Thunder Bay co-7

by William Kent Krueger

  “What do you think?” Schanno asked, coming around the Bronco as I shut the door.

  “About Wellington?”

  “Him, yeah, but I also meant about Meloux hiking to the ruins of this burned-down cabin.”

  “Meloux hikes from Crow Point into Allouette all the time. A good ten miles round-trip.”

  Meloux was standing not far away, but his attention was focused on the lake and the distant ridges. He didn’t seem to hear our conversation.

  “Three days ago he was in the hospital, and word was that he wasn’t coming out,” Schanno said.

  “Tell him your concern, if you want to.”

  “My concern? You think I’m not talking sense?”

  “Try talking sense to Meloux. After everything he’s been through to get here, if he told me he was going to fly to this cabin, I’d say happy landing.”

  “All right, how about this? It’s been seventy years since he was here, Cork. Hell, I can’t even remember what clothes I wore yesterday. You really think Meloux’s going to be able to find his way?”

  “I guess we’ll see. By the way, your Colt Python is in the pack.”

  “Good. I’ve been thinking about the guys in that SUV. Should we take the rifles?”

  “How good are you with the Colt?”

  “Pretty good,” Schanno said.

  “Unless Wellington comes out with a bazooka, let’s stick with that.” I walked over to Meloux and risked intruding on his thoughts. “You doing okay, Henry?”

  “I’m near the end of the journey, Corcoran O’Connor.”

  “Can you tell he’s your son?” I thought about the faint copper color of Wellington’s skin and his dark eyes. They could have been from Shinnob blood, or just as easily from the Cuban blood of his mother.

  Meloux didn’t answer immediately. The wrinkles around his eyes, already deep, went deeper as he stared at the log house. “My heart is out there waiting for his to come and meet it. We will see.”

  That didn’t strike me as a resounding yes. Meloux had risked much to be here: his health, his life, and, because he’d admitted to murder, his freedom. I wanted the answer he gave me to be absolute and affirmative. I wanted him to say that the moment he set eyes on the man, he’d known Wellington was his son. All the evidence was there, yet I felt the old man holding back. To be a son, to be a father, these things were more than just a blood tie. Maybe that’s what the hesitation was about. Did the relationship matter if, in the end, Wellington didn’t give a damn?

  Wellington came from the house and spoke to Benning on the front porch, a conversation too quiet to be overheard, then he joined us. He’d dressed rugged: L.L. Bean boots, Levi’s, a brown, long-sleeved Henley, and a camouflage jungle hat. He also carried a small pack. I wondered how much our loads might resemble each other.

  “After you, sir,” he said to Meloux with what seemed to be genuine respect.

  Meloux crossed the yard, heading west, parallel to the lake. Where the grass met the pines, he spent a few minutes studying the ground, then he was off, leading the way.

  He didn’t burn up the woods with his speed, but he did keep a remarkably steady pace for a man who’d seemed ancient to me my whole life, and who, as Schanno noted, was lying in a hospital bed only days before. It helped that he was following a trail. It wasn’t well worn, but to an eye familiar with hunting or tracking, it was clear we were walking where others had walked before. This was August. The bugs swarmed: biting deerflies, blackflies, gnats, and mosquitoes. Schanno was slapping himself silly behind me, so we stopped and put on the DEET I’d brought. Wellington declined my offer to share the ointment, as did Henry. We crossed slender threads of creek water running silver between white rocks. In the middle of a small meadow, Meloux stopped, not from weariness, I realized, but to take in the beauty of the lavender wild bergamot that grew in profusion and whose leaves filled the air with a refreshing mint scent. Smells are the time machines of human perception. A scent can take you instantly back to a particular place and time. Watching Meloux stand, transfixed, with his eyes gently shut, I wondered if, in that moment, he was a young man again, in love, walking through the meadow with Maria.

  “Are you tired?” Wellington asked. “We can rest.”

  Meloux opened his eyes. The moment was gone. He shook his head and we moved on.

  We came to the gray, rocky slope of a long ridge, where the trail disappeared. Meloux studied the incline. We’d been hiking for nearly an hour without a significant rest. Despite the DEET, bugs kept landing on my neck, trying to lap at the sweat there. I was aware that Schanno had been keeping a wary eye on the woods at our backs, and he was doing that now. Wellington watched the old Mide with intense interest.

  Meloux put his hand on the stone of the slope. “Over seventy winters, things change. Trees die, others grow, and the way becomes clouded. But rocks do not change so easy. The rocks, I remember. There,” he said and pointed upward toward a small, dark gray spire around which nothing grew. “I used to think of it as a manidoo, a spirit showing the way.”

  With that, he began to climb.

  There’s no adequate measure of the human spirit, no scale to weigh the courage of the human heart. Just when you think you’ve plumbed the depth, dredged the last bucketful from the well, you discover how wrong you are. Once, when I was a cop in Chicago, I was the first to respond to the report of a shooting in an apartment building on Hyde Street. I arrived at the scene, the third-floor hallway, to find a wounded man propped against a hissing radiator. He had a bullet in his heart. Two more had shattered bone in his chest and lodged somewhere deep in his internal organs. The bare floor under him was slick with his blood. A dead man lay at his feet, a. 38 Ruger near his outstretched hand. The dead man’s windpipe had been crushed. A small boy peeked from the doorway of the nearest apartment.

  “Daddy?” he whispered toward the wounded man.

  Somehow, from somewhere unimaginable, that father found the strength to smile. “’S okay, Boo,” he said. “He won’t hurt you.”

  And if that weren’t miracle enough, he managed to reach out and hug his son, who ran to him before I could prevent it.

  It had been about drugs, about threatening the boy, and finally about what a father would do to protect his son. The wounded man died. The truth was that he was dead even as he crushed his killer’s windpipe to keep his son safe, but he’d tapped the deep reservoir of strength that lay behind his love for his child, and he’d done what, as a father, he needed to do.

  I watched Meloux haul his ninety-year-old body up the ridge, and I knew that at that moment there was more to his strength than could be accounted for by those long walks from Crow Point to Allouette. It was possible, I supposed, that he might kill himself in this effort, but I understood there was no way any of us could stop him.

  We climbed out of the shadow of the ridge and into the sunlight of early evening. It was seven thirty P.M. So far north, the sun would still be around for quite a while. Meloux led us down the other side, into shade again, and onto a trail that ran along a rushing stream.

  Ten minutes later, we entered a clearing grown over with fire-weed and lupine. On the far side stood an old log structure, five feet wide and twice as long. The roof had collapsed decades before, but the four walls were still solid. The smokehouse, I thought.

  We were in a deep trough between two hills. Sunlight hit the higher slopes and the pine trees there burned yellow and I heard crows arguing in the branches. Where we stood, everything was shadow and silence.

  Meloux walked ahead slowly, parting the deep weed cover, peering carefully. Finally he stopped and turned back to us. “Here,” he said, indicating the ground at his feet. “Here, I cut the throat of the man who was my friend. And here, I put a bullet in the heart of a man who was not.” He turned to his right and went a couple of dozen paces, then walked in a slow circle. Finally he signaled for us to come.

  As I neared him, I saw, deep in the tangle of undergrowth, the long black bones o
f burned timbers half buried in the earth.

  “Dig here,” he instructed. “It should not be deep.”

  Schanno and I pulled the weeds, then got on our knees and began to dig with our hands. Three or four inches down, we hit solid wood. We scraped the dirt away, revealing rotted floorboards. Because I knew his story, I knew what Meloux expected to find, and we kept scraping at the dirt until we uncovered the thing.

  “Here it is, Henry,” I said. I took the knife from my day pack and ran the blade along the slits that outlined the trapdoor. I poked until I located the hole where a strand of rope had once served as a handle, and I cleaned it out. I glanced up at Meloux.

  “Open it,” he said.

  I jabbed my index finger into the hole and lifted. The door resisted at first, then gave. The cool, earthy smell of trapped air escaped. The light in the clearing was waning, and the pit below the trapdoor was too dark to see into clearly.

  “In the pack,” I said to Schanno. “My flashlight.”

  He dug it out and handed it over. I flicked it on and shot the beam through the opening of the trapdoor. The pit appeared to be a cube three feet wide and deep. It was filled with deer-hide bags gone brittle with time, each as large as a softball. A quick count gave me a dozen.

  I stood back. “Care to take a look, Mr. Wellington?”

  I held the flashlight while he knelt and reached into the pit. The bag he grasped fell apart as he lifted it and dull yellow sand spilled out.

  “I’ve never seen gold dust,” I said, “but I imagine it looks pretty much like that, doesn’t it?”

  Wellington stood up. “Put the trapdoor back.” He studied the sky. “We should start home. It’ll be dark soon.”

  He didn’t look at Meloux, just turned and headed toward the trail along the stream.

  I lowered the door back into place. Quiet as a congregation leaving a church, we abandoned the clearing.

  FORTY-SIX

  We moved more slowly on the return and didn’t make it back to the log home before nightfall. Wellington pulled a powerful light out of his pack and led the way. I brought up the rear with mine. Wellington had no trouble following the trail, faint as it was, and I figured this wasn’t the first time he’d been to the burned ruins in the little clearing. We stopped often for Meloux to rest. He’d proved his point, and now he was feeling the physical cost of the journey. I shared the bottles of water in my pack. Wellington had brought his own. He also had trail mix, which he offered around. We didn’t speak except for the necessity of safety: “Careful of that log,” or “Watch your step.” When I finally saw the lights of Wellington’s place ahead of us, I felt a deep relief.

  We crossed the yard, mounted the front porch, and went inside. I smelled food cooking and realized I was starved.

  Wellington said, “It’s too late for you to return tonight. You’re welcome to stay here. There are plenty of rooms upstairs. I asked Benning to prepare dinner for us. As soon as you’re settled, we can eat.”

  We brought our bags in from the Bronco, and Wellington himself showed us to our rooms.

  “I’m going to wash up, and I’ll see you downstairs in the dining room in a few minutes,” he said. He went to his own room, which was at the far end of the hallway.

  I shed my shirt. As I stood at the sink in my bathroom, washing off the dirt and sweat and DEET, Schanno knocked and came in. He stood in the bathroom doorway, trying to scrape the dirt from under his fingernails while I finished cleaning up.

  “This guy Wellington is one cold fish,” he said. “Meloux delivers all the evidence to back up his claims, and Wellington doesn’t say a word to him. He might not be the kook Ellsworth played, but he’s hard to figure.”

  “I imagine it’s a lot to absorb.”

  “Sure, but most people are going to react somehow. Him, it’s like he’d just watched you peel an orange.”

  “Henry Wellington’s not much like other people.”

  “He was my son, I’d give him a kick in the ass.”

  I grabbed a towel from the rack and began to dry myself. “I have it on good authority, Wally, that you never raised a hand-or foot-to your kids.”

  “I’ll take my Python back. There’s still a lot we don’t know, like why Morrissey went after Henry in the first place.”

  I hung the towel, pushed past Schanno, and grabbed the clean shirt I’d laid out on the bed. “Wellington’s hard to read, I admit, but I didn’t get a dangerous feel from him.”

  “All the same, I’m going to sleep with the Python under my pillow tonight.”

  “Suit yourself.” I took the weapon from the pack and handed it over.

  “How much you figure there is in gold up there?” he said.

  I buttoned my shirt. “Enough to set you and me and Meloux for a lifetime. Drop in the bucket to Wellington.”

  We left my room, and I knocked on Meloux’s door but got no answer.

  “Maybe he’s already downstairs,” Schanno suggested.

  I poked my head in the room. The old Mide lay on his bed, fully clothed, not dead-I could tell from the slow rise and fall of his chest and his soft snoring-but dead tired and dead to the world. I closed the door softly.

  We found Wellington in the dining room, pouring mineral water into the glasses on the table. He’d changed back into his loose-fitting white clothing and sandals. A meat loaf sat on a platter in the middle of the table. An hour earlier, it had probably been perfect. Now it looked overcooked and dry. There was a big bowl of fresh green beans mixed with crisp bacon bits, roasted red potatoes, a tossed salad, and a good-looking dark bread.

  “I don’t have beer,” Wellington said. “I can offer you wine, however. I still keep some good vintages on hand for when my family visits.”

  Schanno and I both settled for the water.

  “And Mr. Meloux?” Wellington asked.

  “He’s sleeping,” I said. “It’s been a long, hard day.”

  We sat down to the meal. Once you got past the crust from the additional cooking time, the meat loaf was delicious, quite savory, as were the beans and the roasted potatoes. The salad contained pears and had a refreshing lime dressing. The bread was homemade, substantial and tasty.

  “Benning usually does your cooking?” I asked.

  “I live here alone most of the time, so generally I do my own.”

  I figured that was enough small talk. “You employed Edward Morrissey, Mr. Wellington, and Morrissey tried to murder Henry Meloux.”

  Wellington carefully dabbed his lips with his napkin. “So I understand.”

  “Why?”

  “I really have no idea. Ed Morrissey worked for me on occasion, but he was what you might call a freelance security consultant. When Rupert telephoned and told me about the watch and your request for an interview, I contacted Morrissey to arrange for him to oversee your visit to Manitou Island. I wanted to know what you were up to, and I didn’t want Ellsworth handling you alone. After your visit, Morrissey phoned in his report. He indicated you were simply working a con, trying to squeeze some money out of me. He told me he’d taken care of the situation discreetly, as he had on other occasions in the past. I was surprised when Rupert called to tell me the police were investigating the incident in Minnesota.”

  “Surprised but not troubled?”

  “I didn’t know Henry Meloux or his story.”

  “Morrissey never reported that part to you?”

  “No.”

  “Doesn’t that seem odd to you?”

  “Of course it does, now.”

  “Why wouldn’t he tell you everything?”

  “That’s a question for which I have no answer.”

  “What about Rupert?”

  He shook his head. “Rupert’s only part has been to pass along requests that seem to have some merit. Those have been blessedly few. He made it clear from the beginning that he wanted no part in my charade, and he’s done his best to keep Northern Mining distanced.”

  “You don’t care about North
ern Mining?”

  “I gave the company the best I could for most of my adult life. When I stepped away and secluded myself here, I severed myself from any worries about Northern Mining. It was an amicable divorce. I have no desire to renew the relationship.”

  “And you don’t mind that Preston Ellsworth has played you as pretty much a lunatic?”

  “My family knows the truth, Mr. O’Connor. What the rest of the world thinks of me is a concern I left behind a long time ago.”

  Benning came from the kitchen. “Would you care for dessert or coffee?”

  “Gentlemen?” Wellington asked. “I have fresh strawberries and sweet cream.”

  My stomach was full, and I was tired, so I said no. Schanno did the same.

  “We’re fine, Sandy,” Wellington said to Benning. “Why don’t you call it a night? I’ll clean up.”

  “You’re sure, sir? It’s no trouble.”

  “It was a good meal. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Very good, sir.” Benning vanished the way he’d come.

  “I’d be glad to help,” I said.

  Wellington set his napkin on the table and waved off my offer. “I won’t hear of it. You’re my guests. I’m just going to fill the dish-washer anyway.”

  It felt as if the evening had been drawn to a close, but there were still many questions unanswered. Most of them didn’t involve me. They were between Wellington and the man I was certain was his real father. I couldn’t imagine Wellington not wanting to talk with Meloux, but I saw no sign of eagerness on his part.

  I went upstairs to my room still at a loss to understand what kind of man he was and what kind of son.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  I was tired, but I tossed and turned in a restless sleep. I didn’t think Wellington would have us all murdered in the night; still, there were a lot of unanswered questions flapping around in my brain. Why had Morrissey followed me to Meloux’s and tried to kill the old man? Was he acting on his own or under orders? Orders from whom? The Wellingtons had something to lose, maybe, if the truth of Meloux’s story was ever made public, but I figured a lot of fortunes had been built on the graves of innocent people. It wasn’t that startling, and Leonard Wellington’s treachery had happened a long time ago. Both sons-Rupert and Henry-seemed civilized, if a little on the chilly side. On the other hand, a lot of civilized people have convinced themselves that in the right cause it’s acceptable-noble, even-to bloody your hands. If neither of the Wellingtons was responsible, then who? If it was all Morrissey’s idea, then why?