Red Knife

by William Kent Krueger

  Will Kingbird saw where Cork was looking. He turned, and both men waited for the Red Boyz to drift in.

  Lucinda Kingbird did not want to be there. She did not want to have to talk to these people who offered her kindness in a time they believed must be terrible for her. She did not want to feel bad for not being full of the emotions they expected. The cordial smile she wore wearied her. She wondered, as she had from the beginning of this whole tragic mess, if she truly was different from other people; if, because she did not feel like grieving for her son, something was terribly wrong with her.

  She had never fit in. She had never felt as if she was somewhere she could call home. In Aurora, people were pleasant to her, but it was clear that she was an outsider. She was not white, nor was she Ojibwe. She was Latina; she spoke with a slight but noticeable accent. In Tamarack County, no one seemed quite certain what to make of her. Although Will had grown up here, he’d made no effort to reestablish his connection with his people. He was comfortable as an outsider. Lucinda believed she should have been, too. When she’d married a career marine, she’d become a nomad, a chronic outsider. Over time, she should have adjusted. But she’d never grown used to feeling different, feeling watched. She’d only grown accustomed to feeling alone.

  “There shoulda been a wake.”

  Lucinda turned at the sound of the old voice and found Tillie Strangeways staring at her in accusation. Tillie was Rayette’s great-aunt, an old woman who reminded Lucinda of an apple long fallen off the tree: leathery, bitter, shriveled to a little ball of wrinkles. She was a caustic old woman who referred to Lucinda as “that Mexican.” She was accompanied by Ginger, Rayette’s cousin.

  “Good evening, Tillie,” Lucinda said, and put on her cordial smile.

  “Why didn’t you hold a wake?” the old woman croaked. “They don’t do that in Mexico?”

  “Grandma,” Ginger said.

  “All I’m saying is there shoulda been a wake. Two, three days. With singers.”

  Lucinda hauled up as much graciousness as she could summon. “My husband made all the arrangements.”

  The old woman squinted and scanned the room. “Where’s the baby?”

  “I told you, Grandma,” Ginger said. “Justine’s taking care of Misty tonight.”

  Tillie Strangeways seemed shocked, though Lucinda suspected it was all drama. “Justine? That girl don’t have the sense God give a retarded cow.”

  Ginger offered Lucinda an apologetic look and said to the old woman, “Come on, Grandma. Let’s go see Uncle Leonard. He’s talking about making fry bread for after the funeral tomorrow.”

  “Leonard? Fry bread?” Everything seemed to shock Tillie. “That boy couldn’t fry a rock.”

  Whatever that meant.

  As soon as the women left, Lucinda saw Jo O’Connor coming her way. She was tired, but once more tried to smile.

  “Lucinda, I’m so sorry.” Jo hugged her gently.

  She and Jo worked on the education committee for St. Agnes and helped with the Christmas pageant every year. In a hopeful sort of way, she felt close to Jo.

  “I didn’t know Alexander well, but I knew Rayette and I thought she was a wonderful mother and a fine person,” Jo said.

  I didn’t really know Alejandro either, Lucinda wanted to tell her. And if a mother doesn’t know her son, who does? Long before this terrible thing happened, she’d lain awake nights wondering if she loved Alejandro enough. But how can you love someone you don’t know? And now, with all these well-meaning people around her, she wondered why grief was not tearing her apart.

  “How’s Misty?” Jo asked.

  “She is wonderful.”

  “If there’s anything I can do to help, please let me know.”

  There was something, yes, but Lucinda couldn’t say it, not there, not like this, with so many around to hear.

  “Thank you,” she said instead. “You have always been so kind.”

  They stood a moment, and Lucinda thought from the way Jo gazed into her eyes that maybe she had divined what was on Lucinda’s mind and was waiting for Lucinda to ask. It was as if she was offering Lucinda permission to speak the unspeakable. Lucinda opened her mouth, knowing suddenly that she would ask, right there, ask the unspeakable of this woman who was as near to a friend as Lucinda had.

  Before she could say a word, however, the Red Boyz walked in.

  Lucinda knew some of them. The one named Blessing she certainly recognized. An odd name, she’d always thought, because he never seemed to her to be concerned about what God had given him. Whenever she’d seen him in Alejandro’s company, he’d looked stern and unhappy. Now he looked worried.

  He spotted Will first, who was standing with Jo O’Connor’s husband. He spoke to Will in a voice that could be heard above all the others in the room, “Your son, our brother, was a great man. We’ve come to pay our respects.”

  Nothing about Rayette, Lucinda thought with disapproval.

  Will opened his hand, gesturing toward the caskets. “Then pay them.”

  Blessing hesitated and eyed Cork O’Connor. “I heard what happened last night. Don’t say I didn’t warn you about Lonnie Thunder.”

  Lucinda could see the anger in O’Connor’s face, but he spoke so quietly in reply that she couldn’t hear what he said. Whatever it was, it made Blessing laugh in a brutal way.

  “I’ll pass that along to him,” Blessing said. “Threats from an old man. He’ll get a real kick out of it. Make his day.”

  “You said you came to pay your respects.” Will opened his hand again toward Lucinda and the caskets beyond her. “I suggest you do that.”

  Blessing made his way across the room with the other Red Boyz following. He stood before Lucinda and drew himself up in a formal way.

  “I’m sorry for your loss. We give you our promise that whoever did this will pay. Kakaik was our friend, our brother, our leader. Kakaik was a great warrior.”

  Out of the depth of her weariness, Lucinda stared at him.

  “His name was Alejandro,” she said, and turned away.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  They drove home from the visitation separately and Cork parked his Bronco behind Jo’s Camry in the driveway. Once inside, they spent a while around the kitchen table over the usual O’Connor nighttime fare: cookies and milk. Stevie went upstairs to get ready for bed, and then Cork went up to say good night. His son scooted over to make room on the mattress and Cork sat down. Trixie, who’d settled herself at Stevie’s feet, crawled up and wedged herself between them.

  “Are you going back to Sam’s Place?” Stevie asked.

  “Yeah, buddy, I am.”

  “Somebody might shoot at you again.”

  “I’m thinking that, for them, once was enough.”

  “Then why are you still staying at Sam’s Place?”

  “Just playing it safe.”

  “Because of us, you mean. Me, Annie, Mom.”

  “Don’t forget Trixie.” Cork scratched Trixie’s head, behind her ears. The dog’s tail thumped the mattress with a slow beat.

  “You don’t want us around if there’s more shooting, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  Stevie looked troubled. “You said you wouldn’t do anything that would get you hurt.”

  “I’m kind of in a spot there, guy. It doesn’t seem to matter what I do, people still shoot at me.”

  “They’re afraid of you. And they oughta be.”

  “You think so?”

  “Uh-huh.” He nodded seriously. “Is Mom still mad at you?”

  “What makes you think she’s mad?”

  “When Mom’s mad, everybody knows it.” Stevie yawned.

  “She’s coming around.”

  “She’s just worried. Moms do that.” His eyes seemed to be getting heavy.

  “I’ll leave the light on if you want to read a little while.”

  Stevie shook his head.

  “’Night, buddy.” Cork bent and gave his son a kiss on the foreh
ead. “Sleep tight.”

  “’Night, Dad.”

  As he left the room, Cork turned off the light. Behind him, he heard his son mumble dreamily, “’Night, Trixie.”

  He paused at the open door to Annie’s room. His daughter sat at her desk, facing her computer. The glow from the monitor surrounded her shoulders and head like a halo.

  “So, without school taking up all your time, what’s on your agenda tomorrow?” he asked.

  Annie spun around in her chair to face him. “I don’t know. Run first thing in the morning. Finish my term paper. Mom says since I’m home all this week, I’m responsible for dinners.”

  “Sounds reasonable.”

  “Maybe I’ll try some new recipes from that cookbook Aunt Rose sent me.”

  “Adventurous.” He leaned against the door frame and smiled.

  “Dad, I’m worried about Uly Kingbird.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s never been easy for him here. Now it’s even worse. And he won’t ask for any help.”

  “I’m sure Will and Lucinda are doing all they can.” He saw the sour look on her face. “What?”

  “Parents are clueless.”

  “Oh?”

  “I could tell you stories.”

  “About you? I’m all ears.”

  “Someday, maybe, when I’m past being grounded for life.” She smiled, but only briefly. “Uly’s dad isn’t like you.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “Uly doesn’t talk about it, but I get the feeling Mr. Kingbird rides him all the time. Uly can’t do anything right.”

  Cork came in and sat down on the bed. “Let me tell you about Will Kingbird. His mother died when he was very young and his father remarried a woman with several children of her own already. Will’s father was an alcoholic. Not a mean drunk, but chronic. Had trouble holding a job. His second wife finally got tired of his drinking and left. I think she was a White Earth Shinnob and just went back to her people. Will pretty much took care of his old man after that. When Will was seventeen, his father hanged himself. It was Will who found him. Pretty soon after, he joined the marines and left Aurora.

  “Will Kingbird can be a demanding perfectionist. He’s responsible in the extreme. From what I gather, his choice of profession—a career soldier—often put his life at risk. He’s pretty much a loner. And he has trouble expressing his emotions. As I understand it, these are all characteristics of children of alcoholics. There’s more to him than that, of course, but it explains a lot.”

  Annie thought for a while. “How do I help Uly?”

  Cork shook his head. “I’d say offer what you can, whatever you’re capable of offering. But if he doesn’t want your help, I don’t think there’s much you can do.”

  “I don’t want to just turn my back.”

  “I didn’t say you should. Try to be there if he decides he needs you.”

  “And the rest of the time butt out?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “That’s not real specific.”

  “Best I can do. Anything else?”

  “No.”

  “Good night, then.”

  “’Night, Dad.”

  He found Jo in her downstairs office, working late for her clients. She looked up when he came in. Behind her glasses, her blue eyes were huge. Her hands lay in a pool of light cast by the lamp on her desk. Her face was shadowy.

  “I’m taking off for Sam’s Place,” he said.

  “Still think you need to leave?”

  “I do.”

  “‘I do.’ Doesn’t that come just after ‘till death do us part’?” She stared at him and he made no reply. “Are you going to the funeral tomorrow?”

  “Not exactly.”

  She took her glasses off and sighed. “I’m not even going to ask what that means.”

  “It means I’ll be home for dinner. Annie says she’s going to cook up a storm while she’s suspended.”

  “We’ll set a place for you.”

  He thought he ought to kiss her good-bye, but he wasn’t sure it was something that she wanted at the moment, so he simply said, “Good night, then.”

  “Cork,” she said as he turned away. “Please be careful. And call me when you’re safe inside Sam’s Place.”

  He crossed the room and leaned down to her. She reached up, put her arms around his neck, and held him in a kiss.

  “I’ll be careful,” he promised.

  At the corner of Oak and Second, before he reached the road to Sam’s Place, he pulled over and took out his cell phone. He tried Thunder’s number, as he had several times that day, and again got no answer. Maybe Thunder didn’t want to talk. Maybe he was hiding somewhere deep in the woods, somewhere he couldn’t easily charge his cell phone. What about Thunder did he really understand?

  He considered Will Kingbird’s philosophy of the world: consistency. What were the consistencies in Thunder’s behavior? Thunder had disappeared immediately after Kristi Reinhardt’s death. If what Meloux had said was true, Thunder was a man very much afraid. He’d probably gone into hiding, somewhere he believed no one could find him. Yet he’d risked coming into town to take a few potshots at Cork, a stupid thing. Cork wasn’t entirely convinced that killing Alex and Rayette was consistent with what he knew about Thunder. It took a lot to kill in cold blood. But a rash action was consistent with fear. Fear and stupidity: Maybe these were the constants in Thunder’s behavior.

  Then Cork realized consistency ran both ways. Was he predictable? If a kid like Thunder could fool him into an ambush, what did that say?

  Cork turned around on Oak Street and headed to Grant Park, at the southern end of the open field that lay south of Sam’s Place. He turned off his headlights and pulled into the parking lot, where his was the only vehicle. From the glove box, he took his .38 and from his toolbox a Maglite. He flipped the switch on the cab’s dome light so that it wouldn’t come on, got out, and closed the door quietly. In the ambient light from town, he found the jogging path that had been worn into the ground cover along the lakeshore and that ran all the way to Sam’s Place. He crept along the path, putting his weight on the outside of his soles, as he would if he were stalking game. Approaching the copse of poplars that surrounded the old ironworks from which Thunder had fired the night before, he paused. To enter the trees, he needed to leave the path, but the field was full of brown wild oats and milkweed and thistle, dead since November, gone brittle. There was no way he could move through them soundlessly.

  He got a break. A wind rose off the lake and pushed through the branches of the poplars with a loud rustling that masked any noise he might make. He slipped among the trees. It was dark in the copse and he moved like an animal on the prowl: creep and pause, creep and pause. He was a dozen yards from the ruined wall of the ironworks when he spotted a green glow that, after a moment, he realized was the face of a wristwatch turned up for someone to check the time. He positioned himself behind the trunk of the nearest poplar, aimed his Maglite and his .38 in the direction of the glow. He hit the light switch.

  “Don’t move!” he shouted. “I have a gun.”

  The figure froze in the ice white beam of light.

  “Put your hands on your head. Now turn around slowly.”

  The figure was dressed in camouflage fatigues. When Cork saw the familiar face, he almost laughed.

  “Marsha?”

  “Can I put my hands down, Cork?” she said.

  “Go ahead.”

  “And that flashlight’s blinding me.”

  He killed the light and walked to her.

  “How long have you been here?” he asked.

  “Since just after dark.”

  “No sign of Thunder?”

  “Nothing yet. If he was out there, that light of yours scared him away.”

  As his eyes adjusted to the dark around them, he spotted a rifle with a nightscope propped against the wall. “Thanks,” he said. “You could have had one of your guys do this instead.”
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  She shrugged. “I knew it was a long shot. And a deputy I’d have to pay.” She stared toward the lake, where the night kept her blind. “I feel bad about all this, Cork. I asked you to help, next thing you know Thunder’s shooting at you and Stevie. I’m sorry.”

  “Not your fault.” Cork leaned against the top of the wall, which, in its fallen state, came just above his hips. “Look, I think I might be able to get a lead on Thunder.”

  “How?”

  He explained about his interpretation of Meloux’s enigmatic advice.

  “You think Thunder will be at the funeral tomorrow,” Dross said.

  “Maybe not in actual attendance, but I think he might be in the general area, close enough so that he can see what’s going on.”

  “Why?”

  “Curiosity. Loyalty. Loneliness. Take your pick.”

  “You want someone with you?”

  He shook his head. “Best done alone.”

  Dross checked the ghostly green-white glow of her watch. “I don’t think Thunder’s coming tonight. I know you like him for the Kingbird murders, but don’t go out on a limb, okay? I still believe Reinhardt had the motivation and the nature, and we’ll keep hammering at that alibi of his till it breaks.”

  Cork pushed off from the wall. “Let’s get out of here.”

  The sheriff picked up her rifle and slung the strap over her shoulder. They left the ruins, walked out of the trees, and paused together on the jogging path.

  “Where are you parked?” Cork asked.

  “In town. Didn’t want anyone making my vehicle.”

  “Want a ride?”

  “I’ll hoof it, thanks.” Dross looked toward the lights on the far side of the empty field. “When you had the job, Cork, did you ever wonder if you were doing the right thing?”

  “When didn’t I?”

  “Yeah.” She smiled, but even in the dim light, Cork could see how weary the gesture was.

  They separated, heading in different directions, both stumbling in the dark.