Except for the wounds on his leg, which were healing, Henry saw no marks on his naked body.
“It was a vision,” the old man explained. “The windigo is a beast of the spirit. It feeds on hate, and it is never full. There is only one way to kill a windigo. You must become a windigo, too. But when the beast is dead, there is a great danger that you will stay a windigo forever. You must be fed something warm to melt the ice inside you, to melt you down to the size of other men.”
Henry looked toward Maanaajii-ngamo, who fed cleansing sage and cedar to the fire.
“I am Mide,” Ziibi-aawi said. “Maanaajii-ngamo is also Mide. You know the Grand Medicine Society?”
Henry knew of it. Healers of the body and spirit. Since the coming of the white men, those among the Ojibwe who understood the healing secrets had become few.
“This is an important vision. You have had visions before?”
Henry thought about the dream in which he was flown north by a snake with wings to a lake where a golden fire burned under the water. He thought about the kind of man Wellington was and the gold that had brought him far north, to the lake.
“Yes,” he said.
“Kitchimanidoo has guided you here. You understand?”
Henry said, “What if the windigo had eaten my heart instead?”
“You would be a different man with a different destiny.”
“Or you would be dead,” Maanaajii-ngamo said.
“You have been marked. You have been given the gift of visions,” the old man said. “You are welcome to stay with us as long as you need in order to understand this gift.”
Henry felt as if he’d already traveled to the end of the earth, but he realized he still had a very long way to go before his journey was finished.
“Migwech,” he said, and closed his eyes to rest.
PART III
THE LAKE OF FIRE
THIRTY-FOUR
By the time Meloux finished his story, it was well after midnight. We sat beside the lake, and I could see Henry clearly in the bright moon glow. He was an old man; it had been a long, hard day; he was tired. Hell, I was tired, but there were still questions left unanswered, things I needed to know.
“How long did you stay with the Mides?” I asked.
“In the spring, Ziibi-aawi traveled the Path of Souls. That summer, Maanaajii-ngamo took me down the river. We stayed with another of the Midewiwin, a good man named Waagosh. For seven years I learned from him. When I left, I was Mide, too.”
“You came back to Iron Lake?”
“Two more summers, I journeyed.”
“You were gone for almost ten years?”
Meloux looked up at the moon. The light washed over his face and made me think of a man gazing up through silver water. “When I came back, people on the rez did not recognize me. When they learned I was one of the Midewiwin, they were suspicious of me. They looked at my hair and thought of me in the way white men think of witches. Some Shinnobs still do.”
“You never talked to the police about what Wellington had done?”
“I was a man who had killed three times. I have never told anyone these things until now.”
“And you never tried to find Maria?”
“For half a moon I knew Maria. I loved her. I have never loved another woman. My life, Corcoran O’Connor, has been about something different from that kind of love. For many years, I did not think about her.”
“But you knew you had a son. How?”
“From visions. They began soon after Maria left me.”
“You weren’t curious about your son?”
“I am fortunate. I have often felt guided. If I was not meant to see my son, that was the way of it.”
“Then why this sudden heaviness of heart over him? Why the rush to find him?”
Something splashed in the water a dozen yards out. A fish jumping, maybe, or a muskrat diving. In the moonlight, the place was marked with a circle of black ripples edged with silver.
“I have had visions,” Meloux said. “They have told me my son needs me.”
“Henry, I don’t mean any disrespect, but from the way he looked the last time I saw him, he could have used your help a long time ago. I think it’s too late now.”
“There is a reason for the visions.”
“Well, I’ll be goddamned if I know what that is, Henry.”
“They are not your visions, Corcoran O’Connor. They are not for you to understand. I will talk to him, then I will know.”
“Henry, there’s no way this man is going to talk to you. Christ, he tried to have you killed.”
“I do not believe my son would do that.”
“There’s sure a lot of evidence to the contrary.”
“I will see my son. I will see him with or without your help.”
“You can be exasperating, you know that, Henry?”
“Which is stronger,” the old man said, “the rock or the water? In the end, the rock always washes away.”
“Stow it, Henry. You’ve won. I’ll take you, okay?”
“Migwech,” the old man said.
“We both need rest, Henry. We’ll leave in the morning.”
I heard a car turn off the road, and headlights swept the trees around us.
“Your nephew’s home from the casino,” I said. “Let’s break the news to him.”
Ernie Champoux wasn’t happy, but what could he do? He was just another rock, and Meloux, as always, was the damn water.
* * *
When I pulled onto Gooseberry Lane I could see lights on inside my house. I parked in the driveway and went in through the side door. A couple of plates full of crumbs sat on the kitchen table. On the counter were two glasses filmed with white residue. Cookies and milk. Jo and Jenny had probably enjoyed a little comfort food while they waited for me. The house was quiet. I walked to the living room and found Jo asleep on the sofa. Jenny wasn’t there.
“Jo.” I spoke softly.
Her eyes fluttered open. “Cork?” She sat up. “What time is it?”
“A little after one. Jenny gone to bed?”
She nodded and yawned. Her hair was wild on the side where her head had rested, and there was a red line, from her nose almost to her ear, where her cheek had pressed against the seam of the sofa pillow. It looked like a battle scar. The look she gave me was a little warlike as well.
“Sorry I’m so late,” I said.
“You said you’d be home so we could all talk.”
“Henry had a lot to tell me.”
Despite her irritation, it was clear she was curious about Meloux’s story. “What exactly did he say?”
I told her a briefer version of the story Meloux had told me. Even though the hour was late and she was tired, she listened closely.
“So all this might be about keeping an old crime from coming to light?” she said.
“It could be much larger than that. I’ve been thinking about the mining claim. From what I gathered on the Internet, the wealth of Northern Mining and Manufacturing is based on what came out of that first mine in northwestern Ontario. Could be that a lot of the wealth rightfully belongs to someone else.”
“Any living relatives of the man named Maurice?”
“It’s a possibility. It would sure be a reason to keep Henry from telling his story.”
“What are you going to do?”
I wasn’t looking forward to this part. With all that was going on with Jenny, I knew I needed to be home.
I said, “In the morning, I’m taking Meloux to Thunder Bay to see his son.”
I thought maybe it was because she was tired that Jo didn’t hit me. She weighed the information and nodded. “Before you go, though, we need to sit down and talk with Jenny.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Struggling. Trying to figure this thing out. It’s huge.”
“Jesus, I don’t want it to crush her.”
“She’s strong, Cork.”
“What if she d
ecides to have an abortion?”
“I don’t think she will.”
“And if she decides to keep the baby and raise it alone?”
“She won’t have to do it alone.”
“Oh God, Jo, what if they decide to get married?”
“Then they’ll march down the aisle with all our love behind them.”
“You make it sound easy.”
“None of her choices is easy, but there’s not one of them that’s impossible.”
“Have I told you lately that you’re amazing?”
“Not lately.”
“Good. I wouldn’t want it to go to your head. Should we talk to her now or wait until morning?”
“Morning. She’s pregnant. She needs her sleep.”
“And I’m old,” I said, “and need mine.”
I got up and began to turn out the lights. Another uncomfortable thought occurred to me.
“Have you talked to Sean’s folks?”
“To Virginia. Sean told her everything. Lane doesn’t know yet.”
I could understand. Lane wasn’t an ogre, but I had the feeling he could be unpleasant in a confrontation. Still, he was the father of the young man whose destiny was supposed to have been transforming Pflugleman’s Rexall Drugs into Pflugleman and Son, and it seemed to me he had a right to know what was happening.
When I’d switched off the last of the lights, I put my arm around Jo, and we started up the stairs to bed.
“Cork, I don’t think you and Henry should go to Thunder Bay alone.”
“Don’t worry. I plan on taking backup.”
She didn’t ask who. It may have been because she was too tired. It was more likely that she already knew.
THIRTY-FIVE
Except for Sundays, Johnny Papp opens the door of his Pinewood Broiler in the morning at six sharp.
At five fifty A.M., I found Wally Schanno waiting out front in the cool blue of that summer morning. Those days he was always at the Broiler first thing, waiting for the doors to swing wide and offer him the company of the regulars. His back was to me. He was staring down Oak Street past the dark, locked shops as if he was waiting for something to arrive along that empty pavement.
For better or worse, I was it.
I startled him with a tap on his shoulder.
He spun around. “Jesus.”
Schanno was a devout Lutheran, Missouri Synod. I’d never heard him say Jesus in quite that way. Arietta’s death continued to work changes in him.
“Sorry, Wally. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. You looked deep in thought.”
“I was just thinking it’s a pretty town. I’ll miss it.”
“Miss it? You’re leaving?”
He was wearing a white-knit golf shirt. He had several more at home in various pastel shades. In their last years together, Arietta had been after him to take up the game as a way of relaxing. The shirts had been just the beginning. She gave him clubs and a bag. He was an atrocious golfer, and he hated the game, but he went out on the links once a week or so anyway because Arietta had done these things for him and he wanted her to know he was grateful. He never told me this. It’s just my interpretation of events.
His big shoulders hunched together, and his huge right hand went to rubbing the back of his neck above the collar of the golf shirt. “I tossed and turned most of last night. My daughter’s been trying to convince me to move to Maryland to be closer to my grandkids. ’Bout three A.M. I decided she was right. Nothing for me here.”
Inside the Broiler the lights went on. I saw Johnny Papp chalking the breakfast special on the blackboard behind the register.
“Not leaving right away are you?” I asked.
Schanno picked up on something in my voice and squinted at me. His eyebrows were nearly white as milkweed fluff.
“What’s up?”
“I’m taking Henry Meloux to Thunder Bay today. I could use your help, if you’re willing.”
“So it’s true. He’s got a son up there.”
Johnny Papp unlocked the door and poked his head outside. “Get in here,” he ordered, “before you scare the good customers away.”
I said to Schanno, “Let me buy you a cup of coffee. I’ve got a story to tell.”
The moment I walked into the house I smelled coffee brewing, and I saw that the dining room table was set. Jo came from the kitchen with a small pitcher of half-and-half in her hand.
“Lane and Virginia are on their way over with Sean,” she said. “We’re going to talk.”
“At seven thirty in the morning?”
“Lane found out about everything late last night. He’d have come over then but Virginia convinced him to wait.”
“Jenny?”
“Upstairs being sick.”
“This can’t wait?”
Jo had headed toward the kitchen, but she stopped and turned back to me sharply. “Until when? You’re leaving with Meloux today.”
“What’s with the table settings?”
“Virginia’s bringing coffee cake. I’ve got juice and coffee.”
“Very civilized,” I said. “Should I shave?”
“Just sit quietly and listen.”
Jenny came downstairs, her face drained of color. She’d brushed her hair and put on a little makeup. She wore jeans and a powder blue top.
“How’re you doing, kiddo?” I asked.
“Okay, Dad.” She stood away from me a bit and stuffed her hands in the back pockets of her Levi’s. “How’s Henry Meloux?”
“I’m still working on that. Right now let’s focus on you.” I went to her and took her in my arms. I laid my cheek against her hair.
“I’m sorry about all this,” she said.
“Me, too. But we’ll figure it out, okay?”
“You’re not mad?”
“I’m not exactly ecstatic.”
“Complicates things, huh?”
“Sit down.” I pulled a chair from the table. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
Jo had come back from the kitchen, and she sat down, too.
Jenny began in a calm, rational voice, but before long she was crying, and it was clear she didn’t know at all what she was going to do.
When I was a cop, people cried in front of me all the time. Because they were scared or grieving or trying to manipulate. It almost never bothered me. Jenny’s tears were like drops of acid on my heart. She slid into her mother’s arms and sobbed.
The doorbell rang. Oh, joy.
I opened the door. Lane Pflugleman was there, with Virginia and Sean at his back.
I’m not tall—just under six feet—and Lane Pflugleman is a head shorter. He’s slender, congenial, though generally quiet, and he wears a mustache, mouse brown going gray, that always puts me in mind of a moth with spread wings resting on his upper lip. I’ve known him all my life. He’d been a couple of grades behind me in school, and I wouldn’t have taken much notice of him except for his wrestling. In his junior year and again in his senior, he took state in his weight class. In Aurora, wrestling wasn’t like football or basketball. It didn’t have the same mystique. There weren’t cheerleaders. There weren’t fast breaks or Hail Mary passes or that sudden momentum that can sweep spectators up in a frenzy of hometown pride. The gym was never packed for meets. In fact, the team as a whole did poorly. Lane was the only bright spot, and he did his glory work in relative obscurity.
I watched him wrestle only once, the year after I’d graduated. I was home on a break from college. My mother was a friend of Lane’s mother, who’d invited her to a meet. She asked me to accompany her, thinking that because I was a guy I’d understand the sport and could explain.
There wasn’t much to Lane Pflugleman. He wrestled at 119 pounds. I’d been a football player. On the football field, Pflugleman would quickly have been reduced to a red smear on the green grass between a couple of white chalk lines. On the mat in the high school gymnasium, where less than two dozen people watched, Lane Pflugleman performed physical magic.
You didn’t need to know anything about the sport to admire how he moved, worked his opponent, understood his own body and what he could ask of it. I admired, too, his behavior after he easily won his match. A decent winner.
Thunder Bay (Cork O'Connor Mysteries) Page 20
