“Fine.”
Cara spun away and crossed the street in long, angry strides.
Annie turned back to Uly, whose fingers never left the strings of his guitar.
“Is that Dylan?” she asked.
“Does it matter?”
Annie climbed the steps and sat beside him. “You okay?”
He stopped playing and put a finger below his right eye. “See any tears?” He struck a stage smile. “Military family. We don’t cry.” He strummed a couple of chords, then shook his head. “Alex was a lot older than me. We weren’t what you’d call close.” He looked away from her. “You’re welcome to stay, but I don’t really feel like talking now.”
She sat with him and he bent to the music as if nothing existed but the song.
TWELVE
Cork watched a flock of Canada geese wing their way north above Iron Lake. They flew in a shifting V, dark and purposeful against the butter yellow sky where the sun was setting. Along the lakeshore, the poplar and birch were already leafed out. It had been a mild winter; actually, it had not been much of a winter at all. There’d been hardly any snow, the lakes had frozen late, and the ice had gone out early. The resorts, usually buzzing with the activity of snowmobilers and ice fishermen, were empty. April, which folks in the North Country called “mud season,” had been dry as well. There was common agreement that the seasons weren’t what they used to be. Global warming, everyone said, and shook their heads helplessly.
Cork should have spent the day getting Sam’s Place ready for the summer. Sam’s Place was an old Quonset hut on the shore of Iron Lake just outside the official limits of Aurora. Long ago, an Ojibwe named Sam Winter Moon had converted it to a burger and shake joint that had become popular with both locals and summer visitors. When Winter Moon died, he’d passed the place to Cork, who’d been like a son. Normally, Cork opened in May, on the day of the fishing opener, and didn’t close until mid-November. In that time, he grilled thousands of burgers and hot dogs and served up a sea of shakes and soft drinks. His children worked with him, and that was the aspect of the operation he loved most. This year Annie would be there from the beginning—working on weekends and around her school softball schedule—with some of her friends hired to help. Come June, Jenny would be home from college for the summer and she’d work, too. Stevie often helped out as well, though much of his time was spent hanging out on the old dock with Trixie, fishing for bluegills and sunnies.
At the moment, Cork’s mind wasn’t on Sam’s Place. It was working in the old mode, the cop mode, asking questions and probing dark corners for answers.
He passed the Buzz Saw and didn’t see Buck Reinhardt’s truck in the parking lot. He didn’t see it at Tanner’s or at the casino. When he came to the turnoff to Skinner Lake, he took it and headed toward Reinhardt’s home.
Elise answered the door. She looked different from the night before. Not happy exactly, but less aggressively angry. She was wearing makeup again. From behind her came the sound of music. Soft jazz. She had a drink in her hand. From the smell and the lime wedge among the ice cubes, Cork guessed it was a gin and tonic.
“Still looking for Buck?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“Not much point in it now, is there? Kingbird’s dead. Doesn’t matter anyway. Buck’s not here. Check the bars.”
“I passed the Buzz Saw. Didn’t see him there, either.”
“He told me they kicked him out last night. Buck’s a grudge holder. It’ll be a while before he gives them his business again.”
“What time did he get home last night?”
She stiffened up and her face seemed to prepare itself for anger. “The sheriff’s people asked the same question. Look, Buck got home maybe fifteen minutes after you left. He came straight home from the Buzz Saw. After that he was here with me all night. So if you’re thinking he killed the Kingbirds, think again.” She took a drink from the glass in her hand.
Cork said, “You know that it wasn’t Alex Kingbird who sold the stuff that got Kristi high.”
“He wasn’t just an innocent bystander, either.”
“Rayette was.”
“She chose her man.”
“As did you.” They stared at each other. Cork said, “Suppose the Red Boyz go hunting for a little justice of their own now, Elise. You want to be right there beside your husband when the bullets start flying?”
“I can handle a rifle.”
“Let’s hope your hands aren’t taped and your back isn’t turned.” He knew it was over the top, and he reined himself in. “Sorry. That was uncalled for.”
“You bet it was.”
The door banged shut in his face, and he turned to leave. Before he reached his Bronco, another vehicle came up the road and pulled into the drive. Cork waited while it came to a stop beside his own. Dave Reinhardt killed the engine and stepped out. The vehicle was a police cruiser from Yellow Lake, where Dave was the chief.
David Reinhardt was Buck’s youngest child from his first marriage. The other children from that marriage had scattered, and Cork couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen any of them back in Tamarack County. Alone among them, Dave Reinhardt had elected to stay. He’d attended the University of Minnesota at Duluth, then done his police training in Minneapolis, where he’d served for four years before coming home. Cork had hired him as a deputy in the Tamarack County Sheriff’s Department. Although Reinhardt proved to be a good officer, coming back to Aurora might not have been the best choice for him. It put him close to his father, and Dave Reinhardt found himself caught in the sweep of Buck’s relentless ambitions.
Cork always figured it was Buck who was ultimately responsible for Dave Reinhardt leaving the department. When Cork resigned as sheriff and a special election was held to fill the position, Buck boasted that his son would be the next man to wear that badge. Then Marsha Dross threw her hat into the ring. Buck had a field day with that. A week before the election, he took out an ad in the Aurora Sentinel that read, “Dave Reinhardt for sheriff. He’s the only one with the balls for the job.” It got a good laugh in town, but at the polls it had a different effect. Dave Reinhardt lost by a landslide, a result that most people understood was less about his qualifications and ability than it was a backlash against his father. Dave resigned as deputy and took the job as chief of police in Yellow Lake.
“Cork. What are you doing here?” Dave accepted the hand Cork offered and gave it an agreeable shake. He was taller than his father and softer in his features.
“Looking for Buck,” Cork said. “Have you talked to him today?”
“I was here earlier when Ed Larson and the BCA agent questioned him and Elise.”
“What do you think?”
“I think he didn’t kill the Kingbirds, if that’s what you’re getting at. When the shootings went down, he was home with Elise.”
“That’s what they both say, all right.”
Reinhardt squinted at him. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Dave, I drove out here last night. Buck wasn’t around.”
“I know. He got home after you left. You just missed him.”
“See, that’s the thing. There’s only one way into Skinner Lake and one way out. If Buck got home just after I left, I’d have seen him coming down that road. And I didn’t.”
“You reached the highway before he turned off.”
“Maybe. But I headed directly to the Buzz Saw, where Buck had just got himself thrown out. If he went straight home from there, as he and Elise claim, one way or another I’d have passed him.”
“Could be a lot of explanations.”
“Let me hear one.”
“He’d been drinking. He pulled off the road to piss.”
“You were there when he was questioned this morning. Did he mention that?” When Cork didn’t get an answer—which was answer in itself—he went on. “You’re Buck’s son, but you’re also a cop, Dave. Think like one.”
Reinhardt crossed his arms and l
eaned back against his vehicle. “Elise said Kingbird sent you here last night. Kingbird’s out of the picture, so what’s your interest now?”
“Aren’t you worried about her safety and Buck’s? With Kingbird gone, it’s hard to know what the Red Boyz might do.”
“Buck can take care of himself.”
“He’s gone a lot. That leaves Elise here alone. I’m thinking it might be best if she went to visit her family for a while.”
“She’s like Buck in a lot of ways,” Reinhardt said. “You couldn’t run her off if you tried. She’s pretty handy with firearms. I’ll suggest she keep one of Buck’s rifles loaded and within reach.”
“Going away would be safer for everybody.”
“Thanks for your concern, Cork. I’ll take it from here.”
Reinhardt moved past him and headed toward the house. He mounted the steps, knocked at the door, and was let in. Cork climbed into his Bronco and left.
Supper was over when he arrived home. Annie had taken her brother and Trixie to Grant Park for an evening romp. Jo fixed him a roast beef sandwich and he pulled a bottle of Leinenkugel’s from the refrigerator to wash it down.
“We ate on the patio,” Jo said. “It’s a little chilly, but if you put on a sweater it’s nice. How about we sit there?”
She joined him in the cool blue that was the shadow of coming night. Cork had built the patio himself, a smallish brick affair that Jo had outlined with hostas. In spring and fall, it was a good place to eat a meal and relax. In summer, there were mosquitoes to contend with and blackflies and yellow jackets. The backyard wasn’t separated from the neighbors’ yards in any formal way; in Aurora, there weren’t many fences. But everyone knew where their property lines ran, especially when it came to mowing grass or raking leaves.
“And?” Jo finally said.
Cork realized he hadn’t said a word since they’d sat down.
“I talked to Tom Blessing, gave him a deadline for putting me in touch with Thunder.”
“He didn’t spit in your eye?”
“No, but he wasn’t exactly quaking in his boots either.”
“Will he? Put you in touch with Lonnie Thunder, I mean.”
“Doesn’t matter. One way or another I’ll find Thunder. By the way, George LeDuc says that Alex Kingbird was seeing Henry Meloux.”
“Now that’s interesting.”
“I’m planning on having a talk with Henry tomorrow, see what he has to say about that. He might have an idea about Thunder, too.”
“Cork.” From the way she said his name—a mix of tender and tough—he knew, more or less, what was coming next. “I know you promised Marsha that you’d help her, but I keep thinking that if you’re alone on the rez poking around trying to find Lonnie Thunder, sooner or later the Red Boyz are going to catch you isolated out there and do something about it.”
He put his beer down and nodded thoughtfully so that she could see he really was hearing what she said. Then he replied, “The people I need to talk to will be more inclined to open up if I go alone. I won’t do anything stupid, I promise. And I won’t be completely alone. I’ll take my thirty-eight, loaded and locked in the glove box.”
She drew a breath and let it out slowly. “I don’t understand what’s so important about bringing in Thunder now. It seems to me the damage has already been done.”
Cork nodded again and then he explained: “The more players we’re able to remove from the situation, the better the chances of handling it.”
“We’re able to remove? Sweetheart, you gave up the badge. And just exactly who are we bringing in from the other side of this situation? The people on the rez are going to be very interested to see how diligently our sheriff—and those helping her—go after Kingbird’s killer, especially since all the signs point toward Buck Reinhardt.”
“Elise says Buck was with her when the shootings occurred.”
“Oh, now there’s testimony that would convince a jury.”
“I think that at the moment Marsha doesn’t have any evidence to the contrary.”
“She’d better find some fast. Whatever people on the rez thought of Alex Kingbird doesn’t matter. The situation as they’ll see it—and you know this better than anybody, Cork—is that an Ojibwe’s been killed—very likely by someone who’s white—and the authorities are dragging their heels. It doesn’t matter what the reality is, the perception will be damning. You’ll have young Shinnobs lined up around the block to join the Red Boyz.”
“People rush to judgment all the time, Jo. A proper investigation moves more slowly.”
“Proper investigation? You sound exactly like a white cop now.” Her face changed, softened. “Cork, I’m playing devil’s advocate, saying things you know are going to be said. Unless Marsha’s able to wrap this up quickly, it’s apt to fall apart on her. It scares me to think of you in the middle when that happens.”
“I know it does. What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to step away from it.” She held him with the clear blue wish of her eyes, then gave up with a sigh. “But I know you and I know you won’t.”
She fell silent, tilted her face upward, and gazed at the night that was crawling into the sky.
THIRTEEN
That Sunday night Annie sat in front of her computer, trying to work on the final paper for her lit class. She was asking the question: Was it really William Shakespeare who’d penned the plays that all the world loved? She’d constructed the paper to be a kind of whodunit, presenting evidence that pointed toward various suspects: Marlowe, Raleigh, Bacon, Johnson. She needed to begin wrapping it up, but she sat staring at the screen, dreadfully aware that she didn’t care who’d written the plays, didn’t care about the paper, didn’t care about school at all. She was finished. All the seniors were finished. For the next few weeks, they were just going through the motions.
A message appeared on her screen. From Uly Kingbird. They’d IM’ed a lot while they were practicing the music they’d played that morning at church.
thanks
what4, she IM’ed back.
thought i wanted to be alone this afternoon but i didn’t. the dark is no place for children and children we all are.
more dylan
more mine
pretty
pretty words don’t change anything. the worlds still an ugly place.
the words come from somewhere beautiful inside you. your music comes from the same place.
He didn’t respond for a minute. She wondered if he was still online.
Then another message: i used to believe . . .
what, she replied.
nothing. late. good night.
She sat back and stared at the screen. She was about to turn her own computer off when a final message from Uly appeared.
that every day is a chance for something better. but the truth is every day is a hole you try to climb out of. and one day you won’t.
Misty took forever going to sleep. By the time Lucinda laid the baby in the crib that she’d put up in Alejandro’s old room, she was exhausted. She went to her own bedroom and found Will sleeping deeply. She stood looking down at her husband and realized she was exhausted with him, too. It wasn’t that he was an awful man, a bad man, he was just a difficult man, a man hard to love. Even after more than a quarter century together, he was like a foreigner to her, speaking from a sensibility she couldn’t understand, following rituals she couldn’t appreciate. More than anything else, it was his silence that kept him a stranger. He spoke, yes, but often in a way that felt to her like silence. Years before, she’d thought of leaving him, but she had no way of supporting herself or her boys. And it wasn’t as if he was cruel to her, abused her, beat her. He never did.
When she was a girl in Los Angeles, in the backyard of her stepfather’s home there was a carob tree. It had been a beautiful thing, huge and shady. Under it her mother had put a little grotto, a bathtub virgin. Lucinda spent much time under the carob, daydreaming or praying to
the Virgin Mary. Then one day the tree fell apart, just fell apart. The inside, it turned out, was completely rotten. As it collapsed, a huge section of the carob tree smashed the bathtub and its virgin. These days, Lucinda often thought of her marriage as being like that carob tree: something that was rotting from the inside and would someday simply crumble.
She took a blanket from the linen closet and stretched out on the sofa in the living room. From there, she could easily hear if the baby woke and began to cry. She’d always been a light sleeper.
She closed her eyes. Against the darkness splashed the image of Alejandro and Rayette, tangled in the meadow grass, their bodies torn open by the shotgun blasts. She sat up and stared at the curtains, drawn closed over the picture window. The curtains were new. Rayette had helped choose them, and while they considered fabric she had talked to Lucinda about her childhood.
When Rayette was seven, her mother had left her with her grandparents and gone to Minneapolis with a man named Douglas Bear. She’d promised to come back for Rayette when they were settled. That never happened. Her mother and Bear were killed in a head-on collision north of Cloquet. Her grandparents raised her, but they were not young and both were dead by the time Rayette hit fourteen. She was passed from relative to relative, giving them all trouble. At sixteen she chose to make her own way. It was her luck, she told Lucinda, that the way had led to Alejandro. It felt like finding God, she confided. She didn’t mean it in a sacrilegious way. It was just that she’d never known such hope before. Such happiness. He wasn’t a perfect man, but he loved her, and that made all the difference in the world.
Lucinda opened the curtains and looked out the window. The house stood just beyond the town limits of Aurora. It was a one-story rambler on a large lot with two young maples in front, near the road. The backyard abutted a stand of mixed spruce and poplar. Will had given her a small section of the property for her garden, but most of the yard was grass that, thanks to her husband, was thick and velvety all summer. He kept everything perfect and orderly. It had been the same at every place they’d lived, from Camp Pendleton to Camp Lejeune, with a dozen postings, foreign and domestic, in between. He was hard on the boys in that respect. No bikes left lying in the yard. No digging to China the way boys sometimes did. They both had their part in helping with the tasks, a strict duty roster that Will kept posted on the refrigerator and oversaw as rigidly as if the boys were part of his command rather than part of his family. When he retired from the military and opened his gun shop, Will had expected the boys to help out there as well. Alejandro had finally mutinied; he and Will began a battle that had seen an occasional truce but never an ending. Uly, on the other hand, never fought back. He bent beneath the weight of his father’s expectations, and it hurt Lucinda to see him burdened so.
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