Red Knife

by William Kent Krueger

  Reinhardt’s eyes were webs of red lines. The booze and lack of sleep, Cork figured. “Who do you think you are, O’Connor, passing judgment on my father?”

  “I knew him my whole life, Dave. I don’t like speaking ill of the dead, but that man’s ghost needs to be put to rest. And no matter how much you drink, you’re not going to resurrect him with a whiskey bottle.”

  “Get out of here.”

  “Marsha Dross isn’t stupid. She’s going to figure you out. Me you can ignore. Marsha and her badge, they’ve got you trumped six ways from Sunday. Start using your head, Dave, before somebody gets hurt.”

  Cork walked back into the beautiful day, leaving Reinhardt alone in his office, plagued by a bad hangover and a badly misplaced sense of duty.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Lucinda Kingbird knew the man who stood on her porch in the shade of the early afternoon, although she could not remember his name. There was a title that went with it, something military. He had been at Alejandro’s home after she discovered the bodies that horrible Sunday morning.

  “Yes?” She held Misty to her shoulder, gently patting to bring up a burp. She did not open the screen door.

  “Ms. Kingbird, I’m Captain Ed Larson, from the sheriff’s department. We met the morning your son was killed.”

  “I remember.”

  “I’d like to speak with your husband. Is he home?”

  “No.”

  “I stopped by his shop, but it was closed. Do you know where he is?”

  “He’s away.”

  “Away? Out of town, you mean?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “You think so?” The policeman looked puzzled. “When did he leave?”

  “Last night.”

  “What time?”

  “I do not know. I was sleeping.”

  “Do you have any idea where your husband was last night around ten thirty?”

  “Why are you asking these questions?”

  “Ms. Kingbird, last night at approximately ten thirty, Buck Reinhardt was murdered.”

  “Madre de Dios,” Lucinda said involuntarily. She looked at the policeman. “You are here because you think Will did this thing?”

  “We don’t know who did it, Ms. Kingbird. As part of our investigation, we need to know the whereabouts of anyone who might have reason to have wanted Mr. Reinhardt dead. Do you see?”

  “Yes. You think that because people say this Buck Reinhardt killed my Alejandro and Rayette that we would want him dead. That is ridiculous.”

  “Nonetheless, Ms. Kingbird, we need to check. So, you have no idea where your husband was at ten thirty last night?”

  “We buried my son and daughter-in-law yesterday. It was a very hard day for us. We were tired. I went to bed here. My husband, I suspect, went to bed at his shop.”

  “And then left town without telling you?” When Lucinda didn’t reply, he went on, “Do you expect your husband home soon?”

  “Later today perhaps. Maybe tomorrow. How was this man killed?”

  “He was shot in the parking lot of a bar. A high-caliber rifle was used. It would save your husband and me a lot of trouble if you’d have him give me a call when he returns.”

  He pulled a card from his wallet and held it out. Lucinda opened the screen door and took it.

  “How’s the baby doing?” the policeman asked, finally smiling.

  “She is fine and beautiful,” Lucinda replied, forcing a smile in return.

  She watched the policeman leave, then she closed the door and dressed Misty for a trip outside. She went to the bedroom, opened the top dresser drawer, and from the small cedar box took the extra set of keys for the Gun Sight.

  By the time she reached Will’s shop, Misty was asleep in her car seat. Lucinda lifted her out carefully and the baby didn’t wake. She punched in the code to disengage the alarm, then opened the back room. She hurried to a tall rifle case that stood against the west wall and used one of the keys to unlock it. When she opened the door, she was confronted with a rack of what she knew were heavy-caliber rifles, her husband’s private collection. There was an empty slot where a rifle was missing. Lucinda thought about the three weapons she’d seen laid out on Will’s work table a couple of days before, and she realized the Dragunov was gone.

  “Oh, Will, Will,” she whispered, her heart full of despair. “What have you done?”

  THIRTY-THREE

  The procedure to repair Stevie’s nose was scheduled for one P.M. in one of the hospital’s day-surgery rooms. Both Cork and Jo were there to see him wheeled in. It was, Dr. Barron had assured them, a rather quick and simple procedure. The nose would be rebroken and set correctly. Stephen wouldn’t feel a thing, and his face would be just fine afterward, eventually showing no sign that his nose had ever been damaged. Stevie hadn’t seemed to mind the idea. What was most important to him was another day off from school.

  Cork walked with Jo to the waiting area after they rolled Stevie away.

  “Are you okay here by yourself?” he asked.

  “I told you I would be. Go do whatever it is you have to do.”

  She wasn’t angry with him, which was a little unusual. Earlier, when he’d told her he had something important to do and asked if she would mind waiting alone for Stevie’s procedure to be finished, he’d expected her to respond coolly at best. Instead she’d nodded thoughtfully and replied, “It’s about the Kingbird and Reinhardt business, I suppose.”

  “Yes.”

  “Who are you helping now?” She waved off the question even before he had a chance to reply. “It doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, it’s important to you, so go.”

  Now he kissed her briefly in the waiting area. “Thanks. I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

  She grabbed his hand as he turned to leave. “Come home tonight. Come home and stay. Whatever danger you believe there might be, I’d rather we all faced it together. We need you. I need you. Please.”

  Cork said, “I’ll be home, I promise.”

  He left the hospital and drove north, out of Aurora, keeping to the back county roads until he reached the trail to Meloux’s cabin, where he parked the Bronco and began the hike to Crow Point.

  Meloux wasn’t in his cabin. Neither he nor Walleye were anywhere in sight. Cork walked to the end of the point, where there was a stone fire ring in which Meloux often burned sage and sweet grass and cedar. No one was there and the ash in the fire ring was old and cold. Cork thought maybe the Mide had hiked into Allouette, which was a good six miles distant. It was a trip Meloux made at least once a week, in all weather, despite his more than nine decades on the earth. If Meloux had gone to Allouette, there was no telling when he might return.

  Cork walked back to the cabin and stood looking across the meadow. The wild grass was tall and green and already there were flowers: oxeye daisies and marsh marigolds and violets. The wind blew and the grass, shining in the sun, moved like waves of green water. Cork lifted his face and caught the scent of wood smoke. It came on the wind, which was out of the east. Now he knew where to find the old Mide.

  The path led past the outhouse, through a stand of birch, to the eastern shoreline of Crow Point. In a little clearing that edged the lake stood a small sweat lodge. The embers of a fire still smoldered in front of the structure’s opening, which was covered with a blanket. Near the fire was a pitchfork and next to the pitchfork lay Meloux’s old mutt, Walleye, fast asleep. Cork was downwind and the animal did not have his scent.

  Meloux built a new sweat lodge twice a year, in early spring and late fall. He constructed the frame of young, flexible willow limbs bound together with rawhide prayer ties. The frame formed a hemisphere that was seven or eight feet in diameter and, at the center, arched five feet off the ground. It was covered with a tarp that was overlaid with blankets, both layers used to keep the heat in and the light out. Cork had helped Meloux build several sweat lodges over the years, and he knew that a shallow bowl had been scooped in the earth inside. In that
bowl, Meloux would have carefully arranged the Grandfathers, the five stones that had been heated in the fire in front of the lodge until they were searing hot. Meloux had employed the pitchfork to carry the Grandfathers inside. Sometimes the old Mide used the sweat lodge in his healing ceremonies; sometimes he used it simply to cleanse himself and prepare for clear thought. Cork didn’t know if the old man was alone, and he didn’t want to disturb Meloux, whatever he was involved in. He picked up a small stick and broke it to announce his presence to the dog. Walleye’s eyes shot open, and his head popped up. The old mutt looked ready to bark a warning, but recognized Cork and slowly pushed to his feet. He lumbered over and Cork gave him a good patting, and the two of them settled down near the smoldering fire to wait.

  Nearly an hour passed before the old man emerged. He pushed back the blanket over the opening and came out naked, his skin flushed red, his long hair white and dripping wet. He was alone. He glanced up and saw Cork, but said nothing, instead making his way down to the lake, where he waded in. Cork knew the lake hadn’t warmed enough yet from the winter ice to be comfortable. The water could still cramp a man’s muscles instantly. But the old Mide showed no sign of discomfort as he bathed himself and drank to replenish the water his body had lost. Cork lifted the blanket that had been folded on the ground and offered it when the old man returned. Meloux’s skin had lost the red flush from the heat of the sweat lodge, and he looked refreshed and relaxed. He drew the blanket tight around him and said, “I’m hungry.”

  They returned to the cabin, where Cork found a pot of stew waiting on the stove. He stoked the fire and began heating the stew while Meloux dressed. When the food was hot, they sat at Meloux’s table and ate. Neither of them spoke. When the meal was finished, Meloux said, “We will smoke.”

  He took a small pouch of tobacco and a pipe whose bowl was carved of maroon stone and whose stem was wood and they walked to the fire ring at the end of Crow Point, Walleye padding quietly behind. The wind had died. The water of Iron Lake was blue and still, as if the sky had leaked onto the earth. The old Mide offered tobacco to the four cardinal directions, then filled the pipe and lit it. The two men shared the smoke in silence.

  Meloux finally spoke. “Something is out there, Corcoran O’Connor, something that eats the light. I have had a vision, but I do not understand it. It is something to be feared, enough to scare this old Mide. I have been trying to cleanse myself, to sweat out the fear so that I can meet this dark, hungry thing and know its face.”

  “I’m sorry if I disturbed you, Henry.”

  The old man waved off Cork’s apology. “I did not even know you had come.”

  “This dark thing, Henry, is it about the killing of the Kingbirds and Buck Reinhardt?”

  “Buck Reinhardt is dead?”

  “He was shot last night.”

  The old Mide shook his head. “Those are dark things, but I do not know if they are part of what I saw. When I am rested, I will try again.”

  In a way, Meloux’s words echoed Annie’s comment just a couple of days earlier, when Cork had talked with her after her suspension from school. She’d been afraid, too, and had likened it to something scary waiting to leap from the bushes.

  “Why have you come, Corcoran O’Connor?”

  “I thought I followed your advice, Henry, but I’m still confused.” Cork explained about how he’d interpreted Meloux’s enigmatic advice about taking a hawk’s-eye view in his search for Lonnie Thunder. He related his observation from the ridge above the cemetery during the Kingbirds’ funeral and how that had led to the old trapper shelter where Thunder had been, but not to Thunder himself. By the time Cork finished his story, the old man was grinning widely.

  “You’re staring at me like I’m an idiot, Henry. What did I do?”

  “Your way was one way of looking at the problem. It was very . . . creative,” the old man offered graciously.

  “But it wasn’t what you meant.”

  “Alexander Kingbird took for himself a name with greatness.” The old man fell silent while Cork puzzled.

  “Kakaik,” Cork said. “Hawk.”

  He mulled this over as Walleye got up from where he’d settled and nudged his head under Meloux’s old hand. The Mide gently stroked his old friend’s coat.

  “Okay, Henry, are you telling me to look at things as Kakaik looked at them? Is that what you meant by a hawk’s-eye view?”

  “Sometimes, Corcoran O’Connor, you remind me of a turtle. You move slow, but you get there.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a lot of help. How does it get me to Lonnie Thunder?”

  “If I knew where Obwandiyag was,” he said, using the name Thunder had taken as one of the Red Boyz, “I would tell you. I only know the way, not the destination.”

  “How can I look at things the way Kakaik did if I don’t really know who he was?”

  Like two polished stones the old Mide’s dark eyes held steadily on Cork.

  “Wrong question, huh?” Cork shook his head. “Are you saying that before I can understand his thinking, I need to know who he was? Henry, I don’t think anybody knows who he was. Do you?”

  “I can tell you about the man I knew, but that is only part of the whole.” Walleye settled down at the old man’s feet. Meloux caressed the dog as he spoke. “When he first came to me, Kakaik was like you are now, always asking questions. He wanted to know how, in the old ways of The People, a boy became a man. I explained giigiwishimowin, how a boy would seek a dream vision. He came back many times after that and we talked about many things. He was a man seeking to understand himself and his place, and I think, too, he was a man becoming something he did not expect.”

  “What was that, Henry?”

  “Anishinaabe.”

  Meloux stood. It was clear he’d said all he had to say to Cork. Walleye struggled to his feet, and they walked back to the cabin. Cork thanked the old man.

  “Henry, when you understand what this thing is that eats the light, will you let me know?”

  Meloux nodded, then added, “If it does not eat us all first.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  After visiting Meloux, Cork took an old logging road east, one that didn’t appear on any map. He made his way to County 15 on the far side of Iron Lake and drove to Allouette, on the rez. He stopped at LeDuc’s store, spoke briefly with George, then walked across the street to the large community center, which housed the tribal offices, the community health program, several meeting rooms, a gymnasium, and a recreation room. The Red Boyz could often be found at the center, shooting pool or shooting hoops. Cork checked the gym, which was being used at the moment by Ani Sorenson, who coached the Iron Lake Loons, the girl’s basketball team for the rez. She was taking a number of adolescent girls through drills. Basketball was serious business in the Indian community, and although the season was officially over, Sorenson and the girls kept working on their game. In the recreation room, he found Benny Fullmouth all alone, shooting pool. Fullmouth was twenty years old. He’d dropped out of high school at sixteen and spent the next couple of years getting into trouble—a lot of it triggered by drinking—and heading toward serious jail time. As far as Cork knew, Fullmouth had been clean since joining the Red Boyz. Like all the other gang members, he wore his hair long. At the moment, it was held back with a red bandanna tied around his head. When Cork walked in, Fullmouth glanced up from the table then completed his shot. In the quiet of the room, the crack was like a rock splitting.

  “Boozhoo, Benny,” Cork said.

  “What do you want?” Fullmouth circled the table, studying the placement of the balls.

  “Five minutes.”

  “I’m busy.”

  “You talk to me, it might help nail the person who killed Kakaik.”

  Fullmouth leaned down to eye an angle. “Somebody already took care of that.”

  “I don’t think Buck Reinhardt killed Kakaik.”

  “Right.”

  “Buck had an alibi, one that’s standing up.
He wasn’t anywhere near the rez the night Kakaik and Rayette were killed.”

  Fullmouth bent, laid his cue across the bridge of his hand, and shot. The cue ball struck the seven and sent it popping into the corner pocket.

  “I want one thing from you, Benny.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “Tell me who Kakaik was.”

  Fullmouth gave him a look that said Cork was an idiot and went back to studying the table.

  “You cleaned yourself up when you joined the Red Boyz, Benny.”

  “What of it?”

  “Was it Kakaik who made you do that?”

  “It’s what you do when you become one of the Red Boyz.”

  “Must’ve been tough. How’d you manage it?”

  Fullmouth drilled the side pocket with the next shot.

  “He made you go through giigiwishimowin,” Cork said.

  Fullmouth straightened up. “If you already know the answer, why ask the question?”

  “You had a vision?”

  “Yeah, I had a vision. And it won’t do you any good to ask.”

  “It made you one of the Red Boyz.”

  “It made me ready to be one of the Red Boyz.”

  “Kakaik did the rest?”

  “Look, what he did was help me see that when I was a kid, I thought only about myself. If I was going to be one of the Red Boyz, I had to think about The People.”

  “That’s what the Red Boyz are about? The People?”

  “We’re about warriors. We’re about brothers. Hell, the Red Boyz are better than brothers. Kakaik asked me to be one of them. He asked me.”

  “And what are the Red Boyz about, Benny?”

  “About purifying. Ourselves and the rez.”

  “The tribal council doesn’t look on the Red Boyz too kindly.”

  “All they care about is fucking with the BIA and keeping the casino running. That’s got nothing to do with being ogichidaa.” Which meant being a leader, a protector of the people and the land. “Kakaik was a great ogichidaa.” Fullmouth threw his cue on the table and tore open his shirt. He thrust his left shoulder into view. A scar, a branded R, was burned into the skin. “He gave me this when I became one of the Red Boyz. If he’d wanted me to cut off a finger, too, I’d’ve done it.”