Lightning Strike

by William Kent Krueger

  “Liam has never done that, and you know it.”

  “What I’m saying, Colleen, is that your husband, the sheriff, needs to be more forthcoming with the things he knows. Otherwise, it just looks like another cover-up.”

  From the sink, Cork said, “All he has is circumstantial evidence. It’s not enough.”

  “What circumstantial evidence?” Grandma Dilsey said.

  “I can’t say.”

  “I’m your grandmother, Corkie.”

  Cork’s mother said, “Wasn’t it you who just told me that when you’re asked to keep something to yourself you do that? Leave him be, Mom.”

  Grandma Dilsey said something in her native tongue. To which her daughter replied, “I wasn’t blind when I married Liam. I saw beyond his badge and into his heart. It’s not made of gold but it’s a good heart, Mother.”

  Grandma Dilsey got up from the table and prepared to head home. She took her cup to the sink and added it to the dishes still waiting to be washed. Then she returned to her daughter at the table and kissed the top of her head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so hard on Liam. It’s just a bad situation on the rez at the moment, and it worries me.” A small smile graced her lips, and she put her hand over her daughter’s and said quietly, “I never knew anyone, white or Ojibwe, whose heart was made of gold.”

  Cork watched his grandmother go. She’d always held her back straight and proud, but he saw how she bent now, as if weighted, and he didn’t know if it was because of the trouble on the rez or because that trouble was leaking into the O’Connor house, disturbing the peace that had always made it feel so safe.

  After Grandma Dilsey had gone, Cork’s mother grabbed a fresh towel and began drying the dishes he’d washed.

  “Dad said I was supposed to do that.”

  “I’ll take the heat for this one,” she said. “Consider it a reprieve.”

  Cork was scrubbing the pan in which the chicken had baked. “You knew Big John pretty well.”

  “I grew up with him.”

  “Everybody says the Boundary Waters was like a second home to him.”

  “I think he was more at home there than anywhere else. I remember a ceremony Henry Meloux held for him when he was thirteen. He’d run away from the boarding school again, and he vowed he was going to live in the woods and never go back. He and Henry built a canoe together, and together they disappeared into the Boundary Waters. We didn’t see them for almost a year. When they finally came out of the woods, Big John looked stronger and happier than any of us could ever remember. But the authorities were still looking for him, so he went back into the woods alone, and we saw him only occasionally over the next few years. He still has that canoe Henry helped him build.”

  Cork paused in his washing and thought a moment. “His canoe’s gone.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I was at his cabin with Dad after the funeral. Big John’s canoe wasn’t there.”

  “Maybe he loaned it to someone on the rez.”

  “And maybe he didn’t,” Cork said. “I think it’s something Dad should think about.”

  “Well then, you tell him when he gets home.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  “Ask him that, too. If he wants you to know, he’ll tell you.”

  Cork went back to his washing. That morning, he’d thought he was out of crumbs. But maybe he wasn’t.

  * * *

  Duncan MacDermid was already two sheets to the wind. He stood in the doorway of his guest cottage, rocking a little, as if winds were pushing at him from different directions. He had a glass in his hand, and Liam could smell the whiskey.

  “What do you want?” MacDermid said.

  “I need a couple of questions answered, Duncan.”

  “Tomorrow. Come back tomorrow.”

  “What’s wrong with right now?”

  “Not in the mood.”

  “I’ll be quick, then out of your hair. And you can get right back to your drinking.”

  MacDermid squinted, trying to focus. “What do you wanna know?”

  “How ‘bout we sit down? Your deck’s a nice spot.”

  MacDermid frowned, then turned without a word and led the way through the cottage. Liam stepped in, closed the door, and followed.

  The deck was softly illuminated, and the lights from Aurora lay like a necklace of multicolored jewels along the black shoreline of Iron Lake. The moon had risen but was still low in the sky, and the stars were diamonds on the black velvet dress of night. Liam thought about Chicago, a city so bright that, as a kid, he never saw stars.

  MacDermid sat down heavily in the larger wicker chair, and Liam sat facing him. In the dim light, MacDermid’s face was ashen.

  “When I asked you about the war, you didn’t mention that you’d been assigned to the USS Indianapolis,” Liam said.

  This was clearly not what MacDermid had expected, and he stared at Liam as if trying to see what was in his mind.

  “I did a little asking around. It’s true, yes? You served on the Indianapolis?”

  “Lieutenant Duncan MacDermid. Intelligence specialist.” He gave a little salute.

  “I know the story of the Indianapolis. When she went down, nearly a thousand men went into the water. And no one knew you were out there.”

  “The sharks, they knew. Circled us for days, picking us off one by one.”

  “I fought in the war, too, Duncan. Airborne. I still have nightmares. I can’t even begin to imagine what yours must be like.”

  MacDermid looked away, across the dark water of the lake. “Don’t even try,” he said.

  “The drink, does that help?”

  “I drank before the Indianapolis went down. Legacy of my father.”

  “Was Four Roses his favorite, too?”

  “And my grandfather’s. Family tradition.”

  “You know, people in this town think you’ve got it made. Beautiful estate, lots of money. Hell, you own one of the oldest and biggest mine operations on the Iron Range.” He paused and then said, “But you know what I think? I think it’s not so easy a life.”

  MacDermid put his drink down and seemed to be trying to focus.

  “I think it’s got to be hard being at the top. I think people look at you with all kinds of lofty expectations. I think you must have to work awfully hard to meet those expectations.”

  “Damn right,” MacDermid said.

  “And so it must have been a huge blow when Mary Margaret told you about her affair.”

  MacDermid’s face went slack for a moment.

  “I know about her and Big John, Duncan. The whole town knows.”

  MacDermid pressed his lips together in a line as thin as black thread. “That bitch. That slut.”

  “Did you know about the affair before she told you?”

  He picked up his drink again and took a slug. “I knew something was in the wind. She wouldn’t let me touch her. I finally dragged it out of her. When I found out it was an Indian, I wanted to puke. Told her I was gonna divorce her, gonna leave her with nothing.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “Hell, I didn’t want everyone knowing my wife was fucking an Indian.”

  “And then you went looking for Big John.”

  “Wanted to smash his face in.”

  “Did you find him?”

  MacDermid shook his head. “Must’ve heard I was looking for him and went into hiding, the coward. Then he goes and hangs himself. Good riddance.” MacDermid lifted his glass in a toast.

  Liam waited for him to drink again, then said, “Your lighter, the one that Oscar Manydeeds says he found at Lightning Strike, do you have any idea how it might have got there?”

  “I hadn’t seen it for a while, so maybe someone stole it. I’ve had things stolen from the house before.” He looked darkly at Liam. “As you well know.”

  “Do you know where Mary Margaret and Big John met to carry out their affair?”

  “She told me.”

&nb
sp; “Can you tell me where you were over the Fourth of July weekend?”

  “Hell, that was more than two weeks ago.”

  “Do you know where you were?”

  “Here at the cottage, I’m sure. It’s where I spend most of my time these days.”

  “Can anyone confirm that?”

  “Confirm that?” And then it began to dawn on MacDermid, and he looked at Liam as he must have looked at one of those circling sharks in the waters of the Pacific. “Ask my lawyer.”

  “Nick Skinner?”

  “He’ll tell you exactly where I was. And you know what, Sheriff? I want you to get the hell off my property. If there’s any more talking to be done, you can do it through my lawyer.”

  * * *

  By the time Cork went to bed, his father still hadn’t returned. Cork read for a while, then heard the rumble of thunder in the distance, announcing the approach of another summer storm. He turned out his light and crawled onto the porch roof and watched as crackling volleys of lightning battered the western sky. He could smell rain on the breeze. His mother had turned in as well, and the light from his parents’ bedroom window illuminated a rectangle of porch shingles ten feet from where Cork sat. His mother’s shadow cut the light for a moment as she stood at the window, then she drew the curtains and her lamp went out, and Cork knew she’d gone to bed.

  Almost immediately his father’s cruiser came slowly up the street and pulled into the drive, next to the pickup truck. A minute later, Cork heard the screen door of the mud porch open and slap shut. A few minutes after that, the light in his parents’ bedroom came on again, and Cork heard his mother say, “Long day.”

  His father replied, a grumbling Cork didn’t quite catch.

  “What did Duncan have to say?” his mother asked.

  His father’s shadow fell against the curtains and remained there, tall and dark. But again, whatever he said was spoken so low, so quiet that Cork couldn’t hear the words, only the tone, which was threatening.

  “Did he confront Big John?” Cork’s mother said.

  The storm was almost upon them. Lightning came with increased frequency and the rumbling of thunder drowned out anything more Cork heard of his parents’ conversation. The light went out in the bedroom next to his, and as the first big drops of rain began to fall, Cork returned to his room and to his bed, and finally lost himself in sleep.

  CHAPTER 30

  When, in the dark of early morning, Liam rose and went to his son’s bedroom to make sure Cork didn’t oversleep, he was surprised and pleased to see the bed was empty. Downstairs, he found Cork sitting at the kitchen table with Jackson at his feet.

  “I see you’re all set to go. Big day ahead?” He went to the stove and grabbed the percolator to begin making a pot of coffee.

  “Nothing much.”

  “No pickup baseball game?”

  “Maybe.”

  “The Carruthers had to put their dog down yesterday. Distemper. Your mom’s going to make an appointment for Jackson to get a booster shot. Maybe you could give her a hand with that.”

  “Sure,” Cork said in a distracted way. “Dad, I’ve been thinking. Big John’s canoe wasn’t at his cabin.”

  “I know.”

  “So where is it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t you think we should find out?”

  Liam filled the coffeepot and turned from the sink. “We?”

  “I mean you.”

  “Joe and Cy checked at Lightning Strike but didn’t find it.” He glanced at Cork. “You know Lightning Strike was where Big John and Mary Margaret MacDermid met, right?”

  “When they were…” His son seemed at a loss for how to say it.

  “Having their affair,” Liam finished for him. He put the pot on the stove. “She sometimes used her Sunfish sailboat to get there and he used his canoe. Pretty much what we all speculated at my office, thanks to you.”

  “He used his canoe for lots of other things, too.”

  “Like going into the Boundary Waters. Which is where he may have been just before he died.”

  “How do you know?”

  Liam put together the coffee in the percolator, then turned on the gas flame. “I’m going to make toast. Want some?”

  “Thanks,” Cork said.

  Liam pulled a loaf of Wonder bread from the bread drawer and dropped a couple of slices into the toaster. “I talked to the Borealis sisters. Big John was scheduled to guide for some businessmen but canceled. The sisters think he might have gone in on his own.”

  “To heal.” When Liam gave him a quizzical look, Cork said, “He used to tell me and Billy that the Boundary Waters was a good place to heal your soul. And he would have used Spider Creek.”

  Which, Liam knew, was the access Big John used on those occasions when Cork had accompanied him and Billy Downwind into the Boundary Waters. Because the creek was on reservation land, most local Ojibwe used it as their entry point. Spider Creek flowed out of Naabe-Mooz, which in the language of the Ojibwe meant “bull moose.” White folks simply called it Moose Lake. It was a large body of water, and at its northernmost point gave access to the rest of the Boundary Waters.

  “If he went into the Boundary Waters,” Cork continued, “maybe he left his canoe somewhere along Spider Creek. Did Joe and Cy check there?”

  “Probably not. But why would he leave it?”

  “I don’t know. But if he did, that would mean something, wouldn’t it?”

  “Like what?”

  “Something,” Cork insisted. “Because he wouldn’t just leave it there for no reason.”

  “I think the most likely scenario is that he loaned his canoe to someone,” his father said. The toast popped up. “Want peanut butter?”

  “Sure. Can I look for it, Dad?”

  “You know where the peanut butter is.”

  “I mean the canoe.”

  As he took the jar from the cupboard, Liam thought over his son’s request. It was certainly something that would keep him occupied for much of the day, and Liam was a firm believer in not leaving idle hands for the devil to work with. It was also a way for Cork to feel that he was doing something to help, which was important as well.

  “Be my guest,” he said, and handed Cork a slice of toast and the jar of Skippy peanut butter.

  * * *

  Iron Lake was big, and it took the boys nearly two hours to paddle the O’Connors’ canoe to the place where Spider Creek fed in. Along the way, Cork had explained his thinking to Jorge.

  Big John had disappeared a few days before he was killed. The Borealis sisters believed he’d gone into the Boundary Waters seeking solitude. If that was true, he probably entered and exited the wilderness via Spider Creek. When Cork and his father found the empty whiskey bottles at Big John’s cabin, his canoe wasn’t there. So, if he’d gone into the Boundary Waters, as the Borealis sisters believed, and he’d come out, where was his canoe?

  Billy was there when they arrived, standing at the water’s edge where the stream fed into Iron Lake. He held the bow of the canoe as Cork and Jorge disembarked.

  “Did you find out anything?” Cork asked.

  “I checked on the rez, like you asked me to,” Billy said. “Nobody knows anything about the canoe. So, what’s the plan?”

  “We know he didn’t leave it at Lightning Strike. The deputies already checked. So let’s check to see if he left it somewhere along Spider Creek.”

  “Why would he leave it?” Billy asked.

  “I don’t have any answers. But maybe if we find the canoe, we’ll get some.”

  The area around the mouth of the creek was marshy, covered with reeds and cattails and dotted with tamaracks. The boys searched both sides of the creek, but to no avail.

  “Okay, let’s go upstream toward Moose Lake,” Cork said.

  The creek was not much more than two feet deep and a dozen feet wide. The boys set the canoe in the middle. Cork took the stern, Jorge the bow, and Billy sat in the
middle. The current wasn’t strong, and they had no difficulty paddling against it.

  The Ojibwe called the stream Asabikeshiinh, which meant “spider.” It meandered for a couple of miles among bulrushes and cattails and wild rice and tamaracks, a spiderweb of channels that, if you didn’t know your way, could take you into dead end after dead end. But as Cork had assured Sam Winter Moon, the boys had all been this way many times. They came at last to the source of Spider Creek, a fast rush of water that poured down a cascade of rocks from Moose Lake. They stepped from their canoe and slid the bow onto dry land, then began to follow the portage that led around the rocks and up to the lake.

  The entry to the lake was a small apron of soft earth edged with blackberry bramble. If they’d carried their canoe up, they would have set it on the water there, which was at the end of a long, rocky corridor. A quarter of a mile distant, the corridor opened onto the vast body of Moose Lake. Naabe-Mooz.

  “What are you looking for?” Jorge asked.

  “I don’t know. I thought maybe his canoe would be right here.” Cork couldn’t hide his disappointment.

  “Even if it was, what would that prove?” Billy asked.

  “I don’t know,” Cork said again. “But maybe something. If it had been here.”

  “What now?” Jorge asked.

  “Back to Iron Lake, I guess,” Cork said.

  “Long way to come for squat,” Billy said.

  “Did you have something better to do?” Cork didn’t try to hide his mood.

  They canoed back in a desolate silence, Cork brooding the whole way. What had he expected? Maybe a crumb. What had he found? Nothing.

  They were almost to the mouth of Spider Creek when Billy said, “There!”

  He was in the bow, and he pointed to his right where a narrow channel cut into tall bulrushes. What Cork saw there would have been invisible to anyone looking for it from the lakeshore. But coming downstream on Spider Creek offered a different perspective. What Billy had seen, what they all saw now, barely visible among the tall reeds, was the curved stern of a birch-bark canoe.

  The boys backpaddled, then entered the channel. Almost immediately, their canoe scraped bottom, and they had to disembark carefully and wade through deep mud that sucked at their sneakers. When they reached the canoe, Jorge asked, “Is that his?”