Trickster's Point co-11

by William Kent Krueger

  Bigby wasn’t even breathing hard. He stared down at Jubal and said, “I want the fucking truth, boy.”

  Jubal tried to speak but could barely raise his head from the dirt.

  Buzz Bigby set himself to swing his steel-toed boot again.

  And that’s when Cork went berserk. In the few seconds it had taken Bigby to bring Jubal down, Cork had stood paralyzed, stunned by both the swiftness of the attack and its brutality. But when he saw Bigby set to kick Jubal again, he snapped into action and launched himself blindly. Without thinking, he threw himself onto Bigby’s broad, muscled back. He wrapped his right arm around the man’s thick neck. With his left hand, he grasped his right wrist and put all his strength into keeping the bone of his forearm pressed against Bigby’s throat. Bigby stumbled back. He grunted but couldn’t speak. He grasped at Cork’s arms and tried to break the grip, but adrenaline poured into every cell of Cork’s body, and his arms were like the steel of a vise. Bigby swung his own body left, then right, trying to shake Cork loose. For Cork, it was like riding a raging buffalo, but he held on. Bigby stumbled across the bare dirt of the lot and slammed Cork into the door of his pickup. Cork held. He could feel the man’s strength ebbing, and he pressed harder against his throat. He wanted Bigby dead. He wanted to kill him with his bare hands.

  Buzz Bigby leaned forward, away from the truck, preparing to go down like one of those great pines he’d made his living felling. He stumbled again and turned, legs all wobbly. And Cork suddenly found himself almost face-to-face with little Lester Bigby, who was staring through the glass of the driver’s-side window, wearing a look of horror.

  Cork came back to his senses. He released his grip on Bigby’s neck and slid from the man’s back. Relieved of the weight, Bigby lurched, fell into the dirt, rolled to his back, blinked rapidly at the evening sky, and gasped for breath.

  Jubal was at Cork’s side. Even though his face was smeared with his own blood and he grunted in pain when he moved, Jubal put his arm around Cork’s shoulders firmly and urged him away from where Bigby lay sprawled on the ground.

  “That’s enough,” he said to Cork hoarsely. “Let’s go home.”

  At the end of August, Jubal Little left on a Greyhound bus for Cedar Falls, Iowa. Cork, along with Jubal’s mother, saw him off at Pflugleman’s Rexall Drugstore, which doubled as the bus depot. He stood watching as the bus drove away in a smelly cloud of diesel vapor. They’d sworn to each other that they’d stay in touch. Even so, it felt to Cork as if the best friend he’d ever known was heading out of his life forever.

  He would discover later, and not without regret, that nothing except death was forever.

  CHAPTER 19

  The night grew cold, and the fire died to embers, and Winona Crane had not returned. Cork finally went back to the cabin, where he found Willie drinking hot spiced tea from a white ceramic mug.

  Willie asked, “Did you talk to her?” Diyoutatoher?

  “She didn’t show.”

  “She’s there. Watching. She’ll come back when you’re gone. You said you had a message from Jubal. I can give it to her.”

  “In a minute. There are some things I want to ask first, Willie. I’d have asked Winona if she’d shown herself.”

  “All right. Ask.”

  “Did Jubal talk to you or Winona about threats on his life?”

  “Winona said he got threats all the time.”

  “Did he talk to her about any specific threat?”

  “If he did, she didn’t say.”

  “Did he take the threats seriously?”

  “He wasn’t afraid for himself. He was more concerned about his wife.”

  “What about Winona? Was he afraid for Winona?”

  A sad smile warped Willie’s lips. “No one knew about him and Winona.”

  “Not true,” Cork said. “I knew. And Camilla knew. And, I suspect, her brothers knew as well.”

  “Her brothers?” Willie spoke as if the mention of them had brought something forgotten to his mind. “Jubal was concerned about something, but not a threat necessarily, or at least the kind of threat you’re thinking of. He was concerned about his brother-in-law.”

  “Which one?”

  “Nicholas. I guess he’s always been a little on the unpredictable side. There was some trouble that Jubal was afraid might reflect badly on the family and, as a result, on his own candidacy.”

  “Did he tell Winona what the trouble was?”

  “Yes, but she was vague about it when she talked to me. From the things she did say, I think it had to do with a hunt he and Jubal had done together in the Arctic wilderness in northern Canada last year. I had a sense that, whatever it was, it must have been pretty bad. Maybe even as bad as someone getting killed. One of the Native people, maybe. All covered up, of course. She did tell me Jubal thought that in the future it might prove to be a way to rein in the worst of Nicholas’s excesses. Sounded to me like blackmail.”

  Cork gave a dry, humorless laugh. “Jubal told me once that in politics it’s not called blackmail. It’s called ‘leverage.’ Did Camilla and Alex Jaeger know about this… whatever it was?”

  “I don’t know. Like I said, Winona was vague.”

  Something came to Cork now, the sudden realization of a possible connection. “Willie, this incident in Canada, did Winona mention the name Rhiannon in connection with it?”

  “Rhiannon?” Willie frowned and thought hard. “She never said that name to me. Are you going to tell me Jubal’s message now?”

  “Just a couple more questions. When we were kids, Sam Winter Moon taught Jubal and me how to hunt in the old way.”

  “I know.”

  “Sam also taught Winona.”

  Willie seemed surprised that Cork knew. “What of it?”

  “Does she still hunt in the old way?”

  “Not in years.”

  “Why did Sam teach her?”

  “She asked. It was something she wanted to learn. I think because Jubal knew how, she wanted to know how, too.”

  “Where was Winona on Saturday, Willie?”

  His dark eyes, which had held a kind of soft mournfulness, grew hard, and he stared at Cork, wordless for a very long time. “You think Winona killed Jubal?”

  “I just want to know where she was.”

  “You want to know because you’re wondering if she put an arrow in Jubal’s heart.”

  Cork said, “It’s a very small wonder, but it’s there.”

  “She won’t talk to you because she’s afraid. And she ought to be afraid. Of everyone.” Willie spit it out with such anger that Cork could barely understand the words. “We’re done here.”

  “Don’t you want to know the message Jubal left for your sister?”

  A different kind of spark came into Willie’s eyes, a deep, burning interest.

  “He said that if only Kitchimanidoo had allowed it, he would have spent his life with Winona, and he would have been happy.”

  Willie’s look changed again, this time to bitter disbelief. Cork wasn’t sure if Willie didn’t believe what Jubal had said or didn’t believe what Cork had told him. He stepped into the kitchen, set his mug of tea on the counter, and said, “It’s time I took you home.”

  “There’s one more thing, Willie. Camilla asked me to pass along some information to Winona.”

  “What?”

  “She’s planning to bury Jubal in Saint Paul.”

  That wasn’t exactly the message; it didn’t carry the venom.

  Willie considered it, then said, “Good,” and headed out the cabin door.

  They were nearing Aurora when Cork’s cell phone rang. He checked the number. Out of Area. He answered, “O’Connor.”

  “Rhiannon.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Drop it.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s got nothing to do with Little’s death.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Let it go, O’Connor.”

  “I don’t thi
nk so.”

  “Understand this: If the name Rhiannon comes out of your mouth again, it’ll be the last thing that ever does. And something else to keep in mind. You mention this conversation to anyone, especially the sheriff or her people, someone near and dear to you will pay the price. That’s a promise.”

  “Listen-” Cork began, but the caller was gone.

  Willie glanced across at him. “You look like you just talked to the Devil himself.”

  Cork thought about the warning he’d just received. It was a stupid call, of course, because now there was no way in hell he wouldn’t pursue the mystery of Rhiannon. But it was effective in one respect. He would not mention the name again, not until he’d found the answer.

  “It was no one, Willie,” he said. “No one important.”

  CHAPTER 20

  The house was quiet when he got home, everyone in bed, asleep. Cork went straight to his office, turned on his computer. He meant to do a search for anything related to Jubal Little and Rhiannon but saw that his daughter Anne had sent him a Skype message. It said, “Call me when you have a chance. Worried.”

  Anne was his middle child. On graduation from high school, she’d left Aurora and followed a path intended to lead her to the altar as a Bride of Christ. She was doing her best to join the Sisters of Notre Dame de Namur, an order well known for its social activism. That was Annie, by God. She was currently in Thoreau, New Mexico, working at a school and mission, preparing for her vocation. Cork shot her back a message saying everything was fine. No need to worry. And he promised to call.

  He Googled Jubal Little and Rhiannon together, a search that yielded just over two hundred thousand hits. He scanned the first twenty pages of sites and realized it was getting him nowhere. He tried the name Rhiannon alone. He was pretty sure he’d get the Fleetwood Mac hit, and he did. He went through the lyrics-all about a Welsh witch, a woman taken by the wind-looking for a clue to the identity of Jubal’s Rhiannon, but nothing leaped out at him. He searched a bit more and found the derivation of the name. According to Wikipedia, it was Celtic, the name of a great queen in Welsh mythology. Not much help, but he was fishing for anything. He checked the White Pages and found that there were seventy-two people in Minnesota with that first name. Because of Jubal’s long ties with Washington, D.C., it was entirely possible that Rhiannon, whoever she was, was connected somehow with Jubal’s activities there.

  Cork sat back and thought about the phone call itself. The voice was unfamiliar, but he understood that it had been disguised. It was definitely male, low and graveled and obviously unreal. Willie had said he looked as if he’d just spoken to the Devil himself, and that was what the voice had, indeed, sounded like. Cork brought up the number on his cell phone. Out of Area. Calling card, most probably. Tough, if not impossible to trace. And even if he were able, he was pretty sure that he’d find it had come from a public phone. A dead end.

  He tried to remember everyone to whom he’d spoken the name Rhiannon. He recalled only Rainy, Camilla Little, Marsha Dross, and Willie Crane. But maybe there was someone he’d forgotten. Or perhaps-probably, in fact-they’d mentioned the name to others. Though that couldn’t have been true of Willie, who was with Cork when the call had come.

  He looked at the clock. It was almost two a.m. He was tired, his brain all mushy, his thinking going fuzzy. He turned off his computer, but he sat for a long moment in the silence of his office, thinking one final thought. Whoever Rhiannon was, the real issue was what did she have to do with Jubal’s death? Maybe nothing, exactly as the caller had said. And if so, maybe the call had been meant to tantalize him with this bait, to distract him from his pursuit of the truth about Jubal’s murder, to lure him onto a different path, a blind alley. It had been a ridiculous kind of call, really, the kind from bad movies.

  In the end, there was one consideration that overrode all the others. The caller had made a threat directed at someone Cork cared about. It might have been just theater, just a bluff, but he couldn’t take that chance. Where Rhiannon was concerned, he would proceed with great caution.

  He turned out the lamp on his desk, left his office, and slowly climbed the stairs toward bed, hoping he could sleep.

  He didn’t, not much. After a few hours of restless napping, he rose in the dark, showered, dressed, left a note for his children, and headed out. He pulled up to the curb in front of Johnny’s Pinewood Broiler at 5:30, which was half an hour before the front door was unlocked and the place was officially open for business. On the other side of the big plate-glass windows, the restaurant was only dimly lit, but he could see Heidi Steger moving fast back and forth behind the counter. Heidi was somewhere in her thirties and three times married. No children though. She was always doing something to look younger. Her hair, for example. At the moment, it was a neon green that made her look a little like a Chia Pet. It was also on the wild side that morning, and Cork figured she’d overslept and was frantically trying to get the place ready for customers. He slid from the Land Rover, went to the Broiler door, and knocked on the glass. Heidi turned toward him, looked bewildered, pointed at her wristwatch, and shook her head. Cork beckoned her to him. He could tell she wasn’t happy to be interrupted, but she came and unlocked anyway.

  “I don’t care how hungry you are,” she said, “I’m not putting in any orders before six.”

  “This isn’t about eating, Heidi.”

  “No? What’s it about then? And make it quick, Cork. I’m running late as it is.”

  “The day before yesterday, the day Jubal Little was killed, when we came for breakfast, do you remember who else was here that morning?”

  “Oh, Jesus. That was Saturday. You have any idea how many people come here for breakfast on a Saturday? You think I’m going to remember them all?”

  “Just take a moment, Heidi. Relax and think. This was very early Saturday, first thing after you opened. Anybody come to mind?”

  “Cork, I’ve got so much-”

  “Please. It’s important.”

  She took a breath and closed her eyes. Then she squeezed them together, as if it hurt her to think deeply. At last she said, “Gus Sorenson and Davey Klein and Mack McKenzie were at the counter. Two Greek omelets and one short stack with a side of link sausage. Cora Hubik was at table six. Eggs over easy and a waffle. Lester Bigby in booth three, right behind you and Jubal Little. Oatmeal and raisins. Jasper Davis in booth five. His usual-”

  “Lester Bigby? He was here?”

  “I just said he was. In the booth right behind you.”

  “I don’t remember him.”

  “You probably didn’t see his face. He’s usually got it hid behind a newspaper.”

  “Bigby,” Cork said.

  She mentioned two more names, but they weren’t anybody Cork had reason to be concerned about, especially after he’d learned that Lester Bigby had been there. He thanked Heidi and started away.

  “Be back for breakfast?” she asked.

  “I’ll probably have something at home.”

  “Give that grandson of yours a big hug for me. And bring him in for a cinnamon roll sometime. On me, okay?”

  “Will do, Heidi.”

  Cork didn’t, in fact, go home. He drove north out of Aurora, along the lakeshore and back roads until he reached the double-trunk birch. Soft blue morning light was sifting through the tree branches as he set out along the path to Crow Point, and he realized the cloud cover that had hung heavy for days was gone, and the sun would break against a clear heaven. That idea alone lifted his spirits.

  The sky had turned the color of a peach when he stepped from the trees and entered the meadow at the end of the point. He saw no smoke rising from the stovepipe on either of the cabins. He walked to Rainy’s door, knocked lightly, and opened it.

  “Rainy?” he called softly.

  “Cork?” She rose in bed, propped herself on an elbow, and gave him a quizzical look.

  “Would you like some company?”

  She smiled and lif
ted the blanket for him. “I’d love some.”

  Later, they lay together, a braiding of arms and legs and moist flesh.

  “I don’t know what brought this on, but I’m glad it did,” Rainy said in a breathless whisper.

  “I spoke with Camilla Little last night, and then tried to see Winona Crane. They both seem to me to be crippled women. It’s helped me realize how lucky I am to have you in my life, and I just wanted you to know that I know that.”

  In reply, she kissed his shoulder gently.

  He said, “Some people, love just seems to sweep them up like a big wave, and then leave them stranded. I think that’s the way it was with Winona and Camilla where Jubal was concerned.”

  “What about you?” Rainy said. “From what you’ve told me, Jubal left you kind of stranded, too.”

  Cork rolled onto his back and stared up at the boards of the ceiling. Rainy put her hand on his chest over his heart.

  “He wasn’t always like that,” Cork said. “It wasn’t always all about Jubal.”

  After Jubal left for college, Cork didn’t see him for several years. Summers, Jubal worked in Cedar Falls at jobs arranged for him by the Athletic Department. They communicated occasionally through letters, but neither of them was particularly responsible in that way. It wasn’t difficult for Cork to keep track of Jubal’s football career, however. The University of Northern Iowa’s team was Jubal. He became the starting quarterback in his freshman year, and in every year thereafter, he set new school records and new conference records. Although he played for a small school in a midwestern state that most of America associated with dumb cows and tall corn, Jubal’s exploits excited national attention. Because of his Minnesota roots, he was often featured in the sports columns of the newspapers in the Twin Cities. His senior year warranted a full two-page article in Sports Illustrated, and that same year, he was profiled in Time. Part of it, of course, was his incredible athletic ability, but part of it was his unique history. The summer before his senior year, Jubal’s father died, stabbed to death in the prison yard at Deer Lodge. Because of who Jubal was, the incident became a national story. By then, the sentiment in America had changed and being Indian was a unique, even honorable thing. Once the truth was known, Jubal seemed to embrace his heritage. On the football field that final year-and in the pros afterward, for a while-he took to calling himself the Wild Warrior and let his hair grow long. Off the football field, he often wore a beaded headband and sometimes a feather. He didn’t return to Aurora until the following spring, when his mother died, and by then Cork was long gone, off to Chicago, training to wear the blue uniform of a cop. Cork didn’t learn about Jubal’s mother until later. When he did, he sent a letter of condolence, which Jubal never answered. Cork understood. Gradually over the years, he and Jubal, like most high school friends, had eased into their adult lives and had drifted apart.