Mercy Falls

by William Kent Krueger

  The deputies reported that most folks who evacuated had been cooperative. Cork himself encountered only one instance of outright hostility, this from Gunther Doktor, an old widower who’d lived on Gooseberry Lane forever. Doktor had turned his good ear toward Cork, an ear that sprouted hair like corn tassel, and said, “You O’Connors. Always been trouble.” Still, he’d abandoned his house as requested, muttering as he shuffled to the end of the block.

  Most other neighbors made it a point to tell Cork they were outraged by this personal attack, and if there was anything they could do to help, then just, by God, let them know. The Women’s Guild from St. Agnes Catholic Church somehow got word of the situation and had very quickly set up tables outside the secured perimeter to offer coffee and juice, doughnuts, and banana bread to those for whom breakfast was now a long way off.

  Jo and Stevie stood with the O’Loughlins in the street under the shade of an oak with russet leaves. Jenny and Annie mingled with the crowd and Cork wasn’t always able to see them. He would have preferred to keep his whole family in sight, but he had his hands full.

  He stood beside a cruiser parked beyond the barricades at the west end of the block, and he talked with Cy Borkmann, Ed Larson, and Simon Rutledge.

  Borkmann said, “Duluth bomb squad radioed their twenty. They just passed the casino. Maybe five minutes now.”

  Rutledge had been in such a hurry that he hadn’t combed his hair, and he’d put his sweater on inside out. “Jo told me the guy wore a ski mask, that she couldn’t see anything that might ID him.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you saw no one when you went outside to check?”

  “Like I told you, Simon, only the cat. Rochester’s smart, but I don’t think he planted that dynamite.”

  Rutledge was the only one who smiled. “We’ll want your Bronco for a while, so we can go over it carefully for evidence.”

  “If it’s still in one piece when this is over, you’re welcome to it.”

  The bomb detail arrived in a Duluth Police van with a trailer in tow. On the trailer was a large, heavy-looking metal canister. An unmarked car followed. Two men stepped from the van and another came from the car. The man who’d driven the van said, “Sheriff O’Connor?”

  “Here.”

  “Sergeant Dave Gorman.” Tall, tanned, early thirties, buzz cut, good shape.

  They shook hands. He introduced his colleagues, Sergeant Rich Klish and Sergeant Greg Searson.

  “Where is it?” Gorman asked.

  “Down the street. Two-sixteen Gooseberry Lane. The Bronco in the drive with the hood up.”

  Gorman nodded. “So what did you see?”

  “A white PVC pipe, three inches in diameter, maybe fifteen inches in length, capped at both ends.”

  “A timing device? Clock, watch?”

  “I didn’t see one.”

  “Where was the explosive placed?”

  “On the engine block, near the battery.”

  “Wires?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see where they connected?”

  “To the battery.”

  “The battery?” Gorman glanced at the men who’d come with him. “You’re sure?”

  “With alligator clips.”

  “Was there a clothespin glued to the pipe?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you notice any fishing line?”

  “Fishing line? I don’t recall.”

  Gorman puzzled over that. Cork felt that he was letting the bomb technician down. He should have checked more thoroughly, but he’d been worried about getting his family and his neighbors out of harm’s way.

  “Okay. You’re sure about the clothespin?”

  “Yes.”

  Gorman went to the van, came back with a pair of binoculars. He looked for a minute toward Cork’s house.

  “The Bronco, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  He looked some more. “You like it?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m thinking of getting one. I just wondered if it’s been a good vehicle for you.”

  “Good enough that I’d hate to see it end up in little pieces.”

  “Well, we’ll see what we can do about keeping that from happening.” He turned to his companions. “Let’s take the van in, Greg. Rich,” he said to the man who’d driven the unmarked car, “you stay with the sheriff, keep him apprised.”

  Gorman and Searson got back into the van. Cork’s people moved the barricade aside and let them pass. They drove to the end of the block and stopped a good five hundred feet short of Cork’s house.

  “They’re parked in the cold zone, a safe distance from the explosive,” Sergeant Klish said. He was much shorter than Gorman, and older. He had a square face that seemed oddly unconcerned about the danger his colleagues might be facing.

  “You go out on a lot of these calls?” Ed Larson asked.

  “Sometimes two or three a day. Not usually this far north, though. A Bronco, you said, Sheriff?”

  “That’s right.”

  Klish nodded. “Probably too high for the camera on the robot. I’m guessing Dave’ll suit up and go in for a look-see.”

  They watched as Gorman laboriously donned a heavily padded green suit with a high collar and large helmet. Slowly, he began to walk toward the Bronco down the street.

  “Looks like he’s taking it pretty careful,” Cy Borkmann said.

  “He’s wearing eighty pounds of Kevlar plates,” Klish replied. “He doesn’t have any choice but to go slow.”

  Gorman reached Cork’s drive and approached the Bronco. He stood for a while peering under the hood.

  “He seemed interested in fishing line,” Cork said. “What was that about?”

  “You said wires were connected directly to the battery?”

  “Yes.”

  “Every explosive needs a power source. In this case, that’s the battery. With power already supplied, the only thing that’s needed to detonate is to complete the electrical circuit. That’s where the clothespin comes in. On this type of device, the electrical contacts are often thumbtacks pushed into the legs of the clothespin. What keeps them from connecting and completing the circuit is a thin piece of plastic or maybe cardboard that’s been slipped between. The question is, how does the plastic or cardboard get removed so the tacks can make contact, complete the circuit, and detonate the explosive? The answer: fishing line. Secure one end of the line to the cardboard, the other to the hood. When the car doesn’t start, the victim lifts the hood to see what the problem is, the fishing line gets pulled up, the cardboard gets yanked out, the thumbtacks connect, the circuit is completed, and…boom.” He gave Cork a wistful look. “You’re a very lucky man, Sheriff. All I can think is that the fishing line broke.”

  Cork nearly staggered under the thought of what almost happened, thinking less about himself than the fact that Jenny had been with him.

  “What’s in the pipe?” Larson asked.

  “Could be anything,” Klish said. “Black powder, dynamite, even C-4, I suppose. They’ll check that out next.” He shook his head. “You know, the hell of all this is that it’s a very destructive device, but simple to make. Instructions for it and bombs a lot more sophisticated are all over the Internet. Go figure.”

  Gorman backed away from the Bronco and, when he was a safe distance, turned and walked to the van. He returned to the Bronco with what Klish described as a portable X-ray machine. Fifteen minutes later, with Gorman at the van, Searson began assembling a tall stand with what looked like a rifle barrel on the end.

  “They’re going to shoot,” Klish said.

  “My Bronco?”

  “Relax, Sheriff. They’ll probably shoot just the battery, or one of the cables, to remove the power source. Then they’ll probably shoot the device to break it open so they can take a look inside. What Greg’s constructing is called a PAN disrupter. It’s basically a remote gun. It has a laser beam for aiming, a barrel that’ll fi
re anything from shot to a slug to plain water.”

  Half an hour and two PAN shots later, they sent the robot in to lift the explosive from the Bronco. Searson guided the small wheeled device back to the van where Gorman waited, still suited.

  “Dave’s going to remove the detonator, then he’ll drop the explosive into the trailer for transport and disposal. You wouldn’t happen to have a gravel pit around here, would you?” Klish inquired.

  “Just west of town,” Cork replied.

  When Gorman was finished and the explosive was safely in the transport canister, he removed his suit and walked to where Cork and the others waited. He was drenched with sweat and looked beat. He carried a liter bottle of water, from which he frequently drank.

  “What was inside?” Klish asked.

  “Trenchrite. Four packs.”

  “That’s a very common explosive,” Klish explained. “That gravel pit of yours probably uses it. What about the fishing line, Dave?”

  “It was there. Broken.”

  “I explained to the sheriff his good fortune.”

  “You were lucky on two counts,” Gorman said to Cork. “The line broke, yes. But also whoever made the bomb inserted a dead blasting cap. It had already been used. Even if the line hadn’t broken, there’s no way that bomb would have gone off. That was one really stupid perp.”

  Within twenty minutes, the bomb team cleared out, heading with Cy Borkmann to the gravel pit, where they intended to dispose of the explosive. The barricades were removed, the pumpers went back to the firehouse, and the crowd dispersed. Cork told Larson and Rutledge that he’d meet them in his office in half an hour.

  He walked his family home and checked his Bronco. The cable to the positive battery terminal had been severed and there were white PVC fragments everywhere, but the damage seemed minimal. Inside the house, everything felt different, as if they’d been gone a very long time.

  “Everybody out of the kitchen,” Jo said. “I’m going to make us something to eat.”

  The children mutely drifted toward the living room.

  When they were alone, Jo said, “Why, Cork?”

  “I don’t know. But one thing is certain. I don’t want you or the kids around until we’ve nailed this guy.”

  “I agree. I’ve been thinking. Jenny wants to see Northwestern and Annie’s dying to have a look at Notre Dame. Why don’t I call Rose, see if we can stay with her and Mal in Evanston?”

  “That’s a good idea.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d come, too.”

  “You know I can’t.”

  She accepted it with an unhappy nod.

  “I’m sorry, Jo. Sorry about all this.”

  “Not your fault, sweetheart.” She tried to smile.

  23

  CORK WAS SURPRISED to find Dina Willner with Larson and Rutledge in his office. He’d seen her among the crowd on Gooseberry Lane, but they hadn’t spoken. She wore black jeans, a white turtleneck sweater, sneakers. She held a disposable cup from the Gas Pump Grill, an old gas station on Oak Street that had been redone as a gourmet coffee shop. Larson and Rutledge had cups, too. Several cream cheese kolaches lay on a paper plate on Cork’s desk, next to another cup from the Gas Pump Grill. The aromas of the coffee and the pastries were wonderful, the first good thing that whole morning.

  “Do you mind if I sit in?” she asked.

  Cork glanced at Larson and Rutledge. “Any objections?”

  “Fine by me,” Rutledge said. Ed Larson nodded his agreement.

  “I brought you some coffee,” Dina said. “French roast, black, but there’s cream and sugar if you’d like.”

  “Thanks.” Cork sat down, took the coffee, put in half-and-half from a tiny container and a couple of packets of sugar lying next to the kolaches.

  “What do you think?” he said.

  “A dead blasting cap. My first guess would be somebody who doesn’t know what they’re doing,” Larson said.

  Rutledge pursed his lips skeptically. “They got everything else right. Maybe it was a bomb never meant to go off.”

  Cork put his coffee down. “Why try so hard to kill me at the Tibodeau cabin, only to give me some kind of bullshit scare now?”

  They were quiet a moment. Then Larson said, “A stupid prank?”

  Rutledge scratched the back of his neck and didn’t look happy with that possibility. “If it was, it’s one that could land the prankster in jail for a good long time. He’d have to be way off the impulsive scale. Way too risky. There’s substance here.”

  Dina sat forward, just a little, but the men’s eyes turned to her. She spoke quietly. “Remember, you have two major investigations under way. Is it possible this incident has nothing to do with what happened on the reservation?”

  “Are you saying it’s related to the Jacoby murder?” Larson inched his wire-rimmed glasses higher on the bridge of his nose.

  “I don’t know. I’m just suggesting it’s a possibility.”

  “Somebody warning me off the investigation?” Cork sat back, considering.

  “You said yesterday that there are people on the reservation who might have been blackmailed by Jacoby. Maybe one of them is afraid of what you might discover. They don’t want to kill you—maybe they’re not that kind, or maybe because of your blood connection, I don’t know—but they’re trying to dissuade you from looking too closely.”

  “If it was meant as a warning, why no note?” Rutledge said.

  “To whoever planted it, maybe what it related to was obvious. They’re not seeing any of this from Cork’s perspective, which is much broader.” She lifted her cup but paused before sipping. “On the other hand, I suppose it could just be somebody who really wanted you dead but doesn’t have the brains God gave a caterpillar.”

  “Who has access to that kind of explosive?” Rutledge said.

  “Up here, lots of folks,” Larson replied. “Mining, logging, and we’ve got a hell of a lot of construction going on, new roads. It wouldn’t be difficult to steal.”

  Rutledge looked at Cork. “Maybe you should think about getting your family out of Aurora for a while.”

  “I’ve already taken care of that. Jo and the kids are going to Chicago to stay with her sister and husband.”

  “Good. So what now? Any ideas?” Rutledge took a bite of his kolache and chewed quietly.

  Cork said, “I’ll hit the reservation, talk to some people out there. If Dina’s right—if it’s somebody trying to scare me off the Jacoby investigation—maybe I can get a handle on that.”

  Larson nodded. “We’ll do a complete canvass of your neighbors, find out if anybody saw anything helpful. While that’s going on, I’m going to do a couple interviews related to the Jacoby murder.”

  “Who?”

  “The night clerk at the Four Seasons. He’s been gone camping the last couple of days, but I understand he’s back. I’m hoping he might be able to shed some light on Jacoby’s comings and goings the night he was killed. And we’re still looking for Arlo.”

  “Arlo?” Dina said.

  “Arlo Knuth,” Cork explained. “A local character, lives out of his truck and sometimes sleeps in the county parks. He was at Mercy Falls earlier on the night Jacoby was killed. One of my deputies ran him off, but we should talk to him. Good luck tracking him down, Ed.”

  “I’ll find him.”

  There was a knock at the door. Deputy Duane Pender stepped in. “Here’s the information you asked for, Cork.” Pender handed over a sheet of paper. “And we’ve got a gaggle of reporters gathering out there.”

  “Thanks, Duane. Keep them at bay awhile, and then I’ll talk to them.”

  Pender left and Cork glanced at the sheet he’d delivered.

  “I asked Duane to run a DMV check on Harmon LaRusse.”

  “Moose LaRusse?” Larson said. “Why?”

  “He followed me yesterday when I was on the rez.”

  “Moose? I didn’t know he was back in these parts.”

  “Nei
ther did I. According to the Department of Motor Vehicles, he isn’t. He’s got a Minneapolis address.”

  “Tell me about this Moose,” Rutledge said.

  “A Shinnob from the rez. Big guy, big troublemaker,” Cork said. “Five, six years ago, we busted him for a series of burglaries in the county. Judge gave him five years in Stillwater.”

  “Why would he be following you?”

  “I have no idea, but I’m going to make a few inquiries today, see if I can find out. But the first thing, Simon, you and I should talk to the media. We’ll need to cover both investigations. Then what I’m going to do is see if I can get to the bottom of those bruises on Lizzie Fineday’s face, find out if Eddie Jacoby had anything to do with it.”

  Dina put her coffee down. “You said I could be there when you talked to her.”

  “I haven’t forgotten.”

  Rutledge stood up. “I’m going to try to have that talk with Lydell Cramer’s sister this afternoon, see if anything shakes loose there.”

  “Everyone stay in touch,” Cork said.

  24

  THEY HEADED TOWARD the North Star Bar, driving between stands of aspen with leaves yellow as the sun. They turned onto Waagikomaan Road, a shortcut across the rez paved with oil and crushed stone. Cork drove into marshland where cattails bent under the weight of idle red-winged blackbirds.

  “Waagikomaan?” Dina said.

  “Not wag like a dog’s tail. It’s a soft a. Like in father.”

  She tried again, more successfully.

  “It means crooked knife,” Cork said. “See how the road cuts back and forth, trying to keep to dry, solid ground.”

  They moved out of the marsh and into a series of low, rocky hills covered with red sumac, balsam, and more aspen.

  “Interesting country,” Dina said.

  “You don’t know the half of it.”

  He could have told her. How the Canadian Shield, the stone mass that underlay everything there and broke through the thin topsoil in jagged outcroppings, was the oldest exposed rock on earth. How the glaciers two miles thick had crept across this land over the centuries, scraping everything down to that obdurate rock and leaving, as they receded, lakes as numerous and glittering as the stars in the night sky. How the land was still lifting itself up, released from the weight of that continent of ice, rebounding, a living thing unimaginably patient and enduring.