Red Knife

by William Kent Krueger

  Fishing opener in Minnesota.

  At home, Cork found that Stevie was the only one awake. The little guy had poured himself a bowl of Cheerios and milk, set up a television tray, and was watching a cable wildlife program while he ate. He barely noticed his father coming in. Cork showered, groomed, and quietly dressed. He wrote a note to Jo, which he slipped under an empty coffee cup that he put on the kitchen table, and he left.

  He drove to Allouette, on the reservation. In the back room of LeDuc’s store, he met with George and the others who, with goofy grins, continued to refer to themselves as the Red Menz. Tom Blessing was there. They drank coffee that Sarah LeDuc brought from the Mocha Moose next door.

  At seventy, LeDuc was the oldest, though his vigor rivaled that of any man present. He took one of the two folding chairs, as did Lester Neadeau, also an elder. Cork and the other men sat on overturned crates or stood leaning against a wall.

  “What did you say to them?” LeDuc asked.

  Blessing, who’d been instructed to sit on several bags of Purina Puppy Chow that LeDuc had stacked in the center of the room, said, “I told them I wanted new terms. I told them that with all the trouble here, it was more dangerous to move the stuff than before. Anything less than sixty percent of the gross wouldn’t cut it.”

  “Sixty percent? They must’ve thought you were crazy,” Cork said.

  “I told them I was open to negotiation. That’s when they said Ortega would come to discuss the matter.”

  “When?”

  “He’ll fly out of Chicago tomorrow, arrive around noon. I said I’d meet him at the dock on Black Duck Lake.”

  Cork said, “They’ll be planning to say hello to you the same way they did to Alexander and Rayette Kingbird.”

  “I’m not afraid,” Blessing replied.

  LeDuc folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. “We need to be ready for them.”

  They spent another hour planning the reception for the Latin Lords, and when they were all agreed and each understood his part, they broke up and went their separate ways.

  Cork returned to Aurora and drove to the sheriff’s department. Cy Borkman, who was on the contact desk that morning, buzzed him through the security door. On the other side, he nearly bumped into BCA agent Simon Rutledge, who had a cup full of coffee in his hand.

  “Morning, Cork,” Rutledge said.

  “You sound chipper, Simon.”

  “And why not? Beautiful day.”

  “You a fisherman?”

  “Yeah, but I never go out on opener. Like battling the crowds at a department store on the day after Thanksgiving. Peace and quiet is a big reason I’m on the lake. Care for some coffee?”

  “I can get it myself.” Cork pulled a cup from a stack of Styrofoam disposables near the coffeepot.

  “We’re all in the sheriff’s office,” Rutledge said.

  “I’m right behind you.”

  Marsha Dross was seated at her desk. Ed Larson stood behind her, looking over her shoulder at some papers she held. They both glanced up when Cork walked in and he had the sense that his presence had caused them to cut off their conversation.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Cork said. “A little business to take care of first.”

  “Anything to do with finding Thunder?” Larson asked.

  “Personal,” Cork said.

  He took one of the empty chairs and Rutledge took the other. Larson remained standing at the sheriff’s shoulder. A beam of sunlight the color of a pine plank slanted through the east window, looking solid enough to walk on.

  Dross folded her hands and said, rather formally, “Have you made any progress in finding Thunder?”

  “Finding him? No. I do know he’s still on the rez.”

  “I suppose that’s something.” She exchanged an enigmatic look with Larson before continuing. “And you’re still convinced he’s responsible for the Kingbird killings?”

  “I may have to revise my thinking on that.”

  Larson said, “DEA believes strongly it was a drug-related hit. I agree.”

  Cork shrugged. “Who am I to argue with DEA?”

  “So basically you have nothing new?” Dross said.

  “Basically,” Cork said. “How about the Reinhardt shooting? Anything new there?”

  “You mean aside from Will Kingbird’s confession?” Larson said.

  “You believe his confession, Ed?”

  “Why shouldn’t I? We didn’t exactly beat it out of him.” Larson gave him a piercing look. “Unless you know something we don’t.”

  They all sat eyeing one another while dust slid down the plank of sunlight.

  “I don’t know what that would be,” Cork said.

  Dross glanced at her watch. “Then I guess there’s not much more to talk about this morning.” She folded her hands on the desk and stared at Cork until he stood. “Keep us informed, okay?”

  “Sure, Marsha.” He nodded to Larson. “Ed.”

  Rutledge stood up, too. “I’ll walk Cork to his car.”

  Across the street from the sheriff’s department, the park was full of children, giddy on that warm Saturday morning, bathed in the promise of spring. Rutledge stood by Cork’s Bronco eyeing the park and smiling broadly.

  “Chase has a track meet this afternoon,” he said, speaking of his teenage son. “I’d love to be there.”

  “But you won’t?”

  “Duty calls.”

  “What’s going on, Simon? Back there in Marsha’s office, I had the feeling we were all playing ring around the rosy. What do you guys know that I don’t?”

  “There’s a rumor floating around that you’ve been retained by the Iron Lake Ojibwe, Cork.”

  “I’m not going to say that’s true, but supposing it is?”

  “How does it go in the Bible, the line about no man serving two masters?”

  “Gospel of Matthew, and I don’t think it applies. We’ve all got parallel interests here, it seems to me, Simon. Everyone’s concerned with the same truths.”

  “Same truths, maybe. Not necessarily the same outcomes.”

  “All the Ojibwe want is justice.”

  “And what exactly is that, Cork? Seems to me a little like the story of the blind men and the elephant. Everyone has a different interpretation.” Rutledge had been grinning affably, but now he stopped. “Remember one thing. We’re the cops. We can hold stuff back. You hold something back from us, it’s different.”

  “I know the rules, Simon.”

  “I’m sure you do.” He shook Cork’s hand cordially in parting and took a last wistful look at the park.

  FORTY

  On his way out of town, Cork stopped at Sam’s Place to pick up some cash, which he kept in a safe he’d installed in the floor. When he pulled up to the old Quonset hut, he saw a boat tied to the dock, near the picnic table, and a man and a boy standing at the serving windows. They watched him hopefully as he got out of his Bronco and walked toward them.

  “Morning,” he said.

  “Hi. You run the place, right?” the man greeted him.

  “That I do.”

  “Are you open today?”

  “Usually I would be, but I’m running a little behind this year. I’m looking at next weekend for sure.”

  “Oh.” The man glanced down at the boy, who didn’t look as if he was having the best of days. “We come every year for opener, always make a stop at Sam’s Place. Kind of a tradition.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. How’s the fishing?”

  “Not even a nibble so far,” the boy said, his disappointment obvious.

  “Have you tried casting a line off North Point?” Cork said.

  “No,” the man answered. “We were south.”

  “There’s a drop-off about fifty yards to the west of the tip of the point. Usually good in early season. Give it a try. And I hate to send you to the competition, but if you dock at the Four Seasons in town, they serve a pretty mean cheeseburger. Of course, they’ll charge you double
what you’d pay here.”

  The man smiled at the boy. “What do you say?”

  “That sounds okay. I’m hungry.”

  The man offered Cork his hand. “Thanks.”

  “Good luck with those walleyes.”

  He watched them head to their boat and cast off, and he felt guilty for letting them down. He liked the idea that people counted on Sam’s Place, that they appreciated it enough to make it a part of their tradition. This created a different kind of contract with the public, it was more than just delivering good food. But there was nothing to be done about that now. He went inside to grab the money he’d come for.

  It took him a couple of hours to drive to Duluth. Much of the way he thought about what had been planned at LeDuc’s store that morning. Dangerous business with the very real potential of ending badly. Good men might be hurt or killed and if that happened, how could it possibly be explained? Fortunately it would all go down on rez land, and the Iron Lake Ojibwe were good at keeping secrets. Or were they? Somehow Dross and the others had learned that he’d been retained and was now in the service of the Ojibwe.

  But there was another, even deeper concern for Cork. He’d spent much of his life trying to prevent violence, yet here he was, party to a plan that almost ensured it. Was there some other way to confront an organization like the Latin Lords, for whom killing seemed to come as easily as sleep? He’d wrestled with the urge to talk to Marsha Dross, but he’d given his word to LeDuc, and he would stand by that. Besides, bringing in law enforcement would lead eventually to disclosures that would put a lot of the Red Boyz behind bars. It made sense for the Ojibwe to handle the situation. In the end, what Cork hoped was that the show of solidarity among the Anishinaabeg, the closing of the ranks between the young and old warriors, would be enough in itself to convince the Latin Lords that this was territory they should abandon. Whatever happened, for better or worse, he would be a part of it. In what was to come, he was one of The People.

  When he arrived in Duluth, he was greeted with a fine day in the harbor city. The hills rose to the west, steep and green, and the streets that ran down toward Lake Superior were rivers flooded with the gush of spring sunshine. Two freighters lay anchored outside the harbor, awaiting permission to enter the port. They looked like black whales stranded on a blue beach. The Slow Burn Bar turned out to be on Superior Street, within sight of the harbor and the Lift Bridge. Cork parked at the curb and headed to the door. In the glass display out front was a poster hyping the Follies that occurred every Saturday night. The graphic illustration seemed to be suggestive of the Folies Bergère: a dance line of women lifting their dresses to show dark stockings and frilly underthings. Cork noted that the names of the featured performers, which were printed below the illustration, were all male.

  Inside, the Slow Burn was quiet and, compared to the bright afternoon outside, dark. A dozen small, round tables were set about the central floor area, which was outlined with small booths lit by Tiffany-style lamps. Along one side of the room was a raised platform, a kind of stage, where performances—the Follies, perhaps—could take place. A beautifully restored wood bar with a long beveled-glass mirror behind it stretched almost the entire length of the back wall. Above the bar at one end hung a television, the only one in the place, tuned at the moment to a home-remodeling program but with the sound muted. The Slow Burn smelled of fine old wood and only faintly of booze. Two booths were occupied by couples. In another booth near the front sat a solitary drinker, a young woman, reading a book and sipping a Bloody Mary.

  The bartender looked to be in his thirties, hair shaved to a shadow, wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt. “What can I get you?” he asked.

  “Do you have Leinie’s on tap?”

  “Only Honey Weiss.”

  “What do you have in bottles?”

  “Everything.”

  “Give me a Leinie’s Dark, then.”

  The bartender brought the bottle, a glass, and a coaster. Cork handed him a twenty. “Keep the change,” he said.

  The bartender looked at the bill, then at Cork. “You’re buying more than beer, I’m guessing.”

  “I’m interested in a man.”

  “Honey, aren’t we all?”

  From his jacket pocket, Cork pulled the photo of Will Kingbird that Lucinda had given to Jo. He held it out for the bartender to get a good look.

  “Familiar?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “His wife.”

  “Can’t help you.”

  Cork took another twenty from his wallet and laid it down. The bartender’s hand swallowed it. “I still can’t help you. Honestly, I’ve never seen the guy.”

  “He might have been here Wednesday night.”

  “Ah. Bondage-à-Go-Go.”

  “Bondage-à-Go-Go?”

  “S and M lite. A lot of straights in the crowd. Kenny’s behind the bar on Wednesday nights. You could come back then. Or you could talk to Mistress Imorg over there.” He nodded toward the woman drinking alone and reading in the booth up front.

  “Mistress Imorg?”

  “Her professional name. Otherwise she goes by Sue. She’s a Wednesday-night regular.”

  Mistress Imorg, otherwise known as Sue, appeared to be in her late twenties. She was slim and had blond hair pulled back in a long ponytail. She wore glasses with slender, rectangular frames. She was dressed in a white sweater and jeans and sported pink sneakers on her feet. Her nails and lipstick matched her shoes.

  “Mistress Imorg?” Cork said.

  The woman looked up slowly and didn’t speak.

  “Could I buy you a drink?”

  The woman continued to stare and to hold to her silence.

  Cork produced a business card and set it on the table. “I’m looking for information on a man who may have been here last Wednesday night.”

  She glanced at the card. “Let me guess,” she said in a flat tone. “A wife who doesn’t understand.”

  “Not exactly. May I sit down?”

  She considered him. Her eyes were chips of jade. She closed her book and nodded for him to sit on the other side of the table.

  “Mistress Imorg,” Cork said. “A dominatrix?”

  “In the business, also known as the top.”

  “Why ‘Mistress Imorg’?”

  “Do you really care?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  A little smile crept across her pink lips. “It’s from an episode of the old Star Trek series, the first one, with Kirk and Spock. They find a planet where women dominate men. The men are called Morgs, the women Imorgs. The men speak of the women as the givers of pain and delight.” She took a sip of her Bloody Mary. “What about this man you’re interested in?”

  “He’s in trouble. I’m trying to help.”

  Cork explained about Will Kingbird.

  “So if he was here,” Mistress Imorg said, “he couldn’t have been in your little town doing what he’s confessed to doing?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’re convinced his murder confession is a lie?”

  “His wife is. She thinks he was here on Wednesday night.”

  “If so, maybe he’d rather be known as a murderer than a man who enjoys bondage.”

  “That seems extreme.”

  “How much do you know about S and M, Mr.—” She glanced at the card Cork had given her. “—O’Connor?”

  “About enough to fill a matchbook cover.”

  She spent a good half minute studying him. Her sharp jade eyes never left his face. Finally she leaned forward and said, “Buy me that drink you offered, then I’ll educate you.”

  Cork headed to the bar. When he returned, Mistress Imorg was reading again. He saw that it was a novel, Great Expectations. “For my master’s thesis,” she explained as she closed the book. “Dickens wrote during the Victorian age, a time of incredible moral contradictions.” Cork put the drink down and slid into the booth. She took the celery stalk from the glass, delicately tapped it
clean, and set it aside.

  “Some people, Mr. O’Connor, have to be tied up to be free,” she began. “Those who don’t understand bondage believe it’s about sex. Generally speaking, it isn’t. It’s about catharsis. It’s about people who hold such a tight grip on their lives that they desperately need a way to let go and bondage is their liberation. I have clients—we call them bottoms—who head major companies or are doctors or lawyers. These are very successful, very powerful people. For them, the moderate sadomasochism I offer isn’t a sexual aberration so much as it is a metaphor through which the psyche speaks of its suffering and its passion. Strength can be a terrible burden. It’s a constraint, which often can be relieved only in moments of abandonment, of letting down and letting go.”

  “You sound like a therapist.”

  “In a way, I am. I offer clients a release that allows them to continue their daily living without the deep desperation that might threaten their normal lives, their families, their jobs, their mental health. But I’m not like your average MSW or PhD with a diploma hanging on the wall. People who go through accepted therapy are reluctant enough to reveal that fact. Imagine my clients. I’m sure there are those among them who would go to extreme measures to hide their proclivity.”

  Cork pulled out the photograph of Will Kingbird that Lucinda had given him and slid it across the table. “Is this man one of them?”

  She took the photo, but her face gave away nothing. “Part of what I promise my clients, Mr. O’Connor, is discretion.”

  “Look, I don’t want to resort to threats, but I could probably make your professional life difficult. I have friends on the Duluth police force.”

  She almost laughed. “You think I don’t?”

  Cork sat back. “Sorry. I’m just a little desperate here. You have to understand that Will’s wife has been through a lot lately. Now her husband’s in jail for a murder he probably didn’t commit. Lucinda believes he was with a prostitute on Wednesday night and she’s accepted that. How much worse could this be?” He opened his hands toward her. “If you can, Mistress Imorg, help her. Please.”