Boundary Waters

by William Kent Krueger

  The shooter had vanished.

  Cork heaved himself over the top. Along the edge that plunged to the river, he began a brash lope. The old lava flow was a hundred feet wide and Cork reached the downriver end in a few seconds. From that vantage, he could see the whole river all the way to a blind bend a couple of hundred yards south. Below him the Deertail churned over the last of Hell’s Playground, a wide, angry stretch of white water strewn with huge rocks. Beyond that, the river became peaceful again, as if it had instantly changed personalities. In the trees along the bank there, Cork caught a glimpse of movement. Someone running. He raised his .38 and sighted. It was a long shot but within range. Still, he held off firing. What if it wasn’t the shooter? What if he dropped someone innocently caught in all this hell? He lowered his gun.

  He recrossed the top of the palisade, feeling tired, feeling old and worn as that ancient lava flow, feeling utterly defeated. It was beginning to be a familiar sensation. Somehow the son of a bitch was ahead of him again in his thinking. Cork realized the shooter had probably never intended to cross the river and come for them. He’d accomplished what he wanted—held Cork and the others up, separated them from their canoes and their supplies, and now he was back on the track of Shiloh without anyone on his own back. Christ, who was this guy?

  Majimanidoo. That’s what Henry Meloux had said about him. A devil. Cork was beginning to believe it was true.

  Stormy still hunkered behind the fallen beech. He kept his Glock trained on the far side of the river as Cork made his way over the open stretch where earlier he’d been pinned down.

  “I didn’t hear any more shots,” Stormy said. “I guess you didn’t get him.”

  Cork shook his head. “I think I saw him hightailing it downriver.”

  “Think he’ll keep going?”

  “He’s after Shiloh, not us. Yeah, I think he’ll keep going.”

  “Maybe we held him enough for her to make it out okay.”

  “Maybe,” Cork said.

  “You’re bleeding.”

  “Chunk of rock. At least it wasn’t a bullet. Christ, I’m freezing.” He hadn’t noticed during all the excitement, but now the wet clothes and the brisk air made him shiver. His hands were purple from the cold. “We need a fire going. Fast.”

  They began back through the trees along the river. They hadn’t gone far when they moved into the smell of wood smoke. Ahead, they saw a gray billowing, and a minute later they found Louis feeding dead wood onto a roaring blaze he’d built against the curl of rocks. Cork saw that the boy had constructed a council fire, the sticks of wood in a cross-hatched square so the fire would burn big and hot and fast. The heat had already melted the snow several feet from the flames. Louis had somehow managed to move Sloane as near to the fire as he safely could.

  Sloane’s eyes flickered open when Cork and Stormy arrived. He managed a weak smile. “You got some boy there, Two Knives.”

  “I know.”

  “You get him?” Sloane asked Cork.

  “No,” Cork answered.

  He heard the awful quiver in Sloane’s voice, saw how his body shook. The fire wasn’t doing a lot of good yet. Cork threw off his wet jacket and pulled off his wool sweater. He handed it to Louis. “Hold this near the fire and get it warm.” He took off his pants and socks and pulled his wet wool hat from the pocket of his coat. “Can you handle these, too, Louis? Stormy, help me get Sloane out of those wet clothes.”

  Sloane made no protest as they undressed him. Cork was sure the man was going into shock. But one problem at a time. When they had Sloane’s clothes off, Cork quickly checked the wound. Entry was a penny-size hole through the bottom of the rib cage, right side. The exit wound was a huge explosion of flesh out of the lower back, full of jagged bone fragment.

  “In my left coat pocket, Stormy, there’s a red bandanna.”

  Stormy got it. Cork folded the bandanna into a compress and put it over the exit wound. It wasn’t going to be enough, he knew, but there wasn’t much else he could do.

  “How’re those clothes, Louis?”

  “Warm.”

  “Let’s have them.”

  The wool was steaming when Louis handed the clothing over. Cork and Stormy pulled the things onto Sloane’s cold body. Hat, sweater, pants, socks. Finally they put him against the rocks that were beginning to feed back the heat of the fire.

  Cork stripped off his thermals and stood stark naked so close to the flames that he smelled the hair on his legs singeing. He turned himself frequently, letting the heat hit his whole body. Stormy and Louis did the same. Cork shook his head. Men reduced to one of the most basic and primitive of relationships. Cold naked flesh and fire.

  Their clothes hung on sticks thrust into the ground and leaned toward the flames. Their boots ringed the fire. They sat against the heated rocks with Sloane lying between them. For a long time, they hadn’t spoken. Cork was tired beyond words. Even so, he found himself thinking, remembering.

  He was remembering the day Marais Grand had left Aurora, the day she’d started the long train of events that would ultimately bring him and the others to this juncture.

  They’d gathered at Pflugelmann’s Rexall Drugs where the Greyhound bus stopped on its way to and from Duluth. Ellie Grand was there, and Marais, and Cork’s mother, and Cork. Marais had a backpack, a guitar case, and a one-way ticket to L.A. Ellie Grand was sure her daughter would be back within a few weeks. Marais was just as positive she was leaving for good. She looked down Oak Street, the main street of town, and predicted, “Someday they’re going to put up a sign that says ‘Hometown of Marais Grand.’ People are going to come just because I used to live here. They’ll point to this spot and say, ‘That’s the last place she stood before she left for good.’” She smiled at Cork. “And they’ll beat down your door, Nishiime, just because you knew me.”

  She kissed him when the bus came. Her eyes were bright with expectation. Her mother’s eyes, Cork recalled, were green pools with streams spilling from them. They all stood waving in the cloud of stinking diesel as the bus pulled away. Except on the screen of his television, he never saw her again.

  He wondered now if anyone could have foreseen that her life would end as suddenly as a stone dropped in water, or that the rings of tragedy that swept outward from that death would overtake so many lives fifteen years later.

  “Thirsty,” Sloane said.

  Cork danced across the cold ground to the river and tried unsuccessfully to bring back water in his cupped hands.

  “Wait a minute,” Louis said. He disappeared into the trees and came back a few minutes later with a strip of birch bark roughly folded into a vessel. He dipped it in the river and brought it back full. He knelt down.

  Sloane grinned slightly and said, “Is this water okay? Don’t want to get sick.”

  Cork laughed quietly. “It’s fine. Drink all you want.”

  Sloane sipped a little, looking Cork over with his droopy eyes. “Used to make fun of the idea of men dancing naked in the woods. Where’s your drum?”

  “Don’t talk,” Cork advised.

  Sloane said, “Won’t make any difference. We both know it.” He closed his eyes a moment. “Can you do something about these clothes? They’re itchy and they smell.”

  “Are you warm?” Cork asked.

  “I’m done on this side. You can turn me over.” Sloane rolled his eyes toward Louis. “Sorry about all this, son. Tough trip for you.”

  Louis said, “It’s okay.”

  Sloane closed his eyes and was quiet again.

  Cork felt his thermals. They were almost dry.

  “I’m going to get dressed and go downriver. See if I can find any sign of Arkansas Willie and take a look for the canoes and our gear. You okay staying with him?” He nodded toward Sloane.

  “Yes,” Stormy said.

  The sun was level with the treetops by the time Cork left the fire. Another couple of hours before hard dark, he figured. With the sky so clear, the temperature w
ould probably drop fast.

  He scaled the palisade, crossed the top, and worked his way off the downriver side. He followed the river to the bend, then another quarter mile until he spotted the canoes. They’d hung up among the branches of a pine that had fallen, half blocking the river. They were overturned, nudged against one another and bobbing in the current like mating beasts. Cork shinnied out along the trunk of the pine tree. He saw that the hulls had been smashed, the bows shattered beyond anything the river or pine branches could have done.

  Majimanidoo, he thought darkly.

  Because the hulls were upturned, he couldn’t tell if the packs were still secured to the thwarts. He knew he’d have to get wet again. The prospect was disheartening. He eased himself into the icy flow of the Deertail and went under. Threading his way through the branches that had snagged the canoes, he felt under the stern thwart of the canoe he and Raye had paddled. The pack was there. He surfaced, took a deep breath, and went back under. Wetted, the knots of the cord that held the pack were impossible to untie. Once again, he surfaced for air. This time when he went under, he undid the pocket of the Duluth pack and pulled out the old Case knife he kept there. He unfolded the blade, sliced through the cord, and hauled the pack out. After he’d wrestled it to solid ground, he returned to the canoe and cut the cord holding the supply pack that had been secured under the bow thwart.

  That was enough. The cold had cramped his hands. He dragged himself onto the riverbank, knowing he had to get back to the fire quickly. He shouldered both packs, awkwardly. Waterlogged, the load seemed twice as heavy as it would have dry. Cork stumbled to the palisade, but once there, knew he couldn’t drag both packs over. He abandoned his own and started up with the supplies.

  By the time he reached the fire, his hands felt rigid as a couple of frozen pork chops. Stormy quickly helped him strip off his wet clothes. Cork had to hold himself back from walking right into the flames.

  “The canoes?” Stormy asked.

  “No good. Smashed. He did it. Packs are there.” Cork spoke in a quivering staccato, his voice on the edge of breaking. “Tried to bring mine up. More wool clothes for us. Left it on the other side of Hell’s Playground.”

  “How about Arkansas Willie?”

  Cork gave his head a dismal shake.

  “It’ll be dark soon,” Stormy said. “I’ll get your pack. Louis, put something hot together for this man.”

  After Stormy left, Louis pulled a pot from the wet supply pack and some dehydrated vegetable soup tightly sealed in a plastic bag. In a few minutes, he had a pot of soup on the coals at the fire’s edge and the smell was like heaven to Cork.

  “How has he been?” Cork whispered to Louis, and nodded at Sloane.

  Louis shook his head. “Quiet.” He stirred the soup. “Do you think he’ll be okay?”

  He’s got a hole in him a rat could crawl through, Cork thought. And we’re in the middle of a wilderness. And it’s going to be cold night soon. No, Louis, there’s no way in hell our friend is going to be all right.

  But he said, “That’s in the hands of Kitchimanidoo.”

  42

  THE RANGER WASN’T IN THE DRIVE at the home of Sarah Two Knives, nor did Sarah answer Jo’s knock at her door. Jo headed back into Allouette to LeDuc’s, the small grocery store that also sold bait and tackle and fishing licenses and served as the reservation post office. At the counter where the cash register sat, George LeDuc paused in his restocking of a candy bar shelf and greeted Jo with a smile.

  “Hey, counselor.”

  George LeDuc was not only an elder but also a member of the tribal executive council, and Jo knew him well. He was nearing seventy, had thick white hair, white teeth, a broad face, and a strong, broad build. He’d outlived two wives already and was on his third. He wore a gray sweatshirt that had printed across the front KEEP YOUR LAWS OFF MY BODY.

  Francine, George’s wife, a woman in her midthirties and seven months pregnant, stepped in from the back room. “Hi, Jo.”

  “Francine, you look wonderful.”

  “That’s what George says, too.” She laughed, and covered her mouth.

  “Like a garden getting close to harvest.” George put his arm around her and smiled.

  “I’m looking for Sarah Two Knives,” Jo said.

  “I figured,” George replied. “We heard there’s bad shit going down in the Boundary Waters. Majimanidoo, the old ones are saying.”

  “You’re one of the old ones,” Francine said.

  “Young enough still.” George patted her swollen belly.

  “It’s not good,” Jo said.

  “Federal agents is what we heard.” George looked as if he’d taken a drink of vinegar. “That’s never a good sign.”

  “Do you know where I can find Sarah?”

  “At the community center,” Francine said. “She and Lydia are working on the Iron Lake Initiative.”

  “Migwech,” Jo said. Thanks.

  The community center was a new brick building constructed with profits from the Chippewa Grand Casino. It housed the reservation administration offices, a clinic, a gym, and a day-care. Jo found Sarah Two Knives and her mother, Lydia Champoux, in a conference room set up with computer equipment. Sarah was at the computer. Lydia was scanning a sheet coming off the printer. The Iron Lake Initiative, a program to which many men and women on the reservation gave time, was an effort to consolidate reservation land. Like many reservations in Minnesota, Iron Lake was a patchwork of holdings—tribal trust land, land allotted to tribal members, land that had been sold or leased to non-Indians, and land belonging to the county, state, or federal forest service. The purpose of the initiative was to buy back land wherever possible in the hope that ultimately the reservation would exist again in the configuration spelled out in the original treaty of 1854. Jo had supplied legal counsel when the initiative was first being established, but since then, the Iron Lake Anishinaabe had carried on the work entirely on their own.

  Men, Jo had noted long before, tended to smoke or drink or pace when they were worried, feeding their bodies to the anxiety. Women were more likely to find something to occupy themselves. It didn’t surprise her that Sarah and Lydia were working on the initiative.

  “Anin, Lydia. Anin, Sarah,” Jo said in greeting.

  “Anin, Jo.”

  Lydia Champoux taught Native American studies at Aurora Community College, and her courses were among the most popular of the college’s offerings. She was a small woman with braided silver hair and light brown eyes. She was dressed in jeans and a denim shirt. Tiny blue ceramic feathers dangled from her ears. Normally, Lydia—a woman of refreshing intelligence and wit—would have smiled, but Sarah had no doubt informed her of the situation, and Lydia, like Sarah, appeared braced for the worst.

  “It’s bad, isn’t it,” Sarah said. She swiveled in her chair and the bearings squealed.

  “I wish it were better,” Jo admitted. She sat near Sarah and explained the situation.

  “So they’ve found no sign of Louis and Stormy,” Lydia summed up darkly.

  “Not exactly. They found trail signs left where the first dead man was discovered. Sheriff Schanno believes they’re the kind Boy Scouts use.”

  “Wendell’s doing,” Lydia speculated. “He was always teaching Louis the old ways. The Boy Scouts learned everything from Indians.”

  Jo said, “The search plane and helicopter are concentrating on Wilderness Lake now. Sheriff Schanno’s pretty sure that’s a good bet.”

  “Wilderness is a very big lake,” Lydia observed. “Although they are big in our hearts, as far as that country is concerned, Louis and Stormy and Cork are quite small.” She took an unhappy look at the sky outside the conference room window. “And there isn’t a lot of daylight left.”

  “I’m sorry to have to bring you such bad news,” Jo said.

  “Thank you,” Sarah Two Knives told her. “It’s more than those majimanidoog would offer us.”

  “Have you seen any sign of Wende
ll?” Jo asked.

  Lydia shook her head. “I watch the stovepipe on his trailer home. When there’s smoke, I visit. There’s been no smoke for a long time. Let’s hope he’s burning a fire somewhere else.”

  “I’m going back to Aurora, back to the men who’re responsible for all this. Would you like to come?”

  “What for?” Sarah said. “It won’t change what’s happening out there. Will you let me know when you get any news?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Jo.” Lydia reached out and laid a hand on Jo’s arm, an unusual thing for an Anishinaabe. “I’ve seen alcohol and despair cause men to kill one another senselessly. That’s a sad, sad thing. But this is different. This feels like a battle.”

  “I think probably it is.”

  “Then we should pray for our men to be strong and cunning and ruthless in destroying whatever evil is out there against them.”

  Jo nodded and said, “Amen.”

  The sun, as it set, struck fire to the trees along the shoreline of Iron Lake. High above the water, a flight of Canada geese, late in migrating, pointed themselves south in a long dark finger, and fled the North Woods. The lake surface was still and empty. Across it lay the reflection of the low sun, like a long fiery crack, as if the placid surface were only a thin shell over a molten sea beginning to break through. As she passed the trailer of Wendell Two Knives, Jo checked the stovepipe. No smoke.

  Driving back to Aurora, she considered the situation as it stood. Fifteen years earlier, Marais Grand had been murdered. Now people associated with her daughter had died—two in California and at least one in the Boundary Waters, the man named Grimes. Benedetti and Jackson and Harris had all thought the recent deaths were tied to the old murder, the result of someone trying to cover tracks. But the death of Marais Grand had been explored and explained, so what was the motive for these other killings?