Copper River Club. You think she came from the Copper River Club.”

  “You’re a smart kid, Ren. Now I need a nap.”

  He didn’t even hear the boy leave, but his sleep was a restless one. At one point he thought he heard a vehicle pull up outside and he thought dreamily, The women. He sank immediately back into his slumber and into a dream in which a cougar was chewing on the inside of his thigh.

  A knock at his door woke him, and he climbed to a hazy consciousness.

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s me. Ren.”

  “Your mom home?”

  “Can I come in?”

  Later, Cork would think how the boy had sounded timid, even a little afraid, but at the moment he was too sleepy to notice.

  “Come ahead.”

  Cork closed his eyes tightly, this time to clear the sleep from them. He worked his neck and shoulders a little, which were sore from fighting to hold himself on the ATV. He let out a deep breath and pushed himself into a sitting position. Then he realized the boy wasn’t alone.

  34

  C ork recognized the man who accompanied Ren into the cabin. He’d been at the old resort the previous day looking for the boy and for Charlie. The newspaperman. Johnson-was that his name?

  “I apologize for barging in like this, Sheriff O’Connor,” the man said. Despite the barging in, he’d stopped a discreet distance from Cork’s bunk. “I explained to Ren the necessity.”

  “Is it okay?” Ren asked, looking concerned.

  “It’s okay,” Cork said. Then he addressed the man, who once again reminded him of some bulky kitchen appliance with powerful legs attached. “You called me Sheriff. What exactly do you know?”

  “Mind if I pull up a chair?”

  “Might as well,” Cork said. “This feels like it could take a while.”

  Johnson-Cork remembered his first name now: it was Gary-took a chair from the table, swung it close to the bunk, and sat down. Despite his size, his movements had the fluid grace of an athlete. Ren hovered in the background, still looking as if he were afraid he’d done something wrong.

  “I apologize for prying, but it’s pretty much the nature of my job, eh.” Johnson smiled.

  “Just tell me what you know.”

  “First of all, let me explain that all this is mostly by accident. On the other hand, what I know about reporting is that if you’re good, you somehow end up in the right place at the right time. See, I thought Charlie might show up here, so I hiked over early this morning to keep an eye out for her.”

  “Hiked?” Cork shifted his hurting body and winced. “You came in on the Killbelly Marsh Trail?” He was thinking of the boot tracks.

  “That’s right.” The newspaperman rub
bed his hands together, fingers thick as brats. “I set up my stakeout behind the shed. As it got light, I noticed the bullet holes in the car parked back there. I took a good look and discovered blood all over the front seat. Believe me, that struck every reporting nerve in me. I didn’t have the patience to wait around hoping for a glimpse of Charlie. I hoofed it back to my office and began making phone calls.

  “Sheriff Corcoran O’Connor of Tamarack County, Minnesota, currently suspended from duty for failing to comply with a regulation requiring psychological counseling following involvement in an officer-related shooting.”

  He paused for a breath.

  “Also very recently implicated in the murder in Winnetka, Illinois, of one Benjamin Jacoby, although according to my sources the police don’t really consider you a suspect. At the moment, however, they’re quite concerned that you’ve disappeared during the course of their investigation. The car with the bullet holes came from a lot in Kenosha, Wisconsin. Honest John’s Quality Used Cars, to be exact, purchased with cash by a man who signed as Liam O’Connell. Three nights ago, police in Kenosha investigated a report of shots fired at the Lake Inn and the disappearance of the man who’d checked into Room 111, a man registered as Liam O’Connell and whose description-medium height, medium weight, thinning red-brown hair-would certainly fit you.” He paused, opened his big hands as if expecting something to be delivered into them, and said, “So who tried to kill you in Kenosha, Sheriff?”

  “You’re a pretty smart guy. Why don’t you tell me?”

  “Could have been a random act of violence, I suppose. But that would be a pretty big coincidence, eh.” Johnson sat back and the joints of the chair creaked. “From what I understand, this man murdered in Winnetka was from a connected family. The father’s a real hard-ass, blames you for his son’s death. Nobody would confirm this but I suspect, given the man and his connections, that he’s put out a contract on your life.”

  “Suppose that were true, think all your poking around has helped my situation any?

  Johnson nodded seriously. “I did my best to be discreet, Sheriff.”

  “You haven’t done me any favors, Mr. Johnson.”

  “Gary. Call me Gary, eh.” He leaned toward Cork again, and again the chair complained. “Look at it from my perspective. I see you here yesterday, limping, with a bulge near your crotch that’s got nothing to do with anatomy. Then I stumble across that shot-up car of yours. Charlie’s missing, her old man’s dead. So I’m trying to put together a lot of disparate pieces of information, thinking that the more I know, the clearer the whole picture will become.”

  “What’s going on has nothing to do with that girl’s situation.”

  “I know that now.” Johnson nodded toward the bloodied jeans Cork had dropped in a heap on a chair near the table. “You were hit in the Kenosha shootout. You came up here hoping Jewell could fix you. How bad is it?”

  “I’ll live. These sources you mentioned, who are they?”

  “Colleagues.”

  “Chicago reporters?”

  The man only stared at him, but Cork sensed that he’d hit the nail on the head.

  “Great,” he said. “Now they’re down there asking all the wrong questions of all the wrong people.”

  Cork wanted to get up out of the bunk and slug the man, but he didn’t have the strength, and what good would it do now? He heard a vehicle drive up outside. Ren opened the door.

  “Mom!” he called.

  A minute later the others walked in. Gary Johnson stood up politely in their presence and said, “Hello, Jewell. Ms. Willner. Hey there, Charlie. Come on in and join the party, eh.”

  35

  R en stood back, feeling bad, as if he’d failed because he hadn’t protected Cork from the newspaperman. Mr. Johnson had surprised him with the things he already knew, and he’d talked in a convincing way about how he needed to see Cork in person so he could help straighten everything out. Ren liked Mr. Johnson but he couldn’t help thinking now that the newspaperman had tricked him. Ren didn’t believe that he’d been stupid, said anything he shouldn’t. Still, he felt lousy.

  He leaned against the wall next to the door. Charlie stood beside him. The adults were all clustered near the bunk where Cork lay covered to his waist with a bedsheet.

  “Look, Jewell,” the newspaper reporter was saying, “some terrible things have happened in Bodine over the last couple of days. I’m just trying to figure them out.”

  “You have no idea of the trouble you could be causing, Gary.”

  Ren could tell she was furious.

  “I think I do. I also think I could help if you’d let me,” Johnson said.

  While his mother and Mr. Johnson went back and forth, nobody else said anything. They were old friends, Ren knew, whose relationship went all the way back to when they were kids. He’d seen his mother tear into the man on many occasions when they disagreed over local issues. This was different. This was about family.

  “I know the sheriff’s situation has nothing to do with Charlie and what happened to Max,” Johnson said. “I’d like to hear what she knows about her dad’s death.” He swiveled and eyed Charlie.

  Ren eased closer to her so that their arms touched. Something in the way she looked at him sent a little electric jolt down his body, and he had to avert his eyes.

  Mr. Johnson went on: “Three extraordinary events have occurred in town over the last two days. In a place like Bodine it’s hard to believe they’re not connected, eh. I’ll tell you what I see. One”-he held up his index finger-“Max is killed and Charlie runs away. Two: The next day a girl’s body is fished out of the lake. Not just any girl but someone with a connection to Providence House where we all know Charlie sometimes hangs out when her father’s on a tear. Three: That same evening, Stuart Gullickson is the victim of a hit-and-run that nearly kills him. Stuart is a friend of Charlie’s. You see what I see? Charlie’s linked to everything.”

  “I didn’t do anything,” Charlie snapped at him.

  “I didn’t say you did,” he said calmly. “But I believe you have a pretty good idea of what’s going on.”

  “All we did was see her body, that’s all.”

  “Where?”

  Ren saw Cork raise his hand in an attempt to stop Charlie, but it was too late.

  “In the Copper River,” she said.

  Cork sat back, as if what happened now didn’t matter.

  “In the river?” His large brow formed a puzzled overhang that shadowed his eyes.

  “We didn’t really,” Ren said. “Stash did.”

  “Stash?”

  “Stuart,” Charlie clarified. “He saw it. Then Ren and me went looking for it that night and someone else was looking for it, too, on a boat. They saw us.”

  He nodded slowly, and Ren figured he was putting things together.

  “So they were afraid you might say something and went to your father’s place looking for you but found him instead. And he wouldn’t give you away.” He eyed Ren. “But nobody’s come after you?”

  “They think it was Stash who was with Charlie. That’s why they tried to run him over.”

  The man addressed Jewell. “Do the police know all this?”

  “No,” she replied. “It sounded pretty far-fetched. We’ve been trying to get hold of something more solid we could offer them.”

  “Have you?”

  “Not yet. What are you going to do, Gary?”

  He shook his head a moment, considering. “This is a lot just to sit on. I can’t believe the police haven’t put some of this together already.”

  “The sheriff’s investigator probably doesn’t know Bodine. He may not realize the connection between Charlie and the dead girl. And there’s no way he’d connect Stuart with any of this.”

  “What about Ned Hodder? He’d know.”

  “I’m not sure what Ned’s told him,” Jewell said. “As I understand it, it’s not Ned’s jurisdiction. Gary, promise me you won’t talk to Ned. If anyone s
ays anything to him, it should be us.”

  “You’re asking a lot.”

  “We could just tie you up and keep you in a closet until all this is finished,” Dina offered.

  Ren laughed, but no one else did and he shut up quickly.

  Mr. Johnson turned to her. “Dina Willner. Don’t think I don’t know about you.”

  “Then you know not to mess with me.”

  Mr. Johnson slowly stood. He towered over Dina. The way the two of them faced off reminded Ren of a sleek cougar confronting a grizzly bear.

  “Wolverine two-time all-American defensive tackle,” Mr. Johnson said.

  “Twenty years and thirty pounds ago,” she countered.

  Cork laughed. “Gary, if she decides to wrestle you into a closet, believe me, you don’t stand a chance.”

  Mr. Johnson said, “What I do or don’t do will be because of Jewell and Ren and Charlie, because they’re important to me.”

  Dina stared at him in a way that, had it been Ren, he’d have melted in a puddle of terrorized flesh.

  “Despite your vocation,” she finally said, “I believe you’re not a bad guy at heart. I suggest you listen to that heart.”

  “He’s on our side, really,” Ren’s mother offered.

  “I’ll have to take your word on that,” Dina said.

  “Tell you what I’ll do.” Mr. Johnson turned himself so that he spoke, more or less, to all the adults. “No more calls that might jeopardize you, Sheriff.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “And I won’t do anything that might expose Charlie or Ren to any more danger than they might be in already. But I want a promise.”

  “What?” Ren’s mother said.

  “That in the end this story is mine, Jewell. You don’t talk to the Mining Journal. You don’t talk to 60 Minutes. You talk to me.”

  “All right.”

  Dina said, “You’re used to reporting church suppers and town council meetings. What makes you think you can handle a story like this?”

  Johnson glanced at Jewell. “You want to tell them?”