Red Knife

by William Kent Krueger

  Buck was talking with Deputy Cy Borkman, who was taking notes. Dave Reinhardt stood close by. Two men sat on the rear bumper of the bucket truck. One was Adrian Knowles, who wasn’t much more than a kid, though he had a wife and an infant son to support. The other was Cal Richards. Richards was smoking a cigarette. He had his shirt sleeves rolled up high enough to show most of the long green dragon tattoo on his right arm. Neither of the men bothered to stand up when Dross and the others arrived.

  Borkman separated from them and met Dross in the middle of the empty road.

  “So what have you got, Cy?” the sheriff asked.

  “Happened an hour ago now. Buck’s working in the bucket, doing some trimming.” He pointed toward the telephone lines that shadowed the road.

  “Buck?” Dross said. “Buck was doing the trimming?”

  Borkman shrugged. “Guess he likes to keep his hand in the actual business. His crew says he still hefts a pretty mean chainsaw.”

  “Okay, go on.”

  “They’re all focused on the work, got their backs to the road. They hear a vehicle approach, but they don’t take any notice. Suddenly, bang-bang. They spin around, see the vehicle speed off west down the road.”

  “Did they give you a plate number or a description?”

  Borkman shook his head. “Sun was in their eyes. Dark SUV was all they could say.”

  “You told me on the phone the shots were fired at Buck. What makes them think he was the target?”

  “There’s a bullet hole in the bucket. A foot to the left and six inches higher and there’d be a bullet hole in Buck.”

  Buck seemed to have had enough of being ignored. He strode onto the asphalt and called out as he approached, “Got anything to say about me carrying now?”

  He was, in fact, wearing his gun belt.

  “Did you shoot back, Buck?” Dross asked.

  “The son of a bitch was out of range by the time I cleared my holster.”

  Dave Reinhardt had followed his father to the middle of the road. “Dad called me on my cell, Marsha. I thought maybe I could help.”

  Dross said, “That’s okay, Dave. Buck, I understand nobody got a clear look at the shooter or the vehicle. Is that correct?”

  “Indians,” Buck said. “I’ll give ’em this, they’re smart when it comes to being sneaky. Bushwhacked me with the sun in my eyes. Couldn’t see a thing.”

  Bushwhacked? Cork thought. Reinhardt had clearly seen too many Randolph Scott movies.

  “Why do you say ‘Indians’?” Ed Larson said. “I mean, if the sun was in your eyes and you couldn’t see.”

  “Who else wants me dead?”

  Cork found himself imagining the line.

  “So the truth is, you really didn’t see anything that might help identify the assailant?” Larson said.

  “The smell,” Cal Richards said from the bumper of the truck.

  “Smell?” Dross swung her gaze toward Richards.

  “Yeah, greasy war paint.” Richards laughed. Knowles laughed, too.

  A vehicle appeared on the road, coming from the east where the sky was slipping into the dark blue-gray that was the shadow of evening. Its headlights were on. The group moved off the asphalt and onto the shoulder near Reinhardt’s trucks. They all were silent as the vehicle approached and passed. A white pickup. The driver eyed them as he cruised by and headed toward the rosy glow in the west.

  Dross said, “Buck, I talked to Brittany Young this afternoon. She told me you were with her the night the Kingbirds were killed. She’s willing to sign a sworn statement to that effect.”

  “Okay. So?”

  “She also told me you think Elise killed the Kingbirds.”

  “I’m not saying nothing about that.”

  “You don’t have to. We already spoke with Elise.”

  Buck looked a little worried. “You tell her about Brit?”

  Dross said, “She knows.”

  “Ah, Christ.”

  “Do you still think she killed the Kingbirds?”

  “Hell, a lot of vengeance in that woman these days. Add enough booze and she’s up to just about anything.”

  “We have the shotgun she took from the gun case the night of the murders.”

  “My Robar Elite? What the hell are you doing with that?”

  “Dad,” Dave Reinhardt said quietly at his father’s back, “the Kingbirds were killed with a shotgun.”

  Buck spun around. “You think I’m stupid, boy? I know that. I want to know how they got it.”

  “Elise allowed us to take it,” Dross said.

  Buck shook his head. “Stupid cow. Hanging herself.”

  “Dad,” Dave said, his voice still quiet but full of edge now, “they won’t be able to tell much, if anything, from the shotgun, so it doesn’t hurt Elise.”

  “What did she say about having the shotgun that night, Buck?” Dross asked.

  “Elise is your wife, Dad. You don’t have to answer these questions.”

  “Elise can take care of herself, boy. She told me she shot at a cougar, Sheriff.”

  “Did you believe her?”

  “Hell, no. I’ve never seen a cougar around my place.”

  “She showed us some tracks near the kennel. Cork’s seen cougar tracks before. He says these do, in fact, look like they were made by a cougar.”

  “Well, what do you know? Maybe the bitch wasn’t lying.”

  “What else did she say?”

  “Dad, don’t answer any more questions,” Dave said. “Marsha, this is inappropriate. My father shouldn’t be giving statements that could be used against Elise.”

  Buck turned on his son. “Don’t be telling me what I can and can’t say. I think she killed the redskins. There. How’s that for a statement?”

  “Jesus,” Dave said.

  “Fuck you, boy. You had it in you, it’d be you asking the questions instead of some skirt.”

  Dave Reinhardt grabbed his father by the shirt collar and shoved him against the side of Buck’s pickup. “That mouth is going to get you killed one of these days. And you know what, Dad? I’m going to turn cartwheels on your coffin.” He let go. “I’m out of here. You’re on your own.” He stomped toward his cruiser.

  Buck watched him go, then straightened his shirt and laughed. “Finally the boy’s got some balls.”

  A few more minutes of questioning and it became apparent that neither Reinhardt nor his crew had anything more to offer. As they parted, Dross said, “Buck, I highly advise that you stay close to home for a while, until we get a better handle on this whole situation.”

  “Piss on the Red Boyz,” he responded. “I got me a bodyguard.” He tapped the Glock holstered on his hip. “Come on, boys. Let’s call it a day.”

  Reinhardt and the other men got into their trucks. Cork crossed the highway with Dross, Larson, and Borkman. They watched the trucks take off and head toward Aurora.

  Dross said, “You better get on back to the office, Cy, and do the paperwork. I’ll be there shortly.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Borkman slid his large bulk behind the wheel of his cruiser, turned around on the asphalt, and followed where the other two vehicles had gone.

  “A dark SUV,” Larson said. “Not much to go on.”

  Cork said, “Lonnie Thunder drives a dark green Xterra.”

  Dross shook her head. “Why would Thunder go after Buck? Doesn’t really get him anything.”

  “He’s not operating in a predictable way,” Cork said. “Too scared to think straight, maybe.”

  “I’d love to have him behind bars, take him out of this whole equation.” Dross looked where the sun had set, leaving only a red glow above the trees, as if from a distant fire. “What I’d really love is to be on vacation in Aruba. Come on, Ed. We’ve got paperwork.”

  After the others left, Cork stood a moment in the gathering dark. It was quiet on the long straight stretch of empty highway that burrowed through the pines. He wished he believed the quiet would last.


  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Once they’d left the community center in Allouette where the postfuneral gathering had been held, Will, Lucinda, and Ulysses had exchanged no more than a dozen words in the car. At home, Will changed his clothes and said he was going to the shop. Uly headed out “to hang with Darrell for a while.” Lucinda was left alone with the baby, who’d been unusually quiet all day. She laid Misty in the carrier, which she sat on the kitchen table so the baby could see her as she worked. Lucinda spoke constantly to her granddaughter, fully realizing that the infant had no way of understanding. But babies needed the sound of a loving voice. And for Lucinda, too, the sound of a voice, even if it was her own, was comforting.

  For years Lucinda had often suffered long hours of silence, with no one to talk to. When her boys were young, things had been different. Alejandro had been an adventurer, exploring the territory of every new posting, every new home. He would report to her what he’d discovered. He talked about his school, his teachers, his classmates. He made friends easily and he told her about their houses and their families. In this way, he kept her connected to his life. Uly was quieter and the things he told her seemed more like secrets he was sharing. She felt special being allowed into his private world this way. As they’d grown, however, the boys had changed. They’d become increasingly like their father, and more and more they closed themselves off from her. Maybe it was that way with all boys as they stumbled through adolescence. She didn’t know. She often wondered how different things would have been if she’d had daughters.

  Although none of them would be hungry soon—they’d eaten after the funeral—she set about making tamales. She knew that preparing a meal would keep her grounded. Once a month or so, Will drove her to Duluth where she bought corn husks and other foodstuffs at a market that specialized in Latino goods. Tamales had been one of Alejandro’s favorites, a dish he often requested on his birthday. She didn’t think about this consciously as she began, but in the middle of everything, the realization of what she was doing hit her and she almost cried. Almost. As she had since the beginning, she took her grief and shoved it deep inside, telling herself that the man buried this day was not the brave boy who loved tamales. That boy had left her years before. As for Rayette, Lucinda simply refused to allow herself to think about her at the moment. Force of will. A practiced soldier’s wife.

  When Will came home, the dining room table was set. Misty was sleeping in her crib in her new room. Uly was in his bedroom with the door closed. It was dark outside. Crickets chorused through the open windows, their chirring coming in on a warm spring breeze. Will washed up, knocked on Uly’s door, and they all sat down at the table. No one commented on the tamales.

  Near the end of the meal, Will said, “I heard someone took a couple of shots at Buck Reinhardt.” They were the first words he’d spoken since saying grace.

  “Did they hit him?” Uly asked.

  Will stuffed the last forkful of tamale in his mouth. “Missed.”

  “Maybe they were just trying to scare him,” Lucinda said.

  Will looked at her as if she was stupid. “What would be the point? You scare someone to keep them from doing something you don’t want them to do. Reinhardt’s already killed Alex. No way to keep him from doing that now.”

  “You think it was the Red Boyz?” Uly said.

  “That’s what I think.” Will shook his head. “Screwups. Bunch of screwups. Alexander didn’t teach them anything useful.”

  “Like what? How to kill a man?” Lucinda was suddenly full of fury, a deep anger that seemed to come from nowhere and that spilled out at her husband. “Why would anyone want to teach that? Why doesn’t someone teach how to live together without killing? Now that would be useful.”

  She threw her napkin on the table, grabbed her plate, and took it to the sink. At her back, neither her husband nor son said a word. She stood staring out the window into the dark where the crickets, in their way, kept up a lively conversation.

  “Yes,” Will said quietly. “How to kill a man.”

  She heard his chair slide across the carpet as he moved back from the table, then she heard him walk from the room. She looked over her shoulder. Uly was staring after him.

  Annie was at her computer when the message from Uly Kingbird appeared on her screen.

  r u there

  yes, she typed back.

  meet me at st agnes . . . important

  when

  15 minutes

  ok

  The May night was warm. There was no moon yet and Annie walked in and out of the darkness between the islands of light under the streetlamps. She loved spring in Minnesota. It was never a long season. Winter left reluctantly and summer usually came immediately after and with a vengeance that included mosquitoes and black-flies. But for a couple of weeks in May, everything felt new and clean and hopeful. This feeling was just one more treasure Annie wanted to lock away in her heart when she left Aurora for college.

  Uly was already sitting on the steps in front of St. Agnes. There was a little light above the entrance that was always on at night, as if inviting the lost to come inside, though the doors were actually locked. Uly sat on his shadow. He looked up when he heard Annie approach. She sat down next to him.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “It’s not a big deal. What’s up?”

  Uly had a small stone, which he nervously juggled in his right hand as he spoke. “I’m going to do something.”

  “Okay. What?”

  The stone went up and came down. “Do you believe in hell?”

  “You mean like with the devil and all that?”

  “I’m not talking about some cartoon devil with a tail and a pitchfork. I mean a place where you’re in eternal torment, where nothing will ever get better.”

  “I don’t believe there’s anything like that after we die, Uly, but I think for a lot of people that’s their life.”

  “Yeah, tell me about it.” He held the stone in his hand and stared at it. “You told me once that you wanted to be a nun.”

  “I used to. I don’t know anymore.”

  “There’s nothing I ever wanted to be. Except dead, sometimes.”

  “Don’t say that, Uly. What about your music? You’ve got so much talent. More than anybody else I know.” She shifted and faced him with her whole body. “Look, it’s just this place, these people, Uly. Once you graduate and leave Aurora, the world’ll be full of possibility.”

  “Alex left and came back and they killed him.”

  “You’re not Alex.”

  He finally threw the stone. Annie heard it hit the pavement and bounce away. “Sometimes I wish I was. He had guts.” He stood up, shoved his hands into his pockets, and stared hard where he’d thrown the stone. “Nuns pray for people.”

  “It’s one of the things they do.”

  “Pray for me, Annie.”

  She stood up. They both cast shadows that lay on the church steps like small animals, black and huddled. “You’re scaring me, Uly.”

  A sad smile appeared on his face. “Me? Scaring somebody? That’s a switch.” He looked away, into the night. “Look, I’ve gotta go. Something I’ve gotta do.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “No. I need to be alone now.” He hurried away, as if he was already late for whatever it was that was calling him.

  “I’ll do it, Uly!”

  He stopped and turned back. “Do what?”

  “I’ll pray for you.”

  He thought about that and nodded gratefully. Then he left, and she watched him move swiftly through the islands of light until finally the darkness took him altogether. She sat down on the steps of St. Agnes, bowed her head, and kept her promise.

  Will came into the baby’s room, where Lucinda sat in a rocking chair, feeding Misty a bottle of formula. “I’m going back to the shop,” he told her.

  “Now?”

  “I won’t be able to sleep anyway. Maybe if I get tired I’ll lie down on the cot there.
Don’t worry if I don’t come home till late.”

  “All right,” she said, because she knew whatever she said it wouldn’t matter. Will was going and that was that.

  After he left, she rocked Misty and sang to her softly. When the baby was asleep, Lucinda laid her in the crib and went to the big picture window, in the living room, that looked out over the front yard. She was watching for Uly, who’d headed off earlier, borrowing her car, saying he was going to the library, though she didn’t believe it for a minute. She was worried about him. She’d always been worried about him, worried that he would break under the weight of all his father laid on him. Will was usually clear about what he expected of his sons. He was good at laying down the law. He wasn’t good at forgiving when the law was breeched. And he was a complete failure at letting his sons know when he was proud of them. It must have seemed to Alejandro and Ulysses that he had never been. Which wasn’t true. He simply didn’t know how to tell them so.

  She lay down on the sofa, and without realizing it, she drifted off. She woke to a distant scream and thought at first that Misty had awakened. Then she realized the sound was coming from sirens racing through Aurora. Like a bad dream they faded away and the soothing chirr of the crickets returned and once again she slept.

  TWENTY-NINE

  When the phone rang, Cork was asleep in the bunk at Sam’s Place. Over the years, particularly in the days when he was sheriff of Tamarack County, he’d become accustomed to being hauled out of bed at god-awful hours, and he was awake instantly and across the dark room to the telephone.

  “O’Connor,” he said.

  “Cork, it’s Bos.” Bos Swain, one of the dispatchers for the sheriff’s department. “The sheriff asked me to call. She figured you’d want to know. Buck Reinhardt’s been shot. He’s dead.”

  Homicide was always startling news, yet as he dressed to head out to the scene, Cork found himself thinking, Of course.

  Buck Reinhardt had been killed at 10:35 P.M. as he left the Buzz Saw and made his way across the parking lot toward his truck. He was shot once in the head with a high-caliber bullet fired, witnesses said, from a wooded rise on the other side of the highway, a distance of approximately seventy-five yards.