Red Knife

by William Kent Krueger

  “What are you doing here?” he said to Jo.

  “Lucinda asked me. She’d like me to represent you. I told her I would, if you agreed.”

  “Nothing to represent. Open-and-shut case. I killed the son of a bitch who killed my son. That’s all there is to it.”

  “Why not let the sheriff’s people handle it?”

  “They were doing nothing. I got tired of waiting.”

  “How did you do it, Will?”

  “I shot him.”

  “Could you be more specific?”

  “I knew he liked to drink at the Buzz Saw. I took up a position on a rise across the road where there was cover and a good field of vision. When he came out, I shot him.”

  “What did you use?”

  “My Dragunov. It was an easy shot.”

  “Easy shot? That’s not what the sheriff’s people think.”

  “For a trained sniper, it was a cakewalk, believe me.”

  “Where’s the Dragunov?”

  “I got rid of it. Threw it in a lake.”

  “What lake?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking too clearly.”

  “Where did you go after that?”

  “Drove, just drove.”

  “Drove? Where were you parked when you shot Reinhardt?”

  “Down the road.”

  “Could you be more specific?”

  “About half a mile north, where Lowell Lake Road comes in.”

  “Okay, where did you drive to?”

  “What difference does that make?” he said.

  “Will, she’s trying to help,” Lucinda said.

  “Yeah, and what’ll this help cost? Because I’m thinking that in my situation, a public defender would do as well.”

  “For right now, Will, let me represent you. It’s what Lucinda’s asked. And I’ll let you know when I’m ready to begin charging for my services, which is not yet, okay?”

  He thought it over and agreed with a slight nod.

  “Can he come home?” Lucinda said.

  “No, Lucinda. They haven’t charged him yet, but they’re going to hold him. Because it’s the weekend, they have until Monday to make a decision. Then they’ll have to charge him or let him go.”

  Lucinda looked deeply into her husband’s eyes. As always, it was like staring into a starless night sky. Where is the light, Will? she wondered. He seemed not to care what was ahead for him. But she cared.

  “I’ll bring you something if you’d like,” she said. “Is there something, Will?”

  “Nothing. I don’t want anything, Luci. Who’s watching Misty?”

  “Uly. I called him at his friend’s house and asked him to come home.”

  “You told him about me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “No.” Then, “Yes. He said the man deserved it.”

  “Will,” Jo O’Connor said, “I don’t want you talking to anyone unless I’m present, is that understood?”

  “Yeah.”

  She looked at Lucinda. “We should go.”

  “May I kiss him good-bye?”

  “Of course.”

  Lucinda walked around the table to Will. He held himself rigid, and when she kissed his cheek made no sign that he’d felt it.

  Jo signaled the deputy, who came in and escorted Will away. The sheriff was waiting outside. She said to them, “Could we talk in my office?”

  Lucinda followed the sheriff through the department. No one looked at her oddly, looked at her like a woman whose husband had killed one of their citizens. And Jo O’Connor walked gracefully, as if it was natural for her to be in this place, and that helped Lucinda not to feel so helpless.

  When they were inside the office, the sheriff closed the door. “Please, have a seat. Would you like some coffee?”

  “No, thank you,” Lucinda said.

  “No thanks, Marsha.”

  The sheriff sat at her desk. Outside the window behind her, the sky was almost dark. Along the edge of the western horizon lay a pretty blue-green afterglow that reminded Lucinda of the color of a dress she’d once owned, long ago. The memory had a happy feel, though she couldn’t say why. It gave her a much needed sense of hope.

  “Mrs. Kingbird, I’m Sheriff Dross.”

  “I know.”

  “Your husband is in serious trouble.”

  “I understand.”

  “He’s confessed to murder, but all of us here who’ve spoken with him are a little confused.”

  “Why?” Jo asked.

  “We weren’t really looking at him for the crime. Because of the possible connection between Reinhardt and the murders of Alexander and Rayette Kingbird, he was a person of interest to us, of course. Still, I’m at a loss to understand why he came forward on his own.” She looked to Lucinda. “Can you help me?”

  The woman didn’t wear a badge or a uniform. She had a powder blue turtleneck sweater with the sleeves bunched just below her elbows. Her hands were large and bony, not pretty hands, though the nails were carefully manicured. She wore no makeup, and Lucinda saw lines at the corners of her mouth and eyes that told her the woman often smiled. This was someone, Lucinda thought, who might understand. But she couldn’t say what was in her heart, not to this woman, not to Jo, who was her friend, not to anyone.

  “I don’t know why he would do such a thing,” she said.

  The sheriff seemed disappointed. She turned her attention to Jo. “His confession may be enough to charge him. He certainly had motive and opportunity, and from his background we know he had the ability. It’s in the county attorney’s hands now, but there are things about all this that, frankly, trouble me. I’d like to talk with him some more.”

  Jo said, “I’ll need to be there when you do.”

  “Of course.”

  “Is that all, Marsha?”

  The sheriff looked again to Lucinda, who could tell she was being given one more chance to open her heart. Lucinda stared beyond her, out the window to the west, where the blue-green afterglow had faded away, replaced by the dark of night.

  “All right,” the sheriff said with a note of resignation. “I’ll be in touch.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  We need to talk, Luci.”

  They stood in the parking lot of the sheriff’s office under the glare of a halogen lamp high above them. Jo O’Connor’s face was an odd color, a kind of pale violet, and she looked troubled.

  “Are you hungry?” Lucinda asked.

  “I haven’t eaten since lunch.”

  “Let me make you something at my house and we can talk.”

  “Thanks. That would be great.”

  When she pulled into the driveway, Lucinda saw Ulysses standing at the picture window, watching for her. She parked in the garage, waited until Jo arrived, and the two women walked together into the house.

  “What’s up with Dad?” Uly asked as soon as they’d passed through the door.

  “They’re keeping him,” Lucinda replied.

  Uly gave Jo a pleading look. “It’s got to be, like, you know, justifiable homicide or something, right?”

  “They haven’t charged him yet, Uly. Maybe they won’t.”

  “They shouldn’t. I mean talk about justice.”

  “Your father will be fine,” Lucinda said, trying her best to sound reassuring. “He’s safe and Mrs. O’Connor will help us get him out.”

  “Sure,” Uly said. “Yeah, he’ll be fine. Thanks, Mrs. O’Connor.”

  “Misty?” Lucinda asked.

  “I put her down, Mom. She cried for a little while but went to sleep, maybe half an hour ago. Can I go back to Darrell’s?” He looked at Jo O’Connor. “We’re in the middle of this awesome online video game. It’s called Kings of Chaos.”

  “Will you be late?” Lucinda asked.

  “Maybe.”

  “Is it all right with Mr. Gallagher?”

  “Yeah. He likes Darrell to have company.”

  “I suppose it
will be all right then.”

  He went to the closet and grabbed his jacket from a hanger.

  “Good night, Ulysses. Be good,” Lucinda said.

  “I wish you wouldn’t say that.”

  “It’s what I always wish.”

  “Yeah, well it always sounds like you think I’m up to something.”

  “It’s just what parents say.”

  “Whatever.” He shrugged his jacket on and opened the front door. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mom. ’Night, Mrs. O’Connor.”

  “Good night, Uly.”

  The front porch shivered as he clumped down the steps. Lucinda walked to the window and watched him jog into the night.

  “He’s going through a difficult time,” she said.

  “I understand.”

  “He really is a good boy.”

  “I know.”

  She turned to Jo. “He wants to be a musician.”

  “He’s very good.”

  “Yes.” She brightened a little. “I have tamales. I make them myself. Would that be all right?”

  “That sounds delicious, Luci.”

  When everything was ready, they sat at the kitchen table and ate. Without Will and Uly there, the house was quiet and felt empty. Lucinda was grateful for the company. Through the preparation of the meal and the eating, they’d talked about small things: church, Uly’s music, Annie O’Connor’s college plans, and sweet little Misty. When the meal was over and they’d taken the plates to the sink, Jo leaned against the counter and said, “Luci, let’s talk about Will. Do you think he killed Buck Reinhardt? I need you to be honest with me.”

  “Will . . . Will has killed men, this I know. He has trained men to kill other men. These were his jobs in the marines. But this man, I think he didn’t kill.”

  “Why do you believe that?”

  “I thought at first he did. But . . .”

  “Go on.”

  “You won’t understand,” Lucinda said.

  “I’ll try.”

  She looked at the wall above the kitchen table and tried to find the right words. “Whenever Will returned home from a mission, one that involved killing, he was—” She was embarrassed, but struggled on. “He was always eager to make love. I think that for him it was part of how he dealt with the killing. He was very different in those times. Vulnerable. I’m ashamed to say this, but I loved those moments, even when I knew what had come before. He needed me. Do you see?”

  “And this time?”

  “He was cold. Only cold.”

  “I understand, Luci. I’m not sure it would convince a jury, but let’s assume that it’s true. Why would he lie about killing Buck Reinhardt?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you know where he was when Reinhardt was shot?”

  Lucinda had a damp dish towel in her hand. She began to fold it carefully.

  “It’s important, Luci.”

  She opened the door under the sink and hung the dish towel on a rack there. She straightened up and finally looked at Jo O’Connor.

  “From almost the start of our marriage, Will would disappear sometimes. Just leave. A day or two. He always had a cover story. Some military operation. He couldn’t say where. Orders. Sometimes this was true, but sometimes when he came back, I knew it wasn’t. I never pushed him about it. Two, maybe three times a year this would happen. When he left the marines, it continued. He had different excuses. Delivering a special order for a customer. A gun show. A reunion with some of his old friends from the service. The last couple of years, he hasn’t even bothered with excuses. He just goes. He knows I won’t say anything. Or Ulysses. It’s one of the things we never discuss.”

  “Do you know where he goes?”

  Lucinda bent and opened the bottom drawer beside the sink. She dug under the pot holders she kept stored there and brought up a cardboard coaster and a book of matches. Both held the image of an orange flame against a solid black background. Under the flame were the words SLOW BURN BAR. DULUTH’S HOTTEST SPOT. She handed the items to Jo.

  “I found the matchbook in the pocket of his coat when I took it to the cleaners last year. The coaster Uly found a few months ago when he vacuumed his father’s car. I told him his father had picked it up when he met one of his old marine buddies. I told him it wasn’t important. But I’ve also seen credit card bills with charges from this place.”

  “What do they mean?”

  “When we spoke in your office and I told you I wanted to leave Will, you asked me if I thought he was involved with another woman. I said no. That wasn’t exactly the truth. I have always suspected that Will visits prostitutes when he’s gone.” She watched Jo O’Connor’s face for surprise or condemnation. She saw neither, and she went on. “Because of his duty, we were sometimes separated for long periods, and a man is a man. I accepted that. I have never been afraid that he would leave me for some other woman. And I always thought it was better to have a man than to be alone, especially with two boys. There are worse things than a husband who sleeps with prostitutes.”

  “You think he may have been with a prostitute the night Buck Reinhardt was shot?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “I can understand why he would lie about that. But if he was with someone else, I can’t understand why he would lie about killing Reinhardt.” Jo rubbed her forehead and thought for a moment. “Luci, if he was with another woman, a prostitute, and we find this woman and she verifies that Will wasn’t even in Aurora when Reinhardt was shot, it would go a long way toward getting him released.” She reached out and put a hand gently on Lucinda’s arm. “Would you like to help Will?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you let me tell my husband these things? He’s a licensed private investigator. If Will was with someone, Cork might be able to find out who she was and talk to her.”

  “Will won’t like it, me interfering this way.”

  “This isn’t just for Will. This is about your life, too, Luci. And Uly’s and Misty’s.”

  She felt confused and afraid. “I don’t understand why he would lie about murdering Buck Reinhardt.”

  “Let’s take it one step at a time. First let’s do our best to prove that he couldn’t have done it. Then we’ll talk to him about the lie, all right?”

  The weight of everything felt so heavy. She wanted so much to have the burden lifted, or at least shared. She looked into the face of her friend, into Jo O’Connor’s blue eyes, into their comforting certainty.

  “All right,” she agreed.

  In the next moment, she found herself in her good friend’s embrace, weeping a torrent of blessed tears.

  Cork examined the matchbook and the coaster. “Should be easy enough to find. But if Will’s been keeping company with a lady of the night, she could be difficult to track down and even then it might be impossible to get anything useful from her. I never knew a hooker to give up a john without some leverage being used on her, and I’ve got none.”

  “Money?” Jo suggested.

  “Are we on the Kingbirds’ nickel?”

  “Cork, do what you have to. We’ll worry about sorting out the finances later.”

  They sat on the sofa in the living room. Stevie had long ago gone to bed. Trixie had drifted downstairs and settled herself in the middle of the floor, her eyes blinking drowsily as she watched them talk. The windows were open and a night breeze blew through, bringing from the backyard the random and sonorous notes of the wind chimes that hung beside the patio.

  “Does Will know?” Cork asked.

  “No.”

  “If he’s lying about Reinhardt, he has his reasons. He won’t be happy that we’re interfering. An argument could be made that we ought to let him go down whatever road he’s chosen.”

  “I think Luci’s is the better argument, that what Will does affects not just him, and shouldn’t she and Uly and Misty have some protection.”

  “All right.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “That I
concede your point. Besides, the truth is, I’m intrigued. If Will’s lying about killing Reinhardt, I’d love to know why.”

  “The question of the day. I think we ought to get him out of jail before we ask him that one.”

  Cork glanced at his watch. “It’s almost eleven. I couldn’t make it to Duluth tonight in time to do any good. I’ll go tomorrow. I’ve got two meetings in the morning, one with LeDuc and the other with Marsha Dross. Then I want to stop by Sam’s Place. I can head down after that, early afternoon.”

  “Cork.” Jo turned on the sofa so that she faced him fully. She reached out and put her hand gently against his chest, over his heart. “I don’t tell you this often enough, I know, but I so appreciate you. I feel lucky that you’re my husband. I love you very much.”

  Cork was caught by surprise. “Thank you,” he said. “Where did that come from?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m going to try to be better about making sure you know how much I love you and how much I value you.”

  “You’re not dying, are you?”

  She laughed.

  “You know I feel the same way about you,” he said and kissed her. “And you’re right. We should say it more often.”

  They were in the middle of another kiss when Annie walked in. “Get a room,” she said. She dropped into the easy chair.

  “Congratulations on the game,” Jo said. “How was your evening?”

  “Fun. How was yours?”

  “Odd,” Jo replied. “Will Kingbird confessed to shooting Buck Reinhardt.”

  In Annie’s face, Cork saw not only surprise but also dismay. The first words out his daughter’s mouth were, “Poor Uly.”

  In her room, Annie sat down at her computer and IM’ed Ulysses Kingbird.

  r u there

  She waited for a reply that didn’t come. She tried again, same message with the same result. Finally she typed here if u need me. She got ready for bed and lay down. Once more she kept a promise she’d made a few days earlier.

  “Dear God, please take care of Uly.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  Cork ran early Saturday morning and he ran alone. When he began, the streets were empty and the houses dark. Iron Lake, when he reached the shoreline, was a cauldron full of black water and gray mist. He ran north until the rising sun threw a warm glow into the sky and turned the tops of the pine trees orange, then he turned and ran back. By the time he returned to Sam’s Place and began the final leg, the sun was up fully and the lake was dotted with boats.