Desolation Mountain

by William Kent Krueger

  “No!” Rainy cried and tried to move toward the dog.

  Cork held her back because the barrel of the automatic rifle was trained on his wife now. But Waaboo somehow broke free and ran to the dog and laid himself on Trixie as if trying to protect his beloved pet from further harm.

  “Get the boy,” the voice behind the beam ordered. “Get him up and let’s get going.”

  Cork eased Waaboo gently from the still body. “She won’t feel any more pain, little guy. Trixie’s with the angels now.”

  The T-shirt his grandson had slept in was stained with blood, and tears streamed down little his cheeks. Waaboo turned toward the light beam and growled, “Monster!”

  They were ushered outside, where they joined Daniel and Jenny, who’d already been rounded up. Jenny hugged her son to her. “Oh, God, I heard the shots and was so afraid.”

  “Trixie,” Cork told her, his voice as sharp and jagged as a saw blade. “She tried to protect our little guy.”

  They stood in a loose group and watched as Henry Meloux was brought from his cabin. Although the old man walked slowly, his back was straight, his shoulders squared. When he was with the others, he said to the men who surrounded them, “Weasels and thieves come in the dark.”

  “It’s clear you’ve never been in a war, old-timer.” The man who spoke wore camo and his face was painted shades of black and dark blue. “Okay, folks, move out. Follow the flashlight.”

  Cork and Rainy walked directly behind Jenny and Daniel, with Waaboo between them, each holding one of his hands. They were all barefoot, the ground cold against their soles. Cork’s brain was going a thousand miles an hour, trying desperately to figure a way to bring a moment of chaos into this situation, some ploy that might help those he loved break free. But the men who herded them held all the cards. It was clear they were disciplined. From the very first order delivered in the cabin and reinforced by Trixie’s death, Cork understood that whoever was in charge had given permission to shoot to kill.

  They were taken to the fire ring, where flames from the earlier blaze had been rekindled. Another man with an automatic rifle was already there. Seated with his back against one of the rock outcrops that isolated the ring was someone Cork recognized immediately from all the recent news stories: Cole Wannamaker, national leader of the Lexington Brigade. His hands were cuffed with a plastic restraint, and duct tape sealed his mouth. His eyes followed Cork and the others as they were paraded past and, like him, seated with their backs against the rocks.

  There were four guards in all. Cork watched as they spoke quietly among themselves, then he asked, “What now?”

  One of them responded simply, “Now we wait.”

  * * *

  Far out in the meadow, Stephen crouched. He’d watched the lights play across the cabins and the tent, had heard the angry voices, the shouted orders, the shots. He didn’t know what was happening but understood that something terrible was going down on Crow Point. He slipped his boots on and began to crawl on all fours through the high meadow grass toward the two rock outcrops that sequestered the fire ring. East of the rocks, he crept among the birches along the shoreline of Iron Lake, where the moon created a yellow path across the surface of the black water. He darted from the cover of one white birch trunk to the next, until he could see the fire ring.

  Four men with powerful-looking rifles stood guard over his family and Henry Meloux and Leah Duling. It took Stephen a moment before he recognized the man seated with the others: Cole Wannamaker, whose face had been all over the newspapers. What he was witnessing made no sense to him. But he understood that there was nothing he could do alone that would change the situation.

  He carefully retraced his steps to the meadow and took the cell phone from his pants pocket. He tried to turn it on, then remembered to his profound dismay that his Internet search earlier that night had drained the last of its power. His phone was dead.

  He looked back to where the glow of the fire rose above the rock outcrops. He could put together no plan to save his family and the others. He had nothing to match the automatic weapons. His only hope, he decided, was in Allouette. He dug into his pants pocket and made sure he had the key to his old Jeep, which was parked at Crow Point East. Then he began to run.

  He’d reached the edge of the meadow and was just about to take the path that led along the lakeshore when, in the dim glow of the waning moon, a figure stepped from the shadow of the trees and blocked his way. He couldn’t see the figure clearly. What he could see was the rifle the figure held and the long barrel that was pointed at his chest.

  CHAPTER 47

  * * *

  When Bo Thorson stumbled into the flickering light around the fire ring, Cork saw the damage that had been done to him, at least the damage that showed. His face was a bloody mess. Because it was hard for him to walk, he was supported between two of Gerard’s people. They threw him roughly against the rock wall, and he slumped beside Cork, his chin on his chest, his breathing labored.

  Gerard strode into the firelight. He looked down the line of all those who’d been taken prisoner.

  “Craig,” he snapped. “Where’s the kid?”

  “This is everyone,” the woman told him.

  “No.” He stepped to Cork and leaned down. “Where’s your son?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Gerard spoke to them all, “Anyone care to answer?” When no one did, he moved to Waaboo and crouched in front of the boy. “Do you know where your uncle Stephen is?”

  “You’re a darkpoople,” Waaboo threw at him.

  “A what?”

  “You’re a . . . a muggymonster.”

  Gerard smiled. “That sounds about right. Now, son, I need to know something. I need to know where your uncle is. It’s important to me.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “I understand. But if you don’t tell me, this is what I’m going to have to do. I’m going to have to hurt your mommy. I don’t really want to do that. But I will if I have to.”

  “You hurt my mommy and I’ll kill you.”

  “He was sleeping in the meadow.” Bo raised his head wearily. “I doubt he’s still there.”

  Gerard gestured to two of his men, who headed into the dark.

  Gerard pulled a photograph from under his jacket, the photo Winston Goodsky had shot and Bo had sent to his friend in the Pentagon.

  “I want to know who took this.” When no one responded, Gerard nodded to another of his people. “Bring Thorson.”

  The man yanked him to his feet and marched him to where Gerard stood.

  “I asked Thorson the same question I just put to you,” he said to Cork and the others. “This is what his silence got him. Crude methods, but in the field, you do what you have to.” He clapped Bo on the shoulder, as if they were comrades. “Thorson’s a tough son of a bitch, I’ll give him that. I didn’t get an answer from him.” His gaze shifted to Cork. “One by one, I’ll question your family, O’Connor. Even little—what do you call him? Waaboo?”

  “Gerard,” Bo said. “I’ll make you a deal.”

  “I don’t think so.” Gerard hadn’t taken his eyes off Cork. “I think I’ll get what I want.”

  Meloux said, “These woods have eyes and ears and spirit.”

  Gerard shifted his attention to the old Mide. “You’re the shaman, right?”

  “I am just an old man. But old men understand many things younger men do not.”

  “Like who took this photograph?”

  “I was thinking more that among human beings there is sometimes a sense of order that is not true.”

  Gerard looked interested. “I have time, old man. Explain.”

  “One thing leads to another. Is that how you believe it works?”

  “That’s how it’s always seemed to me.”

  The old Mide gave his head a single shake. “All things happen at the same time. What was, what is, what will be. Nothing comes before. Nothing comes after. Everything is.”

&nbs
p; “This is important to me how?”

  “The spirits of these woods are part of the eternal. To a man who knows how to listen, they speak. Of what was, what is, and what will be.”

  “You’re talking nonsense, old-timer.”

  Meloux’s face was cracked and hard. Like the ancient rock that crowned Desolation Mountain, Cork thought.

  “Nonsense only because you do not understand. But you are about to.” Then Meloux smiled almost beatifically. “Things fall apart. The center cannot hold.”

  Gerard was clearly taken by surprise. His eyebrows lifted, he studied Meloux and added, “Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.”

  “Yeats,” Jenny murmured.

  Gerard stood pondering this as the two men he’d sent to look for Stephen returned. Cork felt a flood of relief to see that all they brought with them was Stephen’s sleeping bag.

  “Well?” Gerard said.

  “This was it. No kid.”

  “He’s out there somewhere. This time don’t come back until you find him. Take Craig and Edwards with you.”

  Before any of them could act on his order, a shot splintered the quiet. The sound of it came from somewhere along the lakeshore. It kicked up dirt at Gerard’s feet. Gerard and his men scattered like roaches into the dark at the edges of the firelight.

  “Stephen?” Rainy asked.

  “Maybe,” Cork replied. “Where’s your Winchester, Henry?”

  “It was hanging on the wall in my cabin.” The old man spoke calmly, as if none of this was surprising to him, and Cork thought: What was, what is, what will be.

  Another shot cracked the night. This one came from a different direction.

  “If it’s Stephen out there,” Daniel said, “he’s not alone.”

  With the fire ring deserted by Gerard and his people, Wannamaker pushed himself up and made a run for the lake. He hadn’t gone but a few steps before a burst of automatic weapon fire from the dark cut him down.

  Cork had been considering the same thing but thought better of it now. He stayed where he was seated, waiting to see how this sudden turn of events played out, wondering if it was Stephen out there with the rifle, and if not Stephen, then who?

  For half an hour there were no more shots, then Gerard stepped suddenly into the firelight, pushing someone before him as a shield. Monkey Love. Gerard held the barrel of a big pistol pressed to the back of Monkey’s head.

  “You out there!” he hollered. “Come into the firelight or I’ll put a bullet through this man’s head.”

  Monkey looked at Cork and the others. “Sorry,” he said.

  “Shut up,” Gerard snapped. “You out there! You have two minutes before I shoot!”

  Gerard was the only visible member of his squad. The others were still out there, looking for the second shooter. Because it was Monkey whom Gerard had snagged, Cork knew the other shooter had to be Ned Love. How they had come to be on Crow Point, God only knew.

  “Did you hear? Two minutes!” Gerard called out.

  Another rifle shot came from beyond the rocks, followed by the staccato of an automatic weapon. Then silence, broken only by the crackle of the fire in the ring.

  “One minute!”

  Cork watched as Monkey Love pulled himself proudly erect. His arms were every bit as long and awkward-looking as they had always been, but there was a noble aspect to him in this moment as he prepared, Cork understood, to die.

  “Gerard,” Cork said.

  “Shut up, O’Connor.” Gerard hollered toward the night, “His death is on your hands!” He cocked the hammer on the pistol. “Ten seconds!”

  Into the firelight from the direction of the lake stepped Ned Love. In front of him was one of Gerard’s people, the woman, Craig. Ned carried a rifle with the barrel pointed at her back. “You okay, Monkey?”

  “Put the rifle down,” Gerard ordered.

  “Let’s barter,” Ned suggested.

  “You have nothing to barter with.”

  “This woman’s life isn’t important?”

  “Lieutenant Craig is a soldier. Dying is what soldiers do.”

  “Colonel?” the woman said, clearly not on the same page.

  “How about you call the others in and we do some dealing?” Ned said.

  “I don’t have to call.”

  At the edges of the firelight, his men appeared. They ringed Ned, weapons trained on him from every direction.

  “Winning hand,” Gerard said. “Put your rifle down.”

  Ned hesitated a breath or two, then lowered his rifle to the ground.

  Gerard holstered his sidearm and shoved Monkey. “Both of you over there with the others.”

  Ned and Monkey sat against the rock, and Cork thought how they were all lined up now, as if readied for an execution.

  Gerard walked to where Wannamaker lay dead and stared down at the man, a disgusted look on his face.

  Bo said, “Can’t use him now. A second massacre perpetrated by a man with a dozen bullet holes, that just won’t fly.”

  Gerard spun, crossed with a determined step to Waaboo, lifted the boy in a rough grasp, and hauled him toward the fire. He held up Waaboo with the boy’s bare soles only two feet above the flames, his little legs kicking ferociously at Gerard.

  “Who shot the photo? Ten seconds before the boy burns.”

  Bo said, “Do this and you become everything you claim to fight against.”

  Gerard seemed not to hear. There was a demonic blaze in his eyes that had nothing to do with the reflection from the fire, and Cork made his own desperate calculations: ten feet to Gerard; knock him and Waaboo away from the fire; if he was lucky, he might make it before he was cut down; if he wasn’t lucky, maybe it would create enough distraction that someone else could grab Waaboo.

  “Five seconds.”

  “Winston Goodsky,” Jenny shouted. “He shot the photograph. Now put my son down, you bastard.”

  But Gerard didn’t seem inclined to keep his promise. He lowered little Waaboo so that his kicking feet were only inches above the flames. “Who is Winston Goodsky?”

  “No,” Jenny screamed.

  “Winston is my grandson, and a better man than you’ll ever be, you son of a bitch.”

  The words were spit out from the dark beyond the firelight.

  The moment Gerard looked in that direction, Daniel and Cork both shot up, launching themselves toward Gerard and Waaboo. Cork hit the man and spun him away from the fire. Daniel grasped his little son and wrested him from Gerard’s grip. Gerard stumbled to the ground with Cork all over him, and they grappled. Gerard was made of iron, a soldier. But Cork was full of bitter fire, and the blows he threw were fast and angry.

  “It’s over, Cork!”

  He felt hands pull him off Gerard, and he stood breathing hard, glaring down at the man. Gerard slowly brought himself into a sitting position. The blaze in his eyes had died, replaced by a cold understanding of his situation. His people made no move to help him, because they were in need of help themselves. Behind each one of them stood at least two Shinnobs from the Iron Lake Reservation, who had emerged from the dark, holding hunting rifles.

  Harmon Goodsky strode fully into the firelight. Stephen flanked him on one side, Winston on the other. Cork smiled at his son, then turned slowly, recognizing all the faces of these reservation folks he’d known his whole life. Sarah LeDuc was there. And Tom Blessing. And Clyde Kingbird, with the mole above his lip like a blackfly. And Isaiah Broom and Sonny LeBanc and Dennis Vizenor and so many others. Some were his cousins by blood, others he simply called by that name.

  “Chi migwech, niijikiweyag,” he said to them. Thank you, my friends.

  CHAPTER 48

  * * *

  They sat around the fire ring, the O’Connors and Bo. Little Waaboo, exhausted, lay sacked out on his mother’s lap. Sarah LeDuc had stayed, but the other Ojibwe had gone. The sun was little more than a promise on the horizon, creating a long ribbon of pink sky. Sheriff Marsha Dross was with them, too. H
er people and Quaker’s agents had taken Gerard and his squad and had removed Wannamaker’s body. The FBI’s initial round of questioning had been completed, but there would be others. A mountain of paperwork was waiting, yet Dross had taken this time to be alone with the O’Connors, who were more to her, Bo understood, than just constituents. Like so many others in Tamarack County, she was a good friend, one far truer than the last friend Bo had chosen to trust.

  “When I ran into Ned and Monkey Love lurking out there at the edge of the clearing, my cell phone was dead. And you know Ned and Monkey,” Stephen was explaining. “They live outside the twenty-first century. So no cell phone with them. Taking my Jeep into Allouette for help was the only option.”

  “What were they doing out there?”

  “Ned told me he and Monkey had been keeping tabs on Crow Point since the raid at Celtic Lake. With Cole Wannamaker still at large, they were concerned about our safety.”

  “So they just lurked around here?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Cork looked to Meloux. “Did you know?”

  “There is little about these woods that I do not know.”

  Which made Bo remember how calm the old man had seemed in the face of all Gerard’s threats. And he remembered the old man’s words: These woods have eyes and ears and spirit.

  “Why didn’t you say something, Uncle Henry?” Rainy asked.

  “Because I am a better keeper of secrets than some around this fire.” He didn’t look at anyone particularly.

  Stephen went on: “Ned told me that he and Monkey would do their best to keep Gerard and his people busy until I came back from Allouette with reinforcements.”

  “And then you ran the whole way to the Jeep, all two miles to Crow Point East, with that leg?” Jenny said this as if it were a kind of miracle.

  Stephen shrugged it off. “I didn’t have much choice.”

  “Didn’t it hurt?” English asked. “Your leg?”