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For Randalyn Nickelsen Clark, whose beautiful spirit is with us always
AUTHOR’S NOTE
* * *
Many years ago, in a stand-alone thriller titled The Devil’s Bed, I first introduced readers to the character of Bo Thorson, who plays a significant role in the following story. Over the fifteen years since that book’s publication, I’ve received a consistent flow of requests from readers to bring Bo back. It wasn’t until I conceived of the plot for this current novel that I saw a way to resurrect him. I always thought that Bo Thorson and Cork O’Connor were the kind of men who would appreciate each other and might look forward to cracking open a couple of brews and trading tales. I hope you enjoy his presence, and if he intrigues you, I encourage you to pick up The Devil’s Bed, in which his full history is made clear.
CHAPTER 1
* * *
He watches the boy on the steep rise above him. He is that boy and he is not. The boy is intent on the sky, a witch’s brew of swirling gray clouds. He is anxious, waiting. The boy. And him. For what, neither of them knows. The air smells not of the evergreen all around but of something foul. Diesel. Fire. A breeze blows across his face carrying a different smell, even more foul. Burning flesh. The boy holds a compound bow, complicated, powerful. An arrow is notched. The boy’s stomach is taut. His body knows something his mind does not, something terrible. The boy watches the sky, and he watches the boy.
The bird appears out of the dark boil of clouds. Wings spread broad, catching the wind. Curling in a wide arc above the hill. The bird—clearly an eagle now—lets out a screech. High-pitched. Then another.
The boy raises his bow.
The eagle circles, near enough that the boy can see details. Golden irises, saffron beak, long, dangerous talons. The eagle cries again.
The boy draws back the bowstring. Calculates trajectory, wind speed. Leads the bird. Takes a breath. Eases it out. Lets the arrow fly.
The great bird twists in an explosion of feathers. Tries to right itself. Begins to plummet.
The boy lowers the bow. Watches an egg drop from the eagle. Watches the eagle in its fall, lost among the evergreens. The boy stands still as death. He feels uncertain, as if there is still more to be done, but what that is he doesn’t know. He turns and stares down the hillside. At the young man who stares back. Him. And not him.
Neither of them understands.
Then the boy on the rise above him sees something, which he senses now at his own back. From the look on the boy’s face, from the way his eyes grow huge, he understands that what is behind him is enormous and terrifying and threatens them both. He feels its breath break against him, hot and hungry. He should turn, face this beast whatever it is, but he’s paralyzed with fear. The boy on the hill opens his mouth to cry out. At the same moment, he opens his.
The sound of their one scream wakes him.
* * *
The old man sat on the other side of the fire, listening. Old? He was ancient, with more years behind him than any living thing in the dark of that great forest—turtle, owl, deer, wolf, bear, all were children in comparison. The years, kind to no one, had done their best to weather his flesh, weaken his muscle, erode his bone. His body displayed none of the power and comeliness that had so marked it when the twentieth century was young. Time had etched lines long and deep into his face. His white hair hung over his shoulders in spidery wisps. The weight of ten decades of living had bent his spine, but only slightly. In the firelight, he appeared to be the ghost of a thing, not the thing itself.
And yet the young man who stared at him across the fire perceived only wisdom, only possibility.
“Many times you have seen this vision?” the old man asked.
“Many times,” the young man answered.
“That is all of it?”
The young man nodded. “All of it.”
“The eagle is sacred. Killing an eagle, that is a terrible thing.”
The fire popped. An ember leapt from the flames, landed on the jeans the old man was wearing. The old man gazed up at the stars and didn’t seem to notice.
“Your leg, Henry,” the young man said.
But the ember had burned itself out.
“And so,” the old man finally said, as if speaking to the stars. “Why now?”
The young man didn’t understand the question. “Why now what?”
The old man’s eyes came back to earth. “You tell me.”
The young man knew better than to press this elder, his mentor. He considered his reply.
“Now, because it worries me. It’s a portent, Henry. Something terrible is going to happen. My visions are always about terrible things. I’ve never had one that’s hopeful.”
“They have proven helpful,” the old man pointed out. Then he asked again, as if it were a new question, “Why now?”
“If you mean why have I come to you only now, it’s because I thought I could figure this out on my own. But I don’t have a clue. I need help, before it’s too late.”
The old man closed his eyes, looked as if he were about to sleep. Then, “Too late for what?”
“If I understood the vision, I would understand that.”
“Maybe so. Maybe not. Visions are tricky. They can be the thing itself, or the shadow of the thing.”
“If it’s only a shadow, why does it scare me so much?”
The old man took a stick from the fire, the end still licked by tongues of flame. He moved it toward the young man’s face. The flames came nearer and nearer, until the young man could feel the heat on his cheek, the fire only inches from his flesh. But he didn’t flinch.
“You are not afraid?” the old man asked.
“I believe you won’t burn me. Or if you do, there’s purpose in it.”
“A vision is like that.” The old man returned the stick to the fire. He stared deeply into the young man’s face, his eyes dark, hard, gleaming in the flickering light. “Who is the boy?”
“I’m the boy,” the young man answered. “And I’m not.”
“What is this beast that frightens you?”
“I don’t know. It’s behind me. I never see it.”
“And who is it you are afraid for, Stephen O’Connor?”
“For the boy,” Stephen answered. “And for me.” He leaned toward the old man. “And I don’t know why, Henry, but for you, too.”
CHAPTER 2
* * *
Anyone who knew Tamarack County, Minnesota, and the town of Aurora, in particular, knew Sam’s Place. The old Quonset hut turned burger joint sat on the shoreline of Iron Lake. Behind it was blue water, a vast expanse. South rose a copse of poplar trees at whose center lay the ruins of an old ironworks. Aurora itself was a stone’s throw west, just beyond the raised bed of the BNSF railroad tracks. A short, unpaved road crossed the tracks, connecting Sam’s Place with civilization.
Corcoran Liam O’Connor stood in the parking lot, appraising the sign he had just affixed with sheet metal screws to the side of the Quonset hut. The sign read: TRY OUR NEW WAABOO BURGER! Cork had made the sign himself, at the workbench in his garage, with the help of his five-year-old grandson, Waaboo—legally, Aaron Smalldog O’Connor. The family nickname for the little guy was Waaboozoons, which,
in the language of the Ojibwe, meant “little rabbit.” It had been shortened to simply Waaboo. The exclamation point was entirely little Waaboo’s handiwork.
It was late afternoon, late September. The leaves of the poplar trees were like gold doubloons. The air was cool, the sun a lazy yellow. There were no customers lined up at the serving windows. They would arrive eventually, Cork knew, closer to suppertime. He appreciated this quiet period, between the hustle of the lunch crowd and what would come.
A green Forester turned up the road, bounced over the tracks and into the lot. The driver parked and got out. She was tall, pretty, with hair the color of corn silk. She opened the back door and helped a child from his seat. They stood with Cork, looking at the sign.
“Me,” little Waaboo said with great pride, pointing toward his name.
“A hundred people are going to eat you up tonight.” Cork opened his mouth wide as if to take a bite out of his grandson. Waaboo danced back, happily.
“Any sign of Stephen yet?” Jenny asked. She was Cork’s daughter, Waaboo’s mother.
Cork shook his head. “He’s with Henry. So who knows?”
“Has he said anything to you yet?” Concern shaded her words.
“Whatever it is, I’m sure he’s sharing it with Henry.” Cork stepped to the sign, brushed at a spot of what looked like dripped black paint but turned out to be a spider. “When he’s ready, he’ll tell us.”
“He’s a darkpoople,” Waaboo said.
“Darkpoople?”
“We’ve been reading The BFG,” Jenny explained. “Roald Dahl. Waaboo’s creating his own dictionary of words.”
Cork laughed. “Darkpoople. You nailed him, little guy.”
“Waaboo and I can stick around until he shows,” Jenny offered.
“Rainy’s going to cover, if necessary.”
“I want to stay,” Waaboo said. “I want to help Baa-baa.” His name for Cork. Not one of his new, made-up Roald Dahlish words. It was what he had always called his grandfather.
“For a while, then,” she agreed.
Inside, the place smelled of deep-fry oil and of the meats that had sizzled on the griddle, decades of aromas soaked into the walls. The Quonset hut was divided into two parts. The front was Sam’s Place, with all the food prep equipment, big freezer, storage shelves, stainless-steel sink. The back was an office Cork used for both the business of Sam’s Place and his own work as a private investigator. There was a round table and four chairs, all of sturdy maple, old and worn. A little kitchenette with a small refrigerator, a microwave, a coffeemaker, counter space, sink. A couple of tall, gray file cabinets stood against the wall, one for documents pertaining to Sam’s Place, the other for the files related to Cork’s investigations. He didn’t advertise that side of his business doings anymore. He had a reputation. Those who needed him found their way.
“Can I have an ice cream cone?” Waaboo asked, addressing his grandfather, not his mother.
“Whoa,” Jenny said. “I thought you just wanted to help.”
“Yes. But I’m hungry.”
“Just a cone, Jenny,” Cork said. “Won’t spoil his dinner.”
“A small one.”
Waaboo sat on a chair at the serving window, licking his cone, a chocolate and vanilla twist. Cork scraped the griddle. Jenny sliced tomatoes.
“Are you going to the town meeting tomorrow night?” Jenny asked.
“I’m working here, remember? You put together this week’s schedule.”
“I’ll get one of the kids to cover.”
Cork had always hired high school students to staff Sam’s Place in season. For many, it was their introduction to the working world. He tried to be firm in what he asked of them but patient in his oversight.
“That’s okay. There’ll be plenty of people attending. Senator McCarthy will get an earful without me.”
Jenny said, “It’s a chance to see the senator up close.”
“I’ve seen Olympia McCarthy up close. She’s a fine woman, but still just a woman.”
“A lot of people are pinning a lot of hope on her. Daniel’s agreed to put Waaboo to bed. Rainy’s going with me.”
“Then you two make plenty of noise for the rest of us.”
An old Jeep rattled over the railroad tracks.
“The prodigal son,” Cork said. “You and Waaboo are free.”
A few minutes later, Cork heard the Quonset hut door open and Stephen appeared. He smelled of woodsmoke and evergreen sap. He shed his gray hoodie, hung his backpack on a hook. The backpack looked heavy, and Cork knew it was full of college textbooks.
“Sorry I’m late. Hey, Waaboo!” He tousled the boy’s hair. In appearance, Stephen more resembled his nephew than his father or sister. His Anishinaabe genes dominated—dark hair, almond eyes, broad, bold facial bones. He was twenty years old and walked with a limp that was becoming less and less noticeable with time.
“How’s Henry?” Cork asked.
“Old.” Stephen bent toward Waaboo. “You gonna eat that whole thing?”
“Yes.”
“I haven’t eaten all day. I could sure use a lick.”
“Uh-uh.”
“Come on.” Stephen lunged toward the cone.
Waaboo swung away, protecting the treat with his free hand. “No-o-o-o.”
“Grinch.”
“Darkpoople.”
“Darkpoople?”
“Grab . . .” Waaboo hesitated. “Grabgrubber.”
“Don’t know what you’re saying, but it doesn’t sound good.”
“How about a Waaboo Burger?” Cork suggested.
“Waaboo Burger? I saw the sign. What is it?”
“Patty made of ground bison instead of hamburger.”
“Named after me,” Cork’s grandson said proudly.
“When did we start offering that?”
“Today. Jenny and I have been talking about it for a while. Being a college man now, you’ve just had other things on your mind. What do you say? You can’t sell customers on it until you’re sold on it yourself.”
“Sure.”
Cork dropped a patty on the griddle, buttered two bun halves.
“We’re out of here,” Jenny said. “Come on, kiddo. You can finish that cone on the way home. I’ve got to get dinner going. Joining us, Dad?”
“No, I’ll stay here and close tonight.”
“I think I’m supposed to close,” Stephen said.
“I’ll take it.”
Stephen didn’t argue.
When the others had gone, Stephen stood at an empty serving window, staring toward the copse of poplars to the south. Stephen had been doing a lot of staring lately. Something had set a hook in him, snagged his senses. College, perhaps. Stephen was in his first semester at Aurora Community College, taking classes to fulfill his general requirements in preparation for an eventual degree in criminal justice studies. The same route Cork had taken long ago when he started on the road to becoming a cop. But he hadn’t seen any real enthusiasm for the coursework, and in truth, he wasn’t at all certain his son was cut out to wear a badge. So was it a girl, maybe? For a couple of years, Stephen had been in an on-again, off-again relationship with a young woman on the rez, Marlee Daychild. During the past month or so, it had been in the off mode. Cork didn’t know if this was Stephen’s doing or Marlee’s. His son had always been private, hesitant to reveal a lot about himself, and that had been especially true lately. What Cork had sensed, what all the O’Connors had sensed, was a growing restlessness in Stephen, which Cork told himself was natural in a young man. One of the thoughts he’d had was that maybe it was time for Stephen to leave Aurora. Maybe if he was away from all that was familiar, at least for a while, it might be easier for him to see the path he needed to travel. It was possible this was what Stephen had been discussing with Meloux, seeking the old man’s advice.
But there was another possibility. Stephen saw things others did not. He had visions. And so Cork understood that what was weigh
ing on his son, what held Stephen’s attention while he stared at what appeared to be nothing, might well be something his eye couldn’t see.
CHAPTER 3
* * *
“All the buzz on the rez is about the town meeting tomorrow night,” Rainy said as she undressed. “Everyone at the clinic, everyone who comes in, Senator McCarthy is all they’re talking about.”
Rainy Bisonette, Cork’s wife, worked at the tribal clinic in the town of Allouette on the Iron Lake Reservation. Trained as a public health nurse, she was also a member of the Grand Medicine Society, a Mide, a healer in the traditional way. They’d been married only since the previous April, not even six months. Still on honeymoon, Cork often thought, especially whenever he watched her shed her clothing.
“She’s a safe raft in a stormy sea,” Cork said. He was already in bed, his back against the headboard.
Rainy stepped out of her jeans and unbuttoned her blue work shirt. She was full-bodied, but not heavy, having spent the last several years before her marriage seeing to the needs of her great-uncle, Henry Meloux, living in a cabin without running water or electricity, with only a wood-burning stove for heat, fed with wood she’d chopped herself. She knew hard work. When she drifted her hands across Cork’s body, he could still feel the calluses.
“She’ll listen,” Rainy said. “Everyone believes we’ll be heard.”
“And that she’ll carry that message forward. Good thing to believe.”
She’d slipped off her bra and had reached for her nightshirt, but she paused and studied him in the light of the lamp on the nightstand. “You don’t?”
“I believe she’ll listen. I’m not sure I believe it’ll do any good.”
“She’s a U.S. senator. She has influence.”
“The other side has more. And they hit harder and they don’t play fair.”
She slipped the long nightshirt over her head and down her body, then joined him in bed, where she leaned against him. “You sound like you believe the battle is already lost.”
Desolation Mountain Page 1