“ ‘We Die. U Die.’ What did that mean?”
“Just, you know, that if the junk they put in there leaks, we’re all dead. Even the assholes who are responsible.”
“Who would those assholes be?”
“I don’t know. The guys who make the decisions, I guess.”
“Names?”
“I don’t know.”
“Max Cavanaugh? Lou Haddad? Eugenia Kufus?”
“I don’t know who those guys are.”
“Some of the people making the decisions. They all got notes saying ‘We Die. U Die.’ Do you know anything about that, Jesse?”
“No, nothing. I just did the throw up in the mine.”
“We Die. U Die. Who came up with that?”
“Me, sort of. When I was on the protest line in front of Vermilion One, I said we should have a sign that read something like ‘This won’t kill just us. It will kill everybody.’ Isaiah liked it, but he shortened it for the throw up.”
Leroy St. Onge asked, “What kind of trouble is he in, Cork?”
“Trespass with criminal intent, maybe. Vandalism.” He leveled a long look at Jesse. “His heart was in the right place, and I think even the people who own the mine aren’t excited about the prospect of dumping nuclear waste there, so I’m guessing that, when the whole story’s known, no charges will be brought. That’s certainly the recommendation I’ll make to the mine people and the sheriff.”
St. Onge said, “I think I need to have a talk with Isaiah Broom.”
“Get in line, Leroy,” Cork said.
“Can we go now?” Jesse asked.
“As far as I’m concerned,” Cork told him. “Look, I’ll do what I can to make things easy for you, Jesse, but the sheriff’s people will want to talk to you.”
He made a sour face. “Ah, man.”
“I’ll be there with you,” his uncle said and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Mind giving us a few minutes alone, Cork?” Blessing asked.
“No. I need to go outside and make a call on my cell phone anyway. Meet you at your truck?”
“Fine.”
Cork left the way he’d come. Outside, he could hear Trixie barking in the park next to the marina a block away, and he saw Manypenny throwing a Frisbee, which Trixie was having a great time chasing down. He plucked his cell phone from its belt holster, pulled up the number from which Rainy Bisonette had called two nights earlier, and punched redial. While he waited, he watched Trixie having the best time she’d had since Stephen left for West Texas. He made a mental note: Play more with the dog.
Rainy answered, her voice distant and impersonal. “Yes, Cork?”
“Boozhoo,” he said, trying to be cordial.
“What do you want?”
All business, this woman. All right then, he thought, and got down to it.
“What time did Isaiah Broom leave Crow Point yesterday?”
“Early. Shortly after sunup.”
“Any idea where he was headed?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Is Henry there?”
“No. He’s out gathering.”
Herbs, Cork figured.
“How did Broom seem when he left?”
“Hungover. Worried.”
“Did Henry talk to him?”
“Not really. Broom hurried off like a man on a mission. Uncle Henry couldn’t persuade him to stay.”
“Thanks, Rainy.”
“For what?”
He meant to say for the information she’d just given him. But what came out was “For taking care of Henry. I love that old man.”
Her end of the line was quiet. “So do I,” she finally said, speaking more gently than she ever had to Cork.
When he hung up, he headed immediately back into the community center. He ran into Blessing outside the open gym doors and spoke over the squeak of rubber soles on urethane.
“I need a favor, Tom.”
“Ask.”
“I need to borrow your truck for a little while.”
Blessing reached into the pocket of his pants, pulled out his keys, and handed them over.
“Is it okay if Elgin plays a little longer with Trixie?” Cork asked.
“How long will you be?”
“Not long if I can find the man I’m looking for.”
“Broom?” Blessing guessed.
“Broom,” Cork said.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Isaiah Broom lived in a cabin of his own design and making. It stood at the end of a short stretch of dirt track in a small clearing a couple of miles east of Allouette. Where the track split from the asphalt of the main road, Broom had pounded a post and hung a sign from it: Chainsaw Art.
As Cork drove into the clearing, he spotted Broom in front of the cabin, shirtless, a big Stihl chain saw in his hands, working on a section of maple log that stood six feet high. The noise of the saw drowned out the sound of Blessing’s truck, and Broom didn’t notice Cork’s approach until the vehicle pulled to a stop in a shroud of red dust.
Broom shut off the chain saw and watched Cork come. He didn’t put the Stihl down. In the heat of the summer afternoon, his powerful torso dripped with sweat.
“Isaiah.”
“What do you want, O’Connor?”
“How’s the head?” Cork asked.
“Huh?”
“Heard from Rainy that you were a little hungover the other day. I know how that feels. You okay now?”
“My head’s fine,” Broom said.
“Aren’t you going to ask about mine?”
“Why should I?”
“Somebody whacked me good yesterday. Right here.” Cork pointed toward the back of his head. “Still a little tender, but I’m okay. Thanks for your concern.”
Broom finally lowered the chain saw to the ground, where it sat amid chips and sawdust. “What’s your game, O’Connor?”
“Looks like it’s going to be twenty questions. What did you do with the things you raked up at your uncle’s cabin?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I was out at Indigo Broom’s yesterday morning. Just wanted to see the place for myself. Or what remained of it, which wasn’t much. I stumbled onto a couple of items that made me believe some of the things I’ve been thinking lately about your uncle are true. Then I get hit on the head, and when I come to these things are gone, along with anything else that might incriminate your uncle.”
“I wouldn’t go spreading rumors about my family if I was you, O’Connor.”
“See, right there, that’s the point.”
“What point?”
“I can’t think of anybody who’d care what I said about Indigo Broom except you. And I know you were no fan of the man. So the only thing that makes sense to me is that you’re trying to protect your family and your family’s name. You don’t want it associated with the kinds of things your uncle did. Considering the monster he was, if I was you, I wouldn’t want that either. Family’s important, Isaiah, and should be protected. I get that.”
Broom’s hands drew themselves into fists. “Get out of here, O’Connor.”
“So the first thing I want to say is that my head’s all right, and, all things considered, there’s no need for you to apologize.” Cork gave him a quick smile, then went on. “Now we come to the part that’s more troublesome. I just had a long talk with Jesse St. Onge. I know you put him up to the graffiti in the mine. I know you showed him the way in and you cut through the wall in the Vermilion Drift and led him to the place you wanted him to put his throw up.”
“His what?”
Cork laughed. “Yeah, sounds funny, doesn’t it? His art, Isaiah. Except that it wasn’t really his art. It was yours. Exactly the same design that was on the threatening notes a bunch of folks in Tamarack County got. You sent those notes.”
Broom’s fists relaxed, then balled again, and Cork wondered if the man was aware at all of his body language.
“I don’t k
now what you’re talking about,” Broom said.
“Oh, I’m certain you do. And when Jesse tells his story to the sheriff’s people, they’ll be certain, too. The thing I don’t understand is why you killed Lauren Cavanaugh.”
“I killed Lauren Cavanaugh? What the hell are you talking about?” Now his hands went limp, as if they’d just let go of something.
“The second set of notes. The ones you sent to Haddad’s wife and put on the windshield of Genie Kufus’s car and stuck to Max Cavanaugh’s door with a hunting knife. See, whoever wrote that second set of notes knew Lauren Cavanaugh was dead. That was something known only to the authorities and to those of us on the inside. And, of course, the killer.”
“Second set of notes? Look, O’Connor, I don’t know anything about a second set of notes. Yeah, I went into the mine with Jesse and we put up the warning. And, yeah, I sent some threats to Haddad and Cavanaugh and that Kufus woman. Just to scare them. But I didn’t have anything to do with those other notes you’re talking about. And I sure as hell had nothing to do with killing Lauren Cavanaugh. Why would I kill her? I didn’t even know her. My only concern in all this is to keep nuclear waste away from our land, to protect Grandmother Earth.”
“Where did you get the font you used for the notes?”
“Off the Internet. You can get any damn thing off the Internet.”
“Mind showing me?”
Broom looked at Cork as if the request was crazy.
“The police will be asking you to do the same thing, Isaiah, after Jesse talks to them. If I get a jump on things, maybe I can help protect your family’s name.”
Broom eyed Cork, made a sound like he’d just forced something odious down his throat, and turned to his house. Cork followed him inside.
Broom was a man who’d never married, and his place showed no evidence of a woman’s influence. It was cluttered with papers and magazines. Broom subscribed to a lot of publications across a broad spectrum of interests. American Indian Culture and Research Journal. American Indian Quarterly. Anishnabeg Mom-Weh Newsletter. The New Yorker. The Wall Street Journal. Time. Mother Jones. National Geographic. And others sitting in stacks around the living room and dining area. The floor hadn’t been swept since the Ice Age, and from the mess he could see through the doorway to the kitchen, Cork was very glad Broom would never invite him to lunch.
Broom went to a desk in a corner of the living room where a computer tower and monitor and DSL modem had been set. On a cart next to the desk was an ink-jet printer. He plopped down in the desk chair and brought the machine out of hibernation. With a couple of clicks of his mouse, he was on the Internet. Cork watched over Broom’s shoulder as he hit the drop-down box in Google search, checked his search history, found a website with the URL http://www.eyepoppingfonts.com, and clicked on it. Once the website came up, Broom navigated quickly to the font called From Hell.
“There.” He shoved away from the desk.
“You did that pretty quickly,” Cork said.
“Any idiot could do it quickly,” Broom said, then gave Cork a cold look and added, “Even you.”
They went back outside and stood near the sculpture, which was barely begun and showed no sign yet of what it would become. Cork touched the rough-cut wood. “What’s it going to be, Isaiah? An eagle?”
“Animikii.” A thunderbird. “What happens now?”
“You’ll get a visit from the sheriff’s people, I imagine. But it would probably be best if you visited them. It would look better. And you’d also have high ground for any activist statements you might want to throw in. But take a lawyer with you.”
Broom bent and lifted his chain saw. His face was like the wood of the sculpture, hard to read.
“Isaiah, there’s no way I can keep your uncle’s name out of this. We both know what he did.”
Broom gave the chain saw cord a yank. The roar of the motor would eat anything more Cork might have had to say, so he simply turned and left.
THIRTY-NINE
It was midday and hot under a cloudless sky when Blessing dropped Cork and Trixie back at the house on Gooseberry Lane. Cork tethered his dog to her doghouse and prepared to head to the sheriff’s office to report what he’d learned. He was two steps from his Land Rover when Simon Rutledge drove up in his state car, parked in the driveway, and got out. He was wearing a gray sport coat and blue shirt, no tie. In his right hand he held a six-pack of cold Leinenkugel’s.
“Got a minute or twelve?” Rutledge asked, lifting the beer toward Cork as enticement.
“Depends on what you’ve got on your mind, Simon.”
“Beer. What else do you need to know?”
Cork waved him to the front porch, and the two men settled in the swing. Rutledge handed Cork a bottle, then took one for himself. They unscrewed the caps and sat for a minute, letting the brew wash their throats.
“Nothing better than a cold beer on a hot summer afternoon,” Rutledge said.
“Agreed.”
Two boys of maybe ten or eleven rode by on bicycles, carrying tennis rackets, heading, Cork figured, to the courts in Grant Park.
“You know, tomorrow’s my son’s birthday,” Rutledge said.
“Yeah? How old?”
“Thirteen.”
“Teenager. Tough times ahead.”
“He’s a good kid. I’m not worried. I’d love to be there.”
“Why can’t you?”
“Because we’re close to an end here. I can feel it. I don’t want to leave until I know we can shut the lid on this one.”
“This isn’t just one thing, Simon. It’s a whole bunch of things.”
“Yeah, but they’re all tied together somehow, Cork. And you know what?” He laid his arm on the back of the swing and gave Cork a long look. “I think you’ve got an idea how.”
Cork smiled despite himself. “Gonna Simonize me?”
“I was kind of hoping the alcohol might loosen your tongue.”
Cork laughed. He heard Trixie barking and said, “Be right back, Simon.” He went through the house and out the patio door to where he’d tethered Trixie. He freed her, and she followed him eagerly to the front porch. She jumped on the porch swing beside Rutledge and nuzzled his hand.
“You spend a lot of time with this dog,” Rutledge noted.
“Nobody else around to see to her these days. Same goes for me.” Cork sat on the swing, so that Trixie was between him and Rutledge. He patted her head gently. “This isn’t exactly how I’d envisioned spending my time once the nest was empty, Simon. I figured Jo and me, we’d do the things we were always talking about doing. She wanted to spend a month in Italy, rent a villa in Tuscany, you know? Me, I never had much interest in Italy, but if that’s what she wanted.” Trixie looked up at him with affectionate brown eyes. “What do you say, girl? Want to go chase some Italian rabbits one of these days?” He glanced at Rutledge and apologized. “Sorry. Off topic.”
“No problem,” Rutledge said quietly.
Cork told him much of what he’d learned that day, including his speculation that someone other than Hattie Stillday had killed Lauren Cavanaugh. He kept Ophelia’s name out of it. For the time being.
“Okay,” Rutledge said, nodding tentatively. “So who did kill Cavanaugh? What about Broom?”
“He’s copped to the graffiti and to the first notes but swears he had nothing to do with the murder or the second round of notes. If he’s telling the truth, then someone else sent them.”
“You believe him?”
“I do, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t been fooled.”
“Okay, if not him, then who?”
Cork sipped his beer and stared at the shadow on his lawn cast by the big elm. “I’ve been thinking about the timing of Lauren Cavanaugh’s murder. Someone visited her after Hattie left and before she returned, and that person probably killed her. So was this person’s visit an unfortunate accident? Or did this person know an opportunity existed and took it?”
“Ho
w would they know?”
“A couple of possibilities. Either they responded to the shot fired by Hattie or they came because Lauren Cavanaugh called them.”
“Maybe she had another appointment that evening?” Rutledge offered.
“I don’t think so. According to Ophelia, she was all set to spend the night with Huff, but he crapped out on her.”
“So,” Rutledge said, clearly skeptical, “you’re saying she’d been grazed by a bullet and was still looking for someone to sleep with?”
“More probably someone to take care of her, to bind her wound, to sympathize.”
“Who would that be?”
“Didn’t Ed say that the last call from her cell phone was made a little after eleven?”
“That’s right,” Rutledge replied.
“Do you know who she called?”
He shook his head. “We can phone Ed and find out. But what about the possibility that someone heard the shot and used the opportunity?”
“It would most likely have been someone at the center, but the center was empty that night. All the staff had gone home, and the new residents didn’t come until the next day.”
Rutledge thought it over. “All right. What say we find out who she called before she died?” He set his bottle on the porch and pulled his cell phone from the pocket of his sport coat. He tapped in a number, put the phone to his ear, and waited. “Ed. Simon here. A question for you. Who did Lauren Cavanaugh call the night she died?” He listened. “Uh-huh. That’s it? Just the one call, you’re sure? Thanks, Ed.” Rutledge slipped the phone back into his coat pocket. He reached down, picked up his beer, and took a long draw.
“So?” Cork said.
Rutledge ran the beer around in his mouth, then swallowed. He looked at Cork and said, “Her brother.”
FORTY
Vermilion Drift Page 24