Manitou Canyon

by William Kent Krueger

  “Not as much as we do,” Cork replied.

  CHAPTER 37

  They gathered at the O’Connor house on Gooseberry Lane. Marsha Dross joined them, and they sat around the dining room table with sandwiches that Jenny had put together. Little Waaboo had gone to bed. The feeling in the room was the most hopeful and energetic it had been since Cork and Lindsay Harris disappeared. In fact, it felt to Rose like a war council.

  “We got the report from a DNR guy who’s in the Boundary Waters conducting some kind of wolf survey,” Dross explained. “He ran into them this morning. But he didn’t realize who they were until he stopped for the night and did a radio check-in. He indicated he spotted them here.”

  She’d laid a topographical map of the area on the table, and she pointed to a lake called Emerald, which was very near the Canadian border.

  “Charlie Bender, that’s the DNR guy, said there were four people, two women and two men. One of the men fit Cork’s description and one of the women fit Lindsay’s. Bender reported that they had, in fact, given him those names. Neither of them appeared to be in any danger or seemed threatened. Except for the fact that it was odd to find anyone so deep in the Boundary Waters at this point in the season, Bender didn’t think much about it.”

  “Couldn’t we send a plane out for them now?” Stephen asked.

  “Too dark,” Dross said. “The floatplane will go out first thing in the morning, weather permitting. And the report for tomorrow looks hopeful.”

  “What the hell is Dad doing out there?” Jenny asked. “Why didn’t he say anything to this Bender?”

  Dross said, “My best guess is that there were more people involved than Bender saw. Probably someone hiding, probably someone with a firearm. I can’t think of another reason Cork wouldn’t have spoken up.”

  “How many more people?” Stephen asked.

  “Bender reported two canoes, so probably no more than a couple. But he also reported that the canoes were beautiful birch-bark creations. Which is a little odd, and maybe something that when we dig deeper will tell us more.” Dross sat back and took a sip from a mugful of coffee. “Azevedo’s the IC on this case.”

  “IC?” Jenny said.

  “Incident commander. He’s in charge of the search at Raspberry Lake. When I contacted him, I told him not to say anything to the other searchers. Until he hears from me, I want him to continue as if we don’t have this information.”

  “Why?” Stephen said.

  “Because I’m concerned someone here is in communication with the people who abducted Cork and Lindsay Harris.”

  “Ben Trudeau?” Daniel said.

  Dross shrugged. “Who knows? There may be others.”

  Rose said, “Stephen, did you learn anything from the Daychilds?”

  “We saw Trudeau with Marlee and her mom at the Broiler this evening,” Stephen explained. “After Trudeau took off, I talked to them. Stella’s worked at the casino for years, you know. In the last few weeks, Trudeau’s been hitting on her, having dinner with Stella pretty regularly. He usually invites Marlee to join them. Says he doesn’t have family here and claims it keeps him from feeling too lonely. Marlee thinks he really likes her mom, but he’s too shy to actually date her. Me, I think there’s something else going on.”

  “What?” Dross said.

  There was an edge to Stephen’s voice. “He’s been asking a lot of questions about us.”

  “Us?” Jenny said.

  “Dad, me, you. Rainy, too. You know how Marlee loves to talk. So she’s told him a lot. She said Trudeau seemed especially interested in how I sometimes see and feel things. Bottom line, he’s been pumping them for information.”

  “Why?” Daniel asked.

  Stephen said, “I think he fed that information to Trevor Harris, who used it creating that crap vision of his. That’s how he knew I was in Arizona and about ‘monthterth under the bed.’ ”

  “I’ve got a couple of deputies out right now bringing Harris in for questioning,” Dross said. “If I can break him, we’ll know a lot more.”

  “I’d love to be there for that,” Daniel said.

  “I want to be on that floatplane tomorrow,” Stephen said.

  Dross shook her head. “The only people on that plane will be the pilot, me, and some of my CIRT team.” She looked them all over and finally allowed herself a little smile. “We’ve got a shot at bringing this to a good end.”

  She stood up, and as she folded the map, her cell phone rang. She pulled it out and looked at the number. “Pender,” she told them. “One of the deputies I sent to pick up Harris.” She put the phone to her ear. “Dross here. Did you get him?” She listened, and Rose saw her face go stony. “Keep on it and keep me informed.” She slid the phone into her pocket and gave them the word. “Seems that Trevor Harris has gone AWOL.”

  * * *

  Rainy stood alone on the dark shoreline at the end of Crow Point. The wind was a torrent out of the northwest, and Iron Lake an angry beast. She’d brought a kerosene lantern with her. Despite the protection of the glass, the flame still flickered in the currents that forced their way through the tiniest gaps. She was cold, even in her wool-lined jacket and stocking cap and gloves. But she’d been relieved of a great burden of worry. Cork was alive.

  Jenny had called with the news. He’d been spotted, along with Lindsay Harris, somewhere far north. She didn’t know the Boundary Waters, not like Cork, so she had no idea where exactly Emerald Lake was. But she couldn’t help thinking of it as a little like the Emerald City in The Wizard of Oz, a place of glittering promise. Cork was there and he was alive.

  People were with him, but he didn’t seem to be in any danger. She didn’t know what to make of that. She’d never met a man who seemed so able to take care of himself and others. So she trusted that whatever the reason, it was Cork’s choice to be there and to be with them.

  The great spill of blood they’d found on Raspberry Island was still perplexing. No one seemed to have an explanation for it. But that was a mystery that would be cleared up the next day, when the sheriff and her people flew out to Emerald Lake and brought Cork and Lindsay Harris back. Rainy was a practical woman. Her belief in the power of her herbal preparations and the traditional ceremonies she took part in was based on her observations of their ability to heal the ailing body and the broken spirit. Because she was practical, she reminded herself that Cork was not out of the woods yet, quite literally, but she believed that he would be, and soon.

  And then what?

  With one great burden off her shoulders, another had settled in its place.

  More and more since Leah’s arrival, Rainy had begun to sense from her great-uncle an encouragement to move on in her own life, perhaps even to put Crow Point behind her. Uncle Henry, it seemed, believed he’d given her all he could. It was true, what he’d said, that when she came to him, she’d been in much the same predicament as Leah, so terribly lost and alone. Although she’d thought at the time that she was coming to help take care of a relative nearing the century mark, in truth, Uncle Henry had done the caring. He’d taught her more about real healing than she’d learned in any of her nursing classes. She’d hoped that with time she might come to understand how to heal herself. But that was a lesson she’d somehow missed. And now it was too late.

  She was surprised when Ember gave a woof in warning. She turned from the lake and put her back to the wind. Her great-uncle stood at the far edge of the circle of light cast by the lantern at her feet. He looked at her calmly, but there was something about him that wasn’t quite right.

  “Uncle Henry?” she said.

  That’s when she saw the other figure, a dark shape that stayed beyond the reach of the light. All she could see of it clearly was the arm extended toward her great-uncle’s back, the hand at the end of it, and the gun that hand was holding.

  CHAPTER 38


  Cork’s wrists and ankles had been bound with duct tape before he rolled himself in the two blankets for the cold night. He waited until the others all slept soundly, waited especially long to be certain the tall man had slipped off. Then he reached carefully into the pocket of his coat and brought out a small, walnut-handled pocket-­knife. When the packs had gone into the water along with Bird, Cork had hauled them out. While the others saw to the freezing young man, he’d taken the knife, which he’d seen the kid put into his pack. He’d been waiting until the right moment to try another escape, but he’d finally decided there would never be a right moment. His plan was to slip away with Lindsay in one of the canoes, then head west. West would take them out of the Boundary Waters within two days. There would be roads, towns, civilization.

  He’d also decided this: if the escape was unsuccessful, Lindsay would not be killed. She was too important. And Cork? Well, that would be a calculated risk. With Bird so ill and not able to help them move, he hoped the tall man would be forced to grant him a reprieve, at least until they were out of the wilderness. And how much worse off could he be then?

  He worked the knife blade open and shifted the handle to his mouth, where he gripped it hard between his teeth. It took a while, but he finally cut through the tape on his wrists. He drew his legs up and sliced through the tape around his ankles. Then he folded the blade, returned it to his coat pocket, and lay for a few minutes, breathing hard, listening to be certain no one had been disturbed.

  The wind had finally died. The lake had calmed itself. Only a dim light came from the coals of the banked fire. Cork rolled his head and caught sight of movement, a shade on the far side of the fire glow, a gray creep against the darker backdrop of the island pines. It wasn’t the pace of someone heading off to relieve himself, as often happened in a night. The movement was like that of a hunting cat: step, pause, step.

  The figure crept to where Bird lay in his sleeping bag, tossing restlessly in his fever, groaning softly. The figure knelt beside him.

  It could have been nothing. The tall man, maybe, worried and checking on his nephew. But Cork didn’t think so. The cat creep signaled another intention.

  He threw off his blankets and leaped over the fire. He hit the kneeling figure, and together they rolled across the hard ground, away from Bird, who cried out. Cork and the figure grappled, and he felt a sting across the side of his chest. He parried the next blow with his forearm and managed to grab the wrist. He could feel the fisted hand and understood that it gripped a knife. He slammed the hand to the ground and pinned the figure under him.

  “Enough!” the tall man shouted.

  Beneath Cork, the woman went slack. He saw the fist open and the hand jerk away from the knife it had released. He pushed himself up and off the woman and stood.

  “What’s going on?” The tall man held the rifle ready.

  “He was going to cut Bird’s throat,” Mrs. Gray said from where she lay on the ground.

  “That’s not true,” Cork said.

  “Then what’s that?” The woman pointed toward the four-inch blade of a hunting knife lying near.

  Bird had sat up. He looked at Mrs. Gray and he looked at Cork.

  “Do you know what happened?” the tall man asked him.

  “Uh-uh.” Bird shook his head weakly.

  Lindsay Harris lay in her sleeping bag, wide awake and watching with interest.

  “I told you,” the sour woman said, finally standing. She pointed toward the ground. “He was going to cut Bird’s throat with that knife. He would have if I hadn’t stopped him.”

  The tall man eyed Cork. “Well?”

  “Why would I want to kill Bird?” he said. “He’s slowing us down. Everyone keeps telling me I’m going to die when we get out of these woods. Why would I want to get there faster?”

  “He’s lying,” the woman said. “He’s a lying chimook.”

  “You’re bleeding,” the tall man said to him.

  Cork glanced down where he’d felt the sting. The knife had cut through his coat, and the heavy material was staining dark. He said, “I sure didn’t do that to myself.”

  “I did,” Mrs. Gray said triumphantly. “This chimook doesn’t know how to handle a knife. I took it from him easily.”

  Cork said, “If I’d wanted to cut Bird’s throat, I would have used this.” He dug into the pocket of his coat and brought out the little pocketknife. It was obvious he’d cut himself free, and they’d take the knife from him anyway.

  “That’s Bird’s,” the tall man said. “Where did you get it?”

  “I stole it when his pack went into the water.”

  The tall man’s eyes swung to the woman, who took a step back.

  “You would kill my nephew?” He spoke quietly, but his look burned and his voice was acid. “To the enemy we are nothing. Less than nothing. They kill us with no regard. But if we kill each other, we become worse than them. Because we should matter to each other.”

  “The Manitou River is what matters,” the woman shot back. “Not you or me or him.”

  “If you give your life, that’s your choice,” the tall man said. “But you have no right to make that choice for Bird or anyone else.”

  “You’ve been plenty ready to kill O’Connor.”

  “I was.”

  “Was?” The sour woman looked even more sour, if that were possible.

  “He isn’t the enemy,” the tall man said.

  “He sure as hell isn’t going to help us save the Manitou River, now is he?”

  “I don’t know.” The tall man looked at Cork. “I haven’t asked him.”

  “You say one word to him, you spill the plan, and I’ll kill both of you the first chance I get. You don’t know what it’s like, losing everything and everyone you care about. But I do. And this is my chance to make those Caldecott bastards pay.” Mrs. Gray said it with such fury that spittle flew from her mouth. She turned her anger on Cork. “Chimooks lie to us. Steal from us. Rape us. Kill us. We don’t trust chimooks. We kill chimooks.”

  Cork could have argued, but what would have been the use? That kind of hatred was a wall he couldn’t break through, not with words anyway. He understood where some of it came from, the long, deep history of betrayal and brutality. Slaughter that approached genocide. Cultural trauma across generations. But the depth of her anger seemed to come from something more recent and personal. It wasn’t just her brother’s death. Somehow, she’d lost everything.

  The tall man gave Mrs. Gray a penetrating look. “You try anything like that again, with Bird or O’Connor or the Harris woman, we’ll leave you and you can try to get out of this wilderness alone. You understand?”

  The woman met his eyes but didn’t speak quickly enough.

  “O’Connor,” the tall man said. “There’s duct tape in my pack. Get it and tape her hands.”

  “You wouldn’t.” And now the woman’s eyes were like his, burning.

  “One more word and I’ll have him tape your mouth as well,” he said.

  The woman started to speak, but thought better of it.

  When her wrists were bound, the tall man stepped to the knife on the ground and picked it up. He closed the blade and put the knife into his pocket. He held out his hand.

  “Yours,” he said.

  Cork gave it over. The tall man went to one of the packs, cut pieces of gauze and tape, and gave them to Cork to bandage the knife wound.

  “Uncle Aaron?”

  “What is it, Bird?”

  “You can leave me. I’ll understand.”

  “And when I walk the Path of Souls and see your father, what do I tell him? That I abandoned you? No. We’ll do what we came to do, and you’ll be a part of it.”

  Bird gave a weak nod and lay back down. The sour woman returned to her sleeping bag, and the tall man sat Cork down on the blankets and b
ound him once again with duct tape.

  Cork lay awake a long time thinking about what had just happened. He’d tried again to stand between Lindsay Harris and danger. What he’d done instead was save Bird’s life. He believed the tall man would not forget that. And if it was the tall man’s call, Cork thought he and Lindsay and even John Harris might stand a chance. But apparently it wasn’t up to the tall man alone. There were others involved. And if they were anything like Mrs. Gray, Cork was afraid he didn’t have a prayer.

  CHAPTER 39

  Rainy studied her great-uncle in the lantern light. Although a gun was pointed at his back, Henry showed no sign of being frightened. She couldn’t ever recall seeing the ancient Mide afraid. At least for himself. His concern was always for others. Death, she knew, held no fear for him. She’d often heard him say that he was so old he thought of Death as a little brother.

  “What do you want?” Rainy said.

  The dark figure finally stepped forward enough that his face was visible in the light.

  “They’re going to kill me,” Trevor Harris said. His eyes were bloodshot, all his features drawn. He looked near the edge of madness.

  “Who’s they?” Rainy asked.

  “That’s the thing. I don’t know. Indians.”

  “We’re Indian.”

  “You’re different. Safe. I saw what you do out here. You try to help people. I need help. And . . .” He hesitated, then stumbled on. “I think my sister needs help, too.”

  “If you want our help, you have to put that gun away.”

  Trevor stared at the firearm in his hand as if it were some failing in himself that he was ashamed of. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m just so scared.”

  “You don’t have anything to be afraid of here,” she assured him.

  He considered her words, finally lowered the weapon, and shoved it into a pocket of the long, expensive coat that he wore.