Lightning Strike

by William Kent Krueger

  “Ropes? What for?”

  “I think someone tried to anchor her body underwater so that it wouldn’t be discovered.”

  “Big John?”

  “Do you think he was the kind of man who’d do that to a girl?”

  “No,” Cork said.

  “Neither do I.”

  “Do you still think it’s someone from the rez?”

  “I think someone from the rez may have guided her in. Were they responsible for her death? I don’t know.”

  “How will you find out?”

  “Keep asking questions. After I put Big John’s canoe back where it belongs, that’s exactly what I intend to do. I’m going to visit your grandmother and a few other people.”

  “Will they talk to you?”

  “Remains to be seen. But I have to try.” He put his hand on his son’s shoulder. “You okay?”

  Cork nodded, then turned his face and gazed across the lake, just as Liam had done earlier. “It feels empty here. Everything feels empty right now.”

  “It won’t always feel this way, I promise.” Liam looked down at his son and offered a smile. “How about you give me a hand with that canoe?”

  CHAPTER 41

  After he’d helped his father at Big John’s cabin, Cork biked to the small, BIA-built house in Allouette that was still owned by Billy Downwind’s family and where Billy and his mother had been staying since they’d returned to the rez. Billy’s mother answered his knock and told him that Billy was with his uncle Oscar in Brandywine, the other settlement on the rez.

  Three miles east along a graveled road, Brandywine was a gathering of a few ramshackle homes, mostly BIA built, and like Allouette, with a few old trailers up on blocks. At the heart of Brandywine was the lumber mill, which had been a profitable Ojibwe enterprise for generations. It wasn’t large, but the lumber that was milled there was always in great demand because it came from old-growth white pines, a rarity since, by the early part of the twentieth century, most of those great giants had been cut. Cork knew that the Ojibwe logged differently from white companies. They didn’t clear-cut but felled selectively and in difficult to reach areas, which made it tough transporting the fallen timbers out of the forest since there were no roads. They’d solved this problem by ignoring machinery and using horses to do the hauling, as loggers had done long before there were trucks in the North Country.

  In addition to keeping the machinery of the mill operating smoothly, Oscar Manydeeds was in charge of the horses that did the hauling. The animals were stabled at the edge of a large fenced meadow where they roamed freely when not in harness. Cork spotted Billy Downwind standing at the fence, gazing into the meadow where Oscar Manydeeds was walking a horse while several others idly grazed nearby. The mill wasn’t running at the moment, and it was quiet in Brandywine.

  “Hey,” Billy said when Cork joined him.

  “What’re you doing?” Cork asked.

  “Just watching my uncle. Little Cloud’s acting lame. He’s trying to figure out why.”

  Cork watched Manydeeds, who led the horse in a slow circle through the tall timothy and wild oats of the meadow. The horse was big, powerful, but the man beside it was also a powerful giant. The two looked suited to each other. Manydeeds seemed to be speaking quietly to the animal as they walked. It seemed an odd and interesting mix of knowledge, how to heal a horse and how to mend a machine, and it cast Oscar Manydeeds in a different, slightly more favorable light in Cork’s thinking.

  “Got some news,” Cork told Billy. “That girl they found in Moose Lake? My dad thinks she was murdered.”

  “No way,” Billy said. “Who did it?”

  “He doesn’t know yet. But she didn’t get out there by herself. Somebody took her, somebody who knows the way in through Spider Creek.”

  “That’s mostly us,” Billy said, meaning all of the rez.

  “I know.”

  Billy looked at him with sudden understanding. “You think one of us killed her?”

  “I don’t want to think that. But mostly it’s Shinnobs who go into the Boundary Waters that way.”

  “What about your Boy Scout troop? Huh?”

  “It wasn’t a Boy Scout.”

  “Okay, who from the rez?” Billy challenged.

  “I don’t know,” Cork said.

  “It wasn’t one of us.”

  Manydeeds led the animal toward the stable. Billy headed there to meet him, and Cork wandered along behind. Inside the stable, all the stalls were empty. Manydeeds tethered the horse to a ring bolted into a post. He gave Cork a cold look but said nothing.

  “What do you think?” Billy asked.

  “He’s got a little inflammation in a tendon. Nuthin serious.”

  “What do you do for that?”

  “Make a poultice, wrap it around that lower leg. In the meantime, I’ll give him some bute.”

  “Bute?” Cork said.

  “Phenylbutazone. Helps ease the pain. Easy, boy. I’ll be right back.”

  Manydeeds gently stroked the animal’s flank, then walked away. He stepped into a room that smelled a little like the vet’s clinic in Aurora and was lined with shelves that held jars of medicine, gauze wrappings, rolls of tape, and odd-looking instruments whose purposes Cork couldn’t even guess at.

  “You won’t have to put him down, right?” Billy asked.

  Manydeeds gave a short laugh. “Like I said, it’s nuthin serious. Little Cloud’ll be fine.”

  Cork said, “Have you ever had to put a horse down?”

  “Couple of times, yeah. Hardest thing in the world.”

  “Did you… shoot them?” Cork asked.

  “Just put ’em to sleep. Talked to ’em real quiet so they didn’t get scared.”

  He pulled a box from one of the cupboards and plucked out a small packet. He returned to the open area of the stable, grabbed a feed bag from a wall hook, and filled the bag from a sack of oats. Then he tore open the packet and sprinkled the contents into the feed bag. Speaking soothingly, he patted the horse and gently slipped the feed bag over the animal’s muzzle. Finally, he led Little Cloud to a stall cushioned with hay.

  Then he turned on Cork and said with ice in his voice, “Some reason you’re here?”

  Billy said, “That girl they found in Naabe-Mooz.”

  “The one got drowned?”

  “Cork thinks one of us killed her.”

  “Us?”

  “Somebody from the rez,” Billy said.

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “It’s what your dad told you.”

  “Did he tell you who?” Manydeeds said.

  “He doesn’t know,” Cork said. “And he’s not saying for sure it was someone from the rez.”

  Manydeeds turned from the boys and stroked the horse’s flank. “Go on, both of you. Work to do here.”

  Cork offered Billy a ride back to Allouette on his handlebars, but Billy said, “Screw you,” shoved his hands deep into his pockets, and began to walk.

  Cork walked with him a distance in silence, pushing his Schwinn.

  Finally Billy said, “I thought it was over.”

  “Me, too,” Cork said. “The bad just keeps coming.”

  “It wasn’t somebody on the rez. Some chimook did it,” Billy said. Then he said, “When you know something, you better tell me.”

  But Cork was afraid he’d already said too much, and he made no promise.

  “Come on,” Billy said, climbing onto the handlebars of the bike. “Give me a lift home.”

  CHAPTER 42

  After the long, hot bike ride back to Aurora and walking block after block delivering newspapers with Jorge, Cork suggested cooling off in Iron Lake. They often swam off the dock at Glengarrow, but only when Mr. MacDermid wasn’t around. He’d made it clear that he wasn’t happy with the ruckus they usually created. But Duncan MacDermid was gone now.

  Cork kept a swimsuit at Jorge’s, and when the boys dove from the dock that afternoon, the water felt like liqui
d heaven, easing all the sting of the day. They splashed and dove and raced and finally, as the sun hovered above the tops of the buildings in town, lay on the dock staring up at the sun, an unbroken yolk on a blue porcelain plate.

  “I don’t want to leave,” Jorge said. “Ever.”

  “Maybe you won’t have to,” Cork said. “Mrs. MacDermid hasn’t sold this place yet. Maybe she never will.”

  “Mom says there are too many bad memories for her here.”

  “Doesn’t mean you have to leave Aurora.”

  “We have relatives in California. I never met them. Mom says we could start there, and when she finds a job, we could get a place of our own.”

  “What about Mr. Skinner? You said he might ask her to marry him.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Cork wasn’t sure if that meant Jorge didn’t know whether the man would actually propose or if it meant Jorge wasn’t sure how he felt about that possibility. It would be a big change in his friend’s life. Cork tried to imagine what it would be like if his own father was out of the picture and his mother was considering remarrying. That was too hard and he let it go.

  They sat up when they heard a car on the lane to Glengarrow. Nick Skinner parked his red Thunderbird and entered the house.

  “He’s here all the time now,” Jorge said. “Advising Mrs. MacDermid. She told him she wouldn’t stand in the way of the hotel he wants to build.”

  “So, if he marries your mom, you could be rich.”

  “I don’t want to be rich. I like things just the way they are.”

  “Everything changes,” Cork said.

  “Come on,” Jorge said. “Let’s swim some more.”

  * * *

  The boys approached Cork as he was walking home late that afternoon. They’d been clustered on the corner of Third and Maple, their skateboards resting on the sidewalk. Older boys, high school. Cork knew them—Rusty Blaine, Buzz Saari, Zack Pelton—guys he didn’t much care for. He kept to his side of the street and tried to ignore them.

  “Hey, cop kid!” Zack Pelton hollered.

  “Squaw kid,” one of the other boys yelled. Cork wasn’t sure which one. He continued walking.

  The boys hopped on their skateboards and cruised down the street to intercept him, blocking his way.

  “What do you want?” Cork said.

  “Heard about that dead Indian girl,” Rusty Blaine said. “What do you know?”

  “Nothing,” Cork said.

  “We heard she was screwing the whole town before somebody killed her.”

  “You heard wrong.”

  “So, what’s the straight dope?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Your old man’s sheriff. If you don’t, who does?”

  “He doesn’t tell me everything.”

  “How about your Redskin friends?” Buzz Saari said. “Did they do her?”

  “Out of my way.” Cork tried to push past them, but they shoved him back.

  “I heard she was easy,” Saari said. “Did you do her?”

  Cork squinted at him, his temper rising. “She’s dead, for Christ’s sake. Leave her be.”

  “Know what I think, O’Connor? I think the only good Indian is a dead Indian. What do you think?”

  Cork swung, his fist connecting with Saari’s left ear. The older boy stumbled back, regained his balance, and threw himself at Cork. The two went down together, grappling on the concrete. Saari had Cork by at least twenty pounds, but Cork’s fury made up for that advantage. He barely registered the blows Saari delivered as he swung again and again himself. Then he felt big hands pull him up, separating him from Saari. He turned to swing at whoever it was who’d interfered and found himself facing Joe Meese.

  “Enough, you two,” Meese said.

  “He started it,” Cork said.

  “Like hell,” Saari said. “He swung at me, didn’t he, guys?”

  “I don’t care who started it,” Meese said. “It’s over. Go on. Get out of here.”

  The other boys mounted their skateboards, but before they headed away, Buzz Saari flipped Cork the bird and said, “Someday, O’Connor.”

  After they’d cleared off, Joe Meese pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Cork. “Got a split lip there.”

  Cork pressed the cloth to his mouth. “Assholes.”

  “Gonna be a lot of assholes in your life. You can’t go around fighting them all. How about a ride home?”

  Meese dropped him at the curb in front of the house. Cork held out the bloodied handkerchief.

  “Keep it. I got a ton. You okay?”

  Cork nodded.

  “What was it about?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Big hullabaloo over nothing.”

  “Thanks for the ride.”

  Cork moved to get out, but Meese put a hand on his arm. “Things are happening here like I’ve never seen before. I don’t know what’s at the bottom of it or why, but I do know that you and your family are at the heart of it. You’re kinda like a bull’s-eye right now. You be careful.”

  “I can take care of myself,” Cork said.

  “I was thinking of your mom and dad, too. Take it easy on them, okay?”

  “Sure,” Cork said.

  Meese looked as if there was more on his mind, more he wanted to say, but he simply released Cork and said, “All right then. Take care of that lip.”

  Inside the house, Cork could smell meat loaf baking, and the rich aroma made him realize how hungry he was. The table had already been set, but with only two places.

  “Wash your hands,” his mother called from the kitchen. “Supper’s almost ready.”

  He went upstairs and cleaned himself up. When he came back down, his mother had put a platter of meat loaf, a bowl of mashed potatoes, a boat of gravy, and a bowl of green beans on the table. “Just you and me?” he asked.

  “There was a bad accident on Highway One. Your dad will be along later.” She’d been dealing with the food, but now she looked at him. “Oh, Cork, what happened to your face?”

  “Got into it with a guy. No big deal.”

  “That lip. It looks like you’re chewing on a balloon. Let me get you some ice.”

  “I’m fine, Mom. Really.”

  “You can eat?”

  “Just try and stop me.”

  They ate in an uncomfortable silence for a few minutes, then his mother said, “What was it about?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I don’t think so. Tell me the truth.”

  “Some guys were talking trash about the girl who was killed.”

  “Talking trash how?”

  “That she was—” Cork looked away for a moment, trying to formulate the right words.

  “Drinking. Whoring. Deserved what she got.” His mother’s voice was flat and cold.

  “Yeah,” Cork said. “That kind of thing.”

  “No woman deserves to be talked about that way, Indian or not. I don’t approve of fighting, Cork, but I—” She paused and took a deep, settling breath. “I’m glad you tried to do something.”

  Cork’s lip hurt whenever he put food in his mouth, but he didn’t want his mother to know, so he did his best to eat as if nothing was wrong. Near the end of the meal, he said, “Everything’s changing here, Mom. Everything’s different. It all feels broken. Here and on the rez.”

  “I know what you mean. And I don’t know how to fix it. Your dad doesn’t know either. Nor does your grandmother.”

  Cork had only one idea about who might. He said, “I know it’s kind of late, but would it be okay if we went out to Crow Point?”

  * * *

  After supper, his mother drove the long gravel county road to the double-trunk birch tree that marked the trail through the woods to Crow Point. In the dusk of that evening, they walked the path together. Cork had gone this way many times, and there seemed to him something sacred about the two-mile journey, something that called for quiet contemplation, and he and his mothe
r exchanged not a word as they walked. The evening spoke to them instead. The soft whisper of wind in the pines and poplars. The last song of an oriole and the early cry of a nighthawk. The call and response of the first tree frogs of the night. The low gurgle of water over stones as they crossed the red-tinted flow of Wine Creek. Cork felt a soothing of his soul even before they broke from the trees and stepped out into the meadow on Crow Point.

  Meloux’s cabin on the far side was backed by a line of birch trees whose leaves had gone dark in the dusk. As Cork and his mother crossed the meadow, Makwa set to barking. Meloux stepped from his cabin with a man at his side. When Cork was near enough, he recognized Calvin LaRose, the dead girl’s grandfather.

  “Boozhoo, Henry. Boozhoo, Calvin,” Cork’s mother greeted the men.

  “He told me you’d be coming,” LaRose said.

  Which, Cork knew, was one of the mysteries about Meloux. He always seemed to know you were coming.

  Cork’s mother offered Meloux a pouch of tobacco she’d brought from home, and the Mide said, “I have built a fire. Come.”

  They followed the path that led between two rock outcrops to the fire ring where, not long before, Cork had sat with his father and Sam Winter Moon and Henry Meloux, trying to sort out the truth of Big John’s death. A fire already burned inside the ring. More wood had been piled near to feed it. They sat, and from a beaded bag he’d brought, Meloux took a pipe carved from stone. He made an offering of tobacco to the spirits of the four directions, filled the pipe, struck a wooden match, and the pipe was passed. As usual, Cork didn’t share in the smoking.

  The day was drawing to a close, the sky already shaded in the powdery pastel of evening blue. Makwa lay at Meloux’s feet, his huge head cradled on his paws, his eyes holding a sleepy look.

  They were silent a long time before Meloux set his warm eyes on Cork and said, “Your heart is troubled.”

  “Everything feels broken,” Cork confessed.