“What do we tell them?” he said.
CHAPTER 13
Phillip Holter, the agent in charge of the BCA team that had been sent to help with the investigation of Jubal Little’s death, was a tall, good-looking guy somewhere in his forties. He had a build that made it clear he and a barbell were intimate friends. His hair was black and thick and held in place with a shellacking of mousse. He wore stylish glasses that had no framing around the lenses, so there was nothing to detract from one’s view and appreciation of his deep baby blues. His gaze was studied; he seemed never to blink. There was a crispness in his actions and in the way he spoke that suggested he was a man who knew his abilities and was pretty sure others appreciated them as much as he did. Cork took an immediate dislike to him, a rare experience in all his own years as a cop, but he figured he’d take a dislike to anyone who eyed him as if he were the Son of Sam.
They interviewed Cork and Stephen separately. Holter took the father, and Ed Larson questioned the son. Under the circumstances, Cork couldn’t very well insist that he be with Stephen while Larson conducted that interview, but he wasn’t greatly concerned. The truth that Stephen would tell—and that Cork told as well—didn’t incriminate either of them. This most recent body, they’d simply stumbled upon. When Holter pointed out that the arrow was identical to the one that had killed Jubal Little and also to the arrows Cork had carried in his own quiver, Cork simply replied, “If they are my arrows, then it would be just as easy to steal two as one. Same thing would be true if someone decided to manufacture an arrow identical to mine.”
Cork and Stephen stood well out of the way while the crime scene techs—deputies whom Larson had sent to the BCA for special training—did their jobs. The dead man’s wallet had yielded a driver’s license bearing the name William Graham Chester, a resident of Red Wing, Minnesota. When he was asked, Cork replied that the name meant nothing to him and reiterated that he’d never seen the man before. A search of the area offered no other immediate evidence, except for the tracks that the officer from the Border Patrol had been following when he left.
After a while, among the bare aspen trees, Holter convened a conference with Sheriff Dross and Captain Ed Larson. In the time since her discussion with Cork that morning, Dross had changed into her uniform, over which she wore a yellow down vest. Though the day continued to threaten precipitation, she sported no hat on her short hair, which was the brown of otter fur.
“What do you think they’re talking about?” Stephen asked.
“They’re probably trying to figure what all this has to do with Jubal Little’s killing.”
“Are the two definitely related?”
“What do you think?” Cork asked. It wasn’t rhetorical.
Stephen said, “That’s what I was thinking about all the way to Allouette. It could have been that, whoever he was, he was just at the wrong place at the wrong time. But the more I thought about that, it just seemed too big a coincidence.”
“I think you’re right.”
“So if they’re related, how?”
Cork had been watching the three cops in discussion. Holter had said something that caused Larson to look in Cork’s direction and furiously shake his head.
“Any speculation?” Cork asked his son.
Stephen seemed surprised to be asked, and he furrowed his brow for a while before he answered.
“It might make sense that they were in on it together and something went bad between them up here.”
“In on it together?”
“Like, well, they wanted to be sure that Mr. Little was dead, and they meant to do it in a way that would throw the blame on you. So the arrow. But you’ve always talked about how hard it is to hit a moving target, especially from a distance, so they brought the rifle along, too, as sort of backup. If the arrow missed, they were going to shoot Mr. Little with the rifle.”
Cork smiled at the beauty of the logic, which was different from his own, and better. He’d been thinking that it was two separate men with two separate agendas, but he couldn’t quite put it together in an understandable way. Stephen’s scenario, on the other hand, made good sense.
Stephen was almost as tall as his father, and he looked almost directly into his father’s eyes as he went on. “But if the first plan didn’t work, and they couldn’t pin the murder on you, then . . .” He faltered. Traditionally, the Ojibwe were a people who ably hid their emotions behind a stolid mask, and Stephen was the O’Connor in whom the Ojibwe blood was most apparent. But he didn’t bother to try to hide his horror. “If they hadn’t killed Mr. Little with the arrow and had to shoot him, they’d probably have to get rid of the only witness. So you’d be dead, too.”
Cork put a reassuring hand on his son’s shoulder. “But I’m not dead.” He nodded toward the great stone monolith that stood dark against the gray sky. “Nanaboozhoo, that old trickster, must have something else in mind for me.”
“It’s not funny, Dad.”
“I wasn’t trying to be funny, Stephen. I’ve always believed that things happen for a reason, and the reason is always part of some greater design. And so the question here is, What’s the big picture?”
“You sound like Henry Meloux.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. And the question still stands.”
Cork spotted a lone figure threading his way among the aspens on the crown of the ridge, and he quickly recognized John Berglund. Dross saw the officer, too, said something to Holter and Larson, and they all turned to watch him come.
Cork said to Stephen, “Let’s mosey over and see what he has to say.”
No one tried to stop them as they crossed the ridgetop, and they reached the sheriff and other officers just as Berglund arrived.
“Agent Berglund, I’m Agent Holter, BCA.” Holter extended his hand. “This is Captain Ed Larson. Sheriff Dross, of course, you know. She’s already filled us in.”
Berglund shook hands around and gave Cork a nod in acknowledgment. Then he asked Holter, “Any idea who he is?”
“Driver’s license says he’s William Graham Chester, from Red Wing,” Holter replied. “That’s all we know at the moment.”
“What did you find, John?” Dross asked.
“Two sets of tracks. They came from different directions, but their paths joined about a mile from here. One came from the lake, the other from an old logging road farther north. It’s barely a road anymore, so overgrown you’d have trouble identifying it as such, and I couldn’t find it on any of my maps. But a vehicle’s parked there. My guess is that you’ll find the keys to it somewhere on your dead man. When your people are ready, I’ll be happy to show them where it is.”
“Thank you,” Larson said.
“One came from the lake?” Cork said.
“Any sign of a canoe?”
“Gone, but I found where he’d beached it.”
“So two came in, but only one left,” Dross said.
They stood a moment, digesting the information.
Into that meditative silence Cork offered, “He looks like a hunter, but if he is, where’s his blaze orange? Stephen believes he wasn’t a hunter and that the guys were working together. The plan was to kill Jubal and make it look like I’d done it. But killing someone with a bow is pretty risky, so our guy on the ground over there was backup. If the arrow failed, Jubal Little would have been shot to death. And probably me along with him, to eliminate the witness.”
Holter chewed on that a bit, then asked, “Okay. If they were in on it together, why is one of them lying there dead?”
“They had a falling-out,” Stephen offered, but not boldly, clearly not prepared to defend his thesis.
Dross nodded, as if giving Stephen’s speculation due consideration. Then she said, “Maybe there’s another possibility, Stephen. What’s the best way for two people to keep a secret?”
The young man thought a moment, then the light dawned. “If one of them is dead.”
“Exactly,” Dross said. “May
be our killer simply eliminated the only man who could finger him.”
“But who were they, and why would they want Mr. Little dead?”
“That’s for us to figure out,” Holter said, tersely drawing the discussion to a close. “Mr. O’Connor, I think your usefulness here, and that of your son, is at an end. You’re free to go. I’m sure we’ll have further questions, however, so please make yourself available.”
Ed Larson had been staring at Trickster’s Point, as if the great pillar held him hypnotized. Before either Cork or Stephen could move to leave, he asked, “Who chose this site for your hunting outing?” His voice was a little distant, as if he was daydreaming or maybe just very deep in thought.
Cork said, “Jubal did.”
“Did anyone else know you were coming here?”
As if it should have been dismally obvious, Holter said, “Anyone who reads a newspaper knew that Little planned to go hunting here with O’Connor.”
Larson shook his head. “I spent last night reading the major newspaper stories following the election. They all reported Jubal Little’s intention to come north to hunt with Cork, but nowhere in any of the stories was Trickster’s Point mentioned specifically.”
For a brief instant, Holter looked like a kid who’d blown his homework assignment, then he swung his unblinking blue eyes to Cork and said, as in accusation, “Well?”
“At the Broiler yesterday morning, a lot of folks drifted over to wish him luck and tell him they were going to vote for him,” Cork said. “Jubal mentioned to a few of them where we’d be hunting.”
“What about before that?” Larson said. “Because if the killing was planned, they probably had to know in advance where they would do it.”
“I told my kids,” Cork said. “Did you mention it to anyone, Stephen?”
“I told people you were going hunting with Mr. Little. I don’t remember if I said where.”
“I’ll ask Jenny when I get back to Aurora,” Cork promised.
“What about Jubal?” Larson asked. “Who did he tell?”
Cork shook his head. “No idea.”
Larson again eyed the great monolith and asked, as if genuinely mystified, “Why Trickster’s Point?”
“I don’t know,” Cork said, maybe too quickly.
“Do you always hunt here?” Holter asked.
“We never have before.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a risky choice,” Cork replied.
“Risky? Why?”
So Cork explained to the BCA agent about Trickster’s Point.
Long before white men came, the Ojibwe told stories about the strangenesses of the place. They believed it was full of prize bucks, because Nanaboozhoo protected them here. He caused hunters to become confused. Around Trickster’s Point, the Ojibwe couldn’t necessarily believe what their senses told them. They would get mixed up about directions and become hopelessly lost. Or worse. Ojibwe lore was rife with tales of hunters who swore they’d let an arrow fly at a huge buck only to discover that what they’d felled was one of their own, another hunter.
“The best trophy deer I’ve ever seen have come from around Lake Nanaboozhoo,” Cork said. “But within my own lifetime, it’s also been the site of several fatal hunting accidents. Without exception, the hunters involved—those who came forward and admitted their guilt—maintained that they were absolutely certain what they were shooting at was an enormous buck.”
“Those who came forward?” Holter said.
Cork held out a hand toward Larson, who explained, “On two occasions within the last decade, a worried wife has reported that a husband had gone hunting around Trickster’s Point and hadn’t returned. Both times, we instituted a search operation, and both times we found the missing man lying somewhere in the woods out here. In both cases, the men were dead from gunshot wounds. No one admitted responsibility for those deaths.”
“Compasses behave weird out here, and cell phones don’t work either,” Stephen offered.
Holter frowned. “Is that so?”
“People around here know the stories, and most of them who hunt opt to do it somewhere else,” Cork said.
“Which brings me back to my original question,” Larson said. “Why Trickster’s Point? I’m guessing Little knew this area’s reputation.”
“I don’t think he took the stories seriously,” Cork said, knowing he wasn’t really answering Larson’s question.
“A modern Indian,” Holter replied sensibly. “He didn’t believe the mumbo jumbo.”
“Mumbo jumbo?” Cork said.
“You know what I mean.”
With every minute that passed, Cork was liking this man less and less.
“One thing I still don’t understand,” Holter went on. “Why did no one discover this body until you just happened to stumble over it?” Although he’d directed the question at Cork, his eyes shifted in an accusing way toward Captain Ed Larson, whose crime scene team had been responsible for what had—and in this case, hadn’t—been found at Trickster’s Point the day before.
Cork said, “This is way beyond the range of any bow hunter. There was no real reason to look up here.”
“And yet you did,” Holter said suggestively.
“I saw the trail; Ed’s people didn’t. But they’re not trained in tracking.”
Holter flashed a smile, entirely disingenuous. “You must be pretty good.”
“I’m okay. There are others much better than me. Jubal Little, for one.”
“Do I detect a little envy?”
“I discovered a long time ago that it was useless to be envious of Jubal. He was better than everyone at everything.”
Holter studied him, and Cork wondered if the BCA agent was going to ask him a lot of questions about what had happened the day before, cover the same territory that had already been well covered by Larson and Dross. In the end, Holter simply said, “I think that’s enough here. Mr. O’Connor, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t discuss any of this with anyone. Either of you.” He gave Stephen a good, stern look.
Cork could tell that his son was disappointed at being sent away, and probably a little upset by Holter’s dismissive treatment of them. They made their way down the ridge slope to the base of Trickster’s Point, where the vehicles from the sheriff’s department were gathered, and where Stephen had parked the Land Rover.
“Mind driving us out?” Cork asked.
“Okay,” Stephen said without enthusiasm.
The trail to Trickster’s Point had been created for hikers and was narrow, so the going was slow. Bare tree branches and the branches of underbrush scraped the sides of the Land Rover with little screeches, as if protesting the presence of metal and rubber where only the passage of flesh and blood were allowed. Stephen was sullen and quiet. Cork wasn’t sure if it was the general effect of all that had happened that day or if it was something more specific.
“Still pissed at Holter?” he finally asked his son.
“Not really. He doesn’t know you. But I don’t understand why the sheriff and Mr. Larson didn’t stand up for you more. I mean, they’re your friends.”
“It’s because of our friendship, Stephen. They don’t want me to be arrested for Jubal’s death any more than you do. And if they clear me, they’ve got to make absolutely certain that there are no questions about the integrity of their work or their team’s work. Do you see?”
“I suppose,” Stephen allowed, but he seemed to do it grudgingly.
They continued the rest of the way in silence, and Cork lost himself in thinking about the question Stephen had asked on the ridgetop but to which he’d received no answer: Who would want Jubal Little dead?
To Cork, the most obvious answer was Indians.
Minnesota, like most states, was in the midst of economic chaos. The budget was a mess of red ink. No one wanted new or higher taxes, but neither was anyone willing to sacrifice their sacred programs or projects. One of Jubal Little’s proposals during his campaign
was to build six state-run casinos in order to generate revenue that would be dedicated solely to public projects designed to put Minnesota’s multitude of unemployed back to work. The populace was largely in favor of the idea; the Indians, of course, were not, and it was clear that they considered Jubal Little, née Littlewolf, half Blackfeet by blood, to be a traitor. He’d received threats but had defended his proposal as one approach whose benefit was broad and egalitarian, and whose ultimate purpose—which was not just about income and employment but also about funding a desperately needed upgrade of the state’s entire crumbling infrastructure—was forward-looking. With regard to the Indian casinos, he maintained that the profits benefited only a small portion of the entire Native population and that, ultimately, state-run casinos would benefit everyone, including the Ojibwe, Lakota, and Dakota, because the income would generate thousands of public works jobs and the standard of living statewide would be raised. He’d laid it out with graphs and charts, but mostly he’d sold it with his oratory and his down-to-earth charm. Sold it to all but the Indians, who’d spent a good deal of money trying to ensure that Jubal Little wasn’t elected, and who were prepared to spend a good deal more to see that his plan was never implemented. It would be far cheaper, Cork thought, simply to eliminate Jubal Little before he had a chance to get that particular ball rolling.
There were others who probably wouldn’t mourn Jubal’s passing. He’d run as an independent, so neither side of the political aisle would shed a tear. He’d pledged to tax the very rich, so they’d probably popped a champagne cork when they heard the news of his death. He’d indicated he was in favor of opening some of the wilderness areas of northern Minnesota to additional mineral exploration, a stand that had pissed off environmentalists but had won the hearts of many people on the Iron Range who’d seen nothing but economic hardship since the great mines there began shutting down operation years earlier.
The people Jubal scared he scared a lot, but they were a decided minority. He appealed to the masses, as populist a candidate as the state had ever seen. Cork’s own feelings about his old friend had, over the years, become terribly mixed. But one thing seemed certain to him as he and his son negotiated the trail away from Trickster’s Point. If Stephen was right and the dead hunter had been there to kill both men if the arrow failed to hit its mark, then Jubal Little, in dying, had saved Cork’s life.
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