Purgatory Ridge

by William Kent Krueger

  FRIDAYS WERE ALWAYS BUSY at Sam’s Place. Because of tourists getting an early start on the weekend, business came heavily from the lake. By midafternoon, Cork had run out of hamburger buns. He left the girls in charge and took off for the IGA SuperValu in Aurora. As he started up the gravel road, he spotted Wally Schanno’s Land Cruiser turn off Center Street and head toward Sam’s Place. Near the Burlington Northern tracks, Schanno waved Cork to a stop and both men got out.

  The day was hot and Schanno wore a gray Stetson to shade his face. “Glad I caught you, Cork.”

  “What can I do for you, Wally?”

  “You can give me the benefit of your thinking. I spoke with Harold Loomis.”

  “Then you’re pretty sure Charlie Warren had nothing to do with the bombing?”

  “As sure as you are. I’m also pretty sure Loomis had nothing to do with it. He let us search his place. He has a good collection of baseball cards, that’s about it. All of which leaves me without a primary suspect. The BCA agents have a couple of ideas. So do I. I was hoping you might have a few of your own.”

  “This kind of thing isn’t my business anymore,” Cork reminded him. “Besides, how would the BCA like it, knowing you were confiding in unauthorized personnel?”

  “This is still my investigation. Anyway, I told them I was coming out to talk to you, that because you’re part Ojibwe yourself, you’d probably have an interesting perspective to offer.”

  “How about letting me in on the official thinking?”

  Schanno crossed his arms, hooked his big hands into the crooks at his elbows, and stared toward town. “We’ve come up with several possibilities. Agents Earl and Owen are inclined in a couple of directions. I’m inclined in another.”

  “What do they think?”

  “Tree huggers. They’ve run checks on a bunch of folks out there at the tent city on the rez and some are particularly qualified in explosives.”

  “Who?”

  “Joan Hamilton, for one. Joan of Arc of the Redwoods. You’ve seen that she walks with a cane. The result of injuries sustained when a pipe bomb went off in her car a couple of years ago. California authorities contended that the bomb was of her own making and went off accidentally. She claims she was set up by the logging companies. Her son majored in chemical engineering at Cal Tech, which probably makes him well qualified to know about explosives. And then there’s Broom. Hell, he uses explosives all the time in that logging business of his, blowing stumps and whatnot.”

  Schanno gave a little time for all this information to sink in. The wild oats along the roadside were dry and full of grasshoppers. So near the tracks, the air was strong with the scent of creosote and hot oil. The only sounds were the buzz of the grasshoppers, the rustle of the dry oats, and the crunch of gravel as the two men shifted their feet.

  “You said their thinking was in two directions, Wally.”

  “This is a bit further out,” Schanno said cautiously. “And I’d just as soon you didn’t mention it to anybody. It’s not unheard of, I suppose. It goes like this. If you look at the bombing, one thing seems clear. The death of Charlie Warren was an accident. And the damage was limited to an area of the mill that wouldn’t affect operations greatly.”

  “This is important because?” Cork asked.

  “Every logging operation that Lindstrom’s involved in right now is being hit with protest. Word is that he’s having trouble getting enough logs. With all the money he spent renovating that mill, I’m betting he absolutely can’t afford not to supply it with timber. Even if he wins the court battle, and a lot of people seem to think he will, he needs to win support for the cutting or he’s going to encounter trouble at every turn. It would sure be helpful to him if public sentiment was against the tree huggers.”

  “You really believe he could have arranged this himself?”

  “At this point, I guess I’m not about to disbelieve anything,” Schanno replied. “As for me, I’m thinking we ought to consider this might be about something else altogether.”

  He removed the gray Stetson and wiped the sweat from the band with his handkerchief. He put the hat back on and dabbed at his face.

  “I’m just thinking,” he went on, “that this whole logging brouhaha might be a perfect opportunity for someone with a grudge to get back at Lindstrom. They got a chance to vent here and blame it on the tree huggers.”

  “What kind of grudge?”

  “Could be an old one. Lindstrom family’s been cutting in the woods up here for nearly a hundred years and they’ve never been known for their delicate ways. The Iron Lake Ojibwe, they’ve got the gumption and, with the casino revenue, the resources to fight back legally. But a lot of folks who got stepped on still don’t. Now that Karl’s moved himself up here and settled down, I’m wondering if maybe the chickens aren’t coming home to roost. Or it could be something as simple as a fired employee. I’ve got Gil Singer running that one down.”

  Cork absentmindedly leaned against the hood of the Land Cruiser but jerked back from the sting of the hot metal.

  “Well, what do you think?” Schanno asked.

  Cork rubbed where he’d burned his arm. “I’m thinking you’re overlooking another possibility.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Hell Hanover.”

  “Hell? I don’t follow you.”

  “The Minnesota Civilian Brigade, Wally.”

  “The brigade’s broke up.”

  “You really believe that? The firearms were never found. Charges were never brought. You watched a lot of men for a long time, but I don’t think you ever really saw the heart of the brigade.”

  “Okay, so how would the brigade tie in?”

  Cork circled so that the sun was not in his eyes. Schanno watched him from the shadow under the brim of his Stetson.

  “It fits their agenda. Civil disorder. Fomenting unrest over an issue that is, at heart, all about federal regulation. What a coup to have a small war erupt over the leasing of federal lands. I can just see Hell using his editorial page to jump all over the issue. And you can’t tell me Hell or one of the brigade doesn’t know about explosives.”

  With the tip of his index finger, Schanno eased his Stetson up an inch as he considered. “Hanover, huh?”

  “I’m just saying it’s another possibility. Any chance of getting search warrants?”

  “Based on what we have right now, any judge’d laugh us right out of the office.”

  “So what do you intend to do?”

  “Wait, I guess. See what happens next. Maybe we won’t have to wait long. Karl Lindstrom’s called a press conference this evening.”

  “What for?”

  “Word is, he’s going to make some concessions. For whatever reason, he wants to speak from the steps of the middle school. Agent Owen’s over there right now checking for explosives. And I’ve got men stationed all around there until Lindstrom’s finished speaking. It’s a pain in the butt, but he insists it’s important.”

  Cork kicked at a big chunk of red cinder that had somehow migrated from the bed of the railroad tracks. There was something eating at him, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to push it. Finally he blurted it out.

  “Why, Wally?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why are you keeping me in this thing?”

  “I’m just seeking out expertise where it exists.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Not entirely,” Schanno said. Then he said the rest. “I suppose you’ve heard I’m not running again in November.”

  “I’ve heard. Didn’t know if it was true.”

  “It’s true enough.”

  “Arletta?” Cork asked. He was speaking of Schanno’s wife, one of the kindest and loveliest women Tamarack County had ever produced. And one of the most tragic as Alzheimer’s overtook her.

  Schanno nodded and looked down. “I figure she’s not going to get any better, and whatever time we’ve got left to us I want to spend doing what we love. Some traveling. Visi
ting the girls and the grandkids. You know, before it’s too late.”

  “Sure.”

  “The party people, they’ve already decided they’re going to back Arne Soderberg.” He gave a dry laugh. “Soderberg, can you imagine?”

  Schanno looked down at the badge pinned to his shirt pocket. He kept it polished, and in the sunlight it flashed on his chest as if on fire.

  “Look, Cork, when I first took this badge from you, I figured there’d be bad blood between us. There could’ve been, real easy. But when you had the chance to nail my ass to the wall—and we both know what I’m talking about here—you didn’t. You gave me a chance at, well, redemption. I owe you. Honestly, I can’t think of a better man for sheriff. And I know I’m not alone. Lots of folks around here’d jump party lines if you were to run. Which I think you ought to.”

  “Arne’s got a lot of mud he could dredge up and throw around,” Cork reminded him.

  “Unless I misjudge you, you can stand up to a little mudslinging. And the voters in Tamarack County, while they’re awful gossips, wouldn’t look kindly on that kind of campaign.” Schanno reached out and opened the door to his Land Cruiser. “I’m just saying you should think about it, okay?”

  “Sure. And thanks, Wally.”

  Schanno made a U-turn, his wheels cutting narrow swaths in the rye grass at the edge of the road. After the sheriff had gone, Cork stood in the sun a moment, listening to the buzz of the grasshoppers in the dry heat. The sound reminded him of the sizzling of a power line that was just about to blow.

  17

  FOR ALMOST AN HOUR, Jo had been sitting at her desk in her office in the Aurora Professional Building, staring at the legal pad in front of her and not seeing it at all. She’d been looking over a variance for the casino that was due to be renewed on January 1. That had got her to thinking about a New Year’s Day from her own history when she was seventeen years old, during the first year her mother—whom she and Rose between themselves always called the Captain—was assigned to Fort Hood in Texas.

  The Captain had seen the old year out with heavy drinking and had begun the new year in the same way. When they sat down to the ham dinner Rose had prepared, the Captain was unsteady and her face had that hard, mean look it often got when she was drinking. The television was tuned to a football game. Jo got up to turn it off.

  “Leave it on,” the Captain ordered.

  Jo continued toward the television, turned the sound down to nothing, and returned to the table. She had no tolerance for the Captain anymore, and she wasn’t afraid to confront her mother. By then, confrontation was the most characteristic aspect of their relationship. But for the sake of Rose, who’d worked hard to create something special for the new year, she held her tongue.

  “I think we should tell something we’ve been grateful for in the past year,” Rose suggested. “And something we’re looking forward to in the new year.”

  “Fine. Lemme start,” the Captain said. She leaned her arms heavily on the table. “First of all, I’m grateful I’ve got a daughter who could cook for the angels and a daughter who could argue her way outta hell.” She raised her glass, full of Jim Beam, to both of them. “This past year—let me see…. I’ve been grateful the U.S. Army has seen fit to assign me to this military base in the most godforsaken part of the world and to put me and my family up in the worst excuse for base housing I’ve ever seen. I’ve also been grateful for waking up alone every fucking day and for never having to worry about a toilet seat being all dribbled on with a man’s pee.” She drank from her glass and thought a moment. “As for next year, well, I guess I’m just looking forward to a lot more of the same. Happy New Year, girls.” She lifted her glass once more. This time, as she set her drink back down, her hand caught the edge of her plate and sent it flying. The room was quiet. The Captain stared where the broken plate and the food splattered across the floor. Rose stood to clean up the mess.

  “Leave it,” the Captain snapped.

  Rose sat down.

  “My turn,” Jo said angrily. “You want to know what I’ve been grateful for all year?”

  “The invention of condoms?” The Captain sipped from her glass and eyed her daughter over the rim.

  “Like every year before, it takes me that much closer to getting away.”

  “So much for the past. What, pray tell, are you looking forward to?”

  “Another year of busting my butt to get straight A’s, to be the absolute best at what I do. Because when I get out of here, I’m going to the top. Which, believe you me, will take me about as far from you as possible.”

  The Captain raised her glass. “Here’s to the future, kid. Godspeed.”

  Across the table, their glares collided like trains meeting head-on. They both turned toward Rose.

  “I’m grateful,” Rose began in the way she always did, quietly, addressing their angry gazes with unwavering calm, “that I’m never lonely, because I know a lot of people are. And even though it’s not much, I’m grateful for the roof over our heads because some people sleep in cardboard boxes. I’m grateful that the soldiers coming back hurt from Vietnam have someone as skilled as my mother to take care of them. And I’m grateful I have a sister who knows so many things and helps me with my homework and talks to me when we’re in bed at night. I’m grateful for what I remember of my father because they’re good things.” She paused a moment and a smile came to her lips. “As for this year, I’m looking forward to worrying less that I’m fat and have freckles, and worrying more about why God put me here in the first place.” She sat back. Then leaned forward once more, quickly. “And I’m looking forward to finally being finished with geometry.”

  For a few moments, the only sound was the hum of the wind through the weather stripping on the front door. Then the Captain put aside her glass and reached her hands across the table to her daughters.

  Later, they walked, all of them, arm in arm in flurries of snow that forever after made Jo think of white rose petals.

  Her conflicts with the Captain never really ended. Her mother’s bitterness was always there, just below the surface, hauled up swiftly and easily by whiskey on the rocks. Which was why Jo seldom drank and never to excess. She was afraid her mother was inside her, just under her skin. She often felt that if she let herself, she could easily self-destruct. There had been times in her life when she’d seemed right on the edge, but always something happened to bring her back. As if the angels Rose so fiercely believed in had interceded.

  She looked up from her legal pad, surprised to see that the sunlight through the window had dramatically shifted and was crawling up the eastern wall. She glanced at her watch. After five. That meant Fran had already gone. She should be heading home, too. As she started to put her pad away, there was a knock at her office door.

  “Come in.”

  Smooth as a big ball bearing and white as a new morgue sheet, Hell Hanover’s head thrust in, followed by his limping body. “Afternoon, Jo.”

  “Helm. What can I do for you?”

  “Just hoping you might be able to verify or put to rest a couple of rumors floating around town.” Without being asked, he sat in the chair on the far side of her desk. In his hand he held a large brown envelope.

  Jo folded her hands on her desk and said, “Run them by me and I’ll see what I can do.”

  He smiled. A crack in an egg. “I understand Cork’s been instrumental in the investigation of the bombing at Lindstrom’s mill. Is that true?”

  “Any question you have about the investigation should be addressed to Sheriff Schanno, don’t you think?”

  Hanover laughed, sounding genuinely amused. “Lawyers,” he said, and shook his head. “Let me ask you another question, then. I understand Cork’s thinking of running for sheriff in the November election.”

  Jo waited. “That’s not a question.”

  “Is it true?”

  “You know about rumors. Seldom any substance. But if you really wanted to know Cork’s intentions, y
ou’d just ask him, Helm. So what is it you’re really here for?”

  The look of amusement abandoned Hanover’s face. “I want your help.”

  “My help? For what?”

  “I want you to convince your husband of two things.”

  Jo sat back. “I can’t imagine where this is leading.”

  “First, I want him to butt out of the investigation into the incident at Lindstrom’s mill. And second, I want you to make him understand that running for sheriff again would be the worst decision he ever made.”

  For her own reasons, Jo agreed with Hanover’s sentiments, but she disliked the man immensely, and it was only years of practiced self-restraint in the courtroom that kept her from telling Helmuth Hanover to go fuck himself.

  “What difference could any of this possibly make to you?” she asked.

  “That doesn’t matter. I’d just suggest you do it.”

  Jo smiled now. “You’re not still sore that he broke up your little Boy Scout troop? The Minnesota Civilian Brigade.” She looked him over carefully. “Or is it that you’re afraid he might have another go at it? You know, he never believed for an instant you all just dropped your dreams of glory.”

  “Like I said, it doesn’t matter why. Just do it.”

  “Helm, what makes you think you can slither in here and dictate terms to me?”

  She saw his cold blue eyes slide down to the envelope in his hand. Another thin smile broke across his face. Without a word, he handed her the envelope.

  When she saw the photograph inside, she felt gutted, like some animal Hanover had stealthily tracked and finally brought down. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. In the silence of that moment, she heard Hanover give a little snort of victory.

  “You just finished ridiculing my dreams of glory, Jo. What about your own?”

  The photograph was black and white, taken at night with a camera using a starlight lens. It was a bit grainy because the image had been enlarged several times. Despite the poor quality, the composition of the photo was brutally clear. A hot tub lit by candlelight. A woman, naked, holding to the edge of the tub and bent slightly forward, her mouth opened in a little circle of ecstasy as a naked man entered her from behind. The woman was Jo. The man was not Cork.