Cork and his family made the late service. As he went through the Sacrament of Reconciliation, he considered deeply what had occurred that morning, the carnage of which he’d been a part. When he looked into the cup of red wine at the rail, he thought about the blood of the five men slaughtered at dawn. Returning to the pew, he knelt and prayed, explaining that the dark and hungry thing Meloux had seen in his vision had to be the Latin Lords. He told himself and God that although killing was never good, it was sometimes necessary, and that it had been essential that the Ojibwe deal with the Latin Lords before the youth of the reservation were swallowed by that darkness. In the end he accepted that he didn’t know if those five men had died for anything but he was certain they’d been killed for something, and in the balance between the elements that made the world better and those that made it worse, what had happened that morning at Black Duck Lake was for the best. He could live with it. He would have to.
In the parking lot, a sheriff’s cruiser was parked next to Jo’s Toyota. When the O’Connor family left the church, Deputy Cy Borkman got out.
“Morning, everybody,” he said. Borkman was a heavy man and as he smiled in the sunlight, the loose flesh of his face folded into deep, easy creases. “Cork, the sheriff would like to see you.”
“What about, Cy?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“All right. Let me take my family home and I’ll be there directly.”
“I think you’d better come now. You can ride with me.”
“Sounds serious.”
Borkman didn’t reply, just stood squinting against the glare of the sun, waiting.
Cork kissed Jo. “If this is going to take long, I’ll call.”
“I’ll save you some lunch,” she promised.
Cy Borkman had begun his law enforcement career when Cork’s father was sheriff of Tamarack County. Cork had known him all his life and considered him a good friend. “Come on, Cy,” he said as they pulled out of the parking lot. “What’s up?”
Borkman shook his head. “Can’t say.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“You’ll know soon enough.”
“Is it bad?”
Borkman turned onto Oak Street and headed south, toward the sheriff’s department. “Sure going to be bad for someone,” he said.
Cork smiled, trying to make it as affable an expression as he could muster. “Bad for me?”
Borkman drilled him with a frank look. “What’s the matter? Got a guilty conscience?”
Cork let it go and for the rest of the ride listened to the squawk of the cruiser’s radio and to Borkman, who jawed enviously about all the reports of big fish caught the day before. Borkman ushered him through the security door and escorted him to the sheriff’s office, where Marsha Dross and Simon Rutledge were waiting.
“Thanks, Cy. We’ll take it from here.” When the deputy was gone, the sheriff said, “Have a seat, Cork. Would you like some coffee?”
“No, thanks.” Cork took the empty chair. “What’s this about, Marsha?”
“We know who killed Buck Reinhardt.”
Cork was truly surprised. “That’s great. Are you going to tell me?”
“Actually, I’ll leave that to Simon, since he’s the one responsible.”
Rutledge sat on the sill of an open window, relaxed, with his legs crossed. He wore faded jeans, a white shirt under a navy cardigan, and New Balance walking shoes. He looked like a college professor about to address his class, pleased with what he was going to present.
“You remember the night Reinhardt was killed, after we finished at the Buzz Saw, I made a rather late visit to his wife, Elise.”
“I remember,” Cork said. He recalled the joking speculation that Rutledge had more than business on his mind.
“I figured she was bitter already and dealing with a good deal of grief over the death of her daughter, and once she learned about her husband’s faithless behavior she’d probably added anger to the mix. It seemed to me a volatile combination, one that might drive a person to do something as extreme as murder. Call it a hunch.”
“A hunch?” Dross laughed. “Come on, Simon, you put it together like a chemical formula.”
Rutledge smiled and went on. “When we interviewed her earlier, she told us she usually didn’t go to bed until well after midnight, when the booze finally put her under. She was up when I got there, and as a matter of fact, had a drink in her hand.”
“A little surprised to see you, I imagine,” Cork said.
“Absolutely. But you know me, Cork. Utterly charming. She invited me in, offered me a drink, which I accepted, and we had a little chitchat about this and that, during which I mostly sympathized with her situation. She was pretty well lubricated and I steered the conversation toward the killing. I assured her we’d get the shooter. All we had to do was locate the rifle that had been used, and I was sure that wouldn’t be too difficult since we had an expended cartridge, which would give us plenty to go on. Unless—I added this as a dramatic afterthought—the shooter had the presence of mind to get rid of the weapon. Right away, I could see a kind of desperate realization in her eyes, which she tried to cover by undoing the top button of her blouse.”
“And did her action distract you, Agent Rutledge?” Dross asked.
“A lesser man maybe. Me, I simply bid her good night and drove away. Or appeared to drive away. A couple of hundred yards down the road, I killed the headlights, parked, and hoofed it back to the Reinhardt place, which I intended to keep under surveillance all night if need be. Wasn’t necessary. Within twenty minutes, Ms. Reinhardt comes out of the house, stumbles down to the lake, and throws something in. After the lights finally go out inside, I wade into that cold water and come up with a very nice-looking Weatherby Mark Five. I took it to the BCA lab in Bemidji to have them check for a match against any impressed action marks on the shell we found at the crime scene. We got the results this morning. The rifle Elise Reinhardt threw into the lake is the same weapon that killed her husband.”
“Ed Larson is out there right now with a warrant for her arrest,” the sheriff said, finishing the story. “We thought you’d want to know.”
“Thanks.”
“Some cases,” Rutledge said, “you know what the truth is but you’re never able to accumulate the evidence to prove it. But every once in a while, it gets handed to you on a platter.”
“But some cases you’re never sure what the truth is,” Dross said. “Any headway tracking down Lonnie Thunder, Cork?”
“I hate to admit it, Marsha, but I’m giving up the search for Thunder. As nearly as I can tell, he’s gone from the reservation, gone for good.”
“Do you still think he was responsible for killing the Kingbirds?”
“No.”
“Nor do I,” the sheriff said. “I’m with Ed Larson on this one. I think it was a drug hit. We’ll keep working with the DEA, but we may never know the truth of what happened out there. I hate leaving the case open. I’m sure the Ojibwe will have a lot to say about that. I think what we do now is focus on shutting down the Red Boyz operation.”
“I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” Cork said. “I get the feeling they’re already disbanding and that some of the older men will be taking them under their wings. In the end, I think good things will come out of this.”
“There’s something else I think you ought to know,” Dross said. “We’re holding Cal Richards and Dave Reinhardt pending charges of arson.”
“How’d that happen?”
“Richards got drunk at the Buzz Saw last night, started spouting stuff about beating up one of the Red Boyz and burning out another. Talk about dumb. Seneca Peterson called us. When we brought him in for questioning he buckled in ten minutes. Claimed to be proud of what he’d done. Dropped the dime on Dave Reinhardt while he was at it.”
“Reinhardt, now there’s a shame. Never thought he was a bad guy,” Rutledge said.
“His old man really screw
ed with his head,” Cork said. “Have you picked him up yet?”
Dross nodded. “He’s all lawyered up, but he’s also feeling pretty bad since we told him it was Elise who killed his father. I’m thinking that after it eats on him awhile, he’ll talk.” She sat back in her chair and took a deep breath. “I’m hoping things in Tamarack County quiet down now. The last week has shot the budget to hell. And I could use a good night’s sleep.”
“Me, I’m heading home,” Rutledge said, pushing away from the windowsill. “Always a pleasure working with you folks.”
“How’d your son do in the track meet yesterday?” Cork asked as Rutledge headed for the door.
“Like I told him last night on the phone, losing builds character. I’m just proud he was out there trying.” He turned with a smile and headed out the door.
In the quiet after Rutledge had gone, Dross turned her chair and looked out the window at the park across the street. “It’s been a tough week, Cork. There were times I wished to God I wasn’t the sheriff.”
“I suspect there’ll be a lot more of those before you retire.”
She swung around and faced him. “Thanks for all your help. You put a lot on the line when you didn’t have to.”
“I’d say, ‘Any time,’ except Jo would kill me.” Cork turned and walked to the door. “Get some rest, Sheriff,” he said over his shoulder. “You deserve it.”
FORTY-FOUR
The baby’s cry pulled Lucinda from her husband’s arms. She went to see to Misty. The phone rang and she heard Will answer. She changed the baby’s diaper and put her in a new outfit, little Oshkosh overalls that had been a gift from one of the families who’d come to the visitation for Rayette and Alejandro. When she came into the living room with the baby in her arms, she found Will standing at the picture window, gazing out at the beautiful Sunday morning. He turned to her and looked happy.
“What is it?” she asked.
“That was Cork O’Connor on the phone. The sheriff is arresting Elise Reinhardt for killing her husband.”
“They’re sure it was her?”
“Cork says there’s proof. I told him I was afraid it had been Uly, because of the missing Dragunov and all. He told me he thought it might have been Uly, too. He figured we’d be relieved.”
“Oh, Will.” She felt a flood of relief, of gratitude, of happiness.
“That still doesn’t answer the question of why Uly took the rifle,” Will said.
“You can ask him yourself.” She nodded toward the road, visible through the window, where she saw Uly walking from town, carrying the overnight bag he’d taken to Darrell Gallagher’s house.
At the driveway Uly stopped for a minute, staring back toward Aurora.
“Sometimes he looks so lost it breaks my heart,” Lucinda said.
“At that age, Luci, everybody’s lost.” Will put his arm around her shoulders. “Tell me an age we aren’t.” He strode to the front door and called out, “Uly, could we talk to you?”
Uly dragged his feet up the steps like a man mounting the gallows.
Lucinda put the baby on the floor and sat down with her. She had Misty’s pink rubber pig in her hand, which squeaked whenever she squeezed. She made the pig squeak and Misty smiled and tried to reach for the toy.
When Uly was inside, Will said, “Sit down.”
Uly set his overnight bag on the floor and dropped onto the sofa. If he was surprised or pleased to see that his father had been released from jail, he didn’t show it. He put his hands together, almost as if he expected to be handcuffed, and he looked up at his father with a face ready to sulk. “What did I do now?”
“We just got word that they’re arresting Buck Reinhardt’s wife for his murder.”
Uly often hid his emotions behind a wall of feigned indifference, but the news had a visible effect. His whole body relaxed and his dark eyes lost their stony aspect and looked, in fact, as if they were about to melt.
“I don’t understand, Dad,” he said. “Why did you tell them you did it?”
“Because I thought you killed Buck Reinhardt.”
Uly looked stunned. “I killed him?”
“What other reason would you have for taking the Dragunov?”
Uly didn’t reply right away. His eyes settled on the baby, whose hands grasped at the pig in Lucinda’s hand. “I was going to kill him. I decided I couldn’t.”
“That’s a good thing,” Will said.
“I thought it was the kind of thing you would do.”
Will sat down beside his son and said, “I don’t want you to be me, Uly. I don’t want anyone growing up to be what I am.”
“Don’t say that, Will,” Lucinda broke in.
“It’s true, Luci.” He put his hand on his son’s shoulder. “There’s so much about my past that I would undo if I could, Uly, so much about who I am that I would change. I’m proud of who you are. I don’t tell you that enough, but I am. I’m proud of the man you’re becoming. I’d rather have you picking up a guitar than a rifle. It seems to me the world could use more music and less gunfire, son.”
Uly looked uncomfortable, but said, “Thanks.”
“Where’s the rifle?” Will asked.
“I’ve been keeping it at Darrell’s house.”
“I’d like it back today.”
“I’ll go now, if Mom’ll let me borrow her car again. But he might not be home. He was thinking of going fishing with his grandfather. If I can’t get it back today, I’ll pick it up first thing tomorrow morning and drop it off at the shop after school. Okay?”
“That’ll be fine.” Will stood up as if he was finished, but he said one more important thing. “Uly, when I thought it was you who killed Buck Reinhardt and I thought about the possibility of losing you, it was one of the hardest things I ever faced.” Then he said something Lucinda had never heard from him before. “I love you, son.”
Uly stared at his hands and finally said, “Can I go?”
“Sure.”
Uly lurched from the sofa and walked to the kitchen, where he took the extra set of car keys from the drawer where Lucinda kept them, then he headed out the door.
“I think I embarrassed him,” Will said.
Lucinda gazed up at him and smiled. “I love you, Will Kingbird.”
Misty gurgled and flailed. Will bent down and lifted her in his arms.
“You always wanted a daughter to complete this family, Luci. The Lord works in mysterious ways, I guess.” He gave the baby a gentle kiss.
Late that night, Annie sat at her computer, trying to bring to a close her term paper on the true authorship of the works attributed to William Shakespeare. She was drafting her conclusion, which was basically an admission that the truth may never be known and an assertion that, in the end, the truth was pointless. She figured she’d end with something sappy, maybe a line of full alliteration, something she thought Ms. Killian, her English teacher, would love.
Does it matter who created the rose? she typed. The important thing is that its beauty exists for all to enjoy. So it is with the words and the wisdom the world has credited to William Shakespeare.
She wasn’t sure if she liked it, but she was sick of writing. Then Uly Kingbird IM’ed her.
r u there
yes, she replied.
thank u
what for
your prayers helped
good
do u have more
for u
a friend
who
does it matter
The only friend she knew that Uly had was Darrell Gallagher.
i’ll pray, she replied.
There was a long pause. She waited patiently for what turned out to be Uly’s final message of the night: pray hard.
FORTY-FIVE
Cork slept better than he had in days, and he rose early and refreshed. He slipped into his running gear and hit the street while the rest of Gooseberry Lane was just beginning to crawl into Monday morning. Normally he woul
d have asked Annie if she wanted to run with him, but he knew she’d been up late the night before finishing a paper for her English class, the last major obstacle to a clean graduation. A couple more weeks of classes without much substance, a week full of ritual closure, and she was free. Softball practice in preparation for the state championship would fill her afternoons, but that was pure joy for her. As the sun rose over Iron Lake and put down a gold carpet under his feet, he felt like a man rich beyond his dreaming.
He ran a route that took him past Sam’s Place, where he stopped for a few minutes. The lake was the color of gemstones, sapphire water and topaz light, and above it two flights of geese arrowed north. He ran his hand along the wall of the Quonset hut and felt as if he was connecting with an old, neglected friend. His plan that day was to begin again the preparations to open the following weekend. There was a lot to be done, but he was looking forward to focusing on something simpler than all that had occupied his time and mind in the last week. He was looking forward to Aurora returning to normal, to settling into the quiet, unremarkable slide into summer, to the usual preparations for the migration of tourists that would come as surely as those flocks of Canada geese.
When he returned home, Annie was finishing her breakfast at the kitchen table.
“Dad,” she said, shoveling in the final spoonful of oatmeal, “you should have gotten me up.”
He pulled a tumbler from the cupboard and began to fill it at the kitchen tap. “Unfortunately you take after my side of the family, kiddo, and need all the beauty rest you can get,” he joked.
She crumpled her napkin and threw a fastball that caught him in the back of the head. “It’s best anyway,” she said. “I’m meeting Cara. We’re walking to school together.”
“Finish that paper?”
“Yeah, and I could live forever without reading another play by William Shakespeare. Or whoever.”
Jo entered the kitchen just in time to overhear the comment. “Someday you’ll understand there’s more to life than activities involving balls, Annie.”
Red Knife Page 26
