When the Jeep was out of sight, Dina turned to Cork. Her eyes had darkened to a green the color of an angry sky before hail. “What the hell were you thinking? That I couldn’t handle some hick reporter by myself? Just how dumb are you, limping out here like a wounded I-don’t-know-what? What if he turned out to be somebody on Jacoby’s nickel? Think he wouldn’t know exactly what you look like? And now he’d know exactly where you are. That was stupid on so many levels, I don’t even know where to begin.”
“I think you’ve made a good start,” Cork said. “I’ve got to sit down. My leg is killing me.”
As he turned to the cabin, his leg gave out and he faltered. Dina slipped under his arm, and he leaned into her for support.
“He wasn’t one of Jacoby’s people,” Cork said.
“How can you be sure?”
“He’s definitely local. A lot of ways to tell a Yooper. Speech, for one. You pick up on that ‘eh’ of his?”
“Canadian, I thought.”
“Yooper, too.”
“He’s a reporter, and reporters are usually trouble,” Dina grumbled.
Cork limped a few steps with Dina nestled in the crook of his arm, the bone of her shoulders his good support. “Anybody ever tell you you’re pretty when you’re mad?”
“Just shut up,” she said, “and keep walking.”
17
They drove into Bodine from the south, the way they always came from Marquette. Ren stared out the window, his eyes sliding over Wyler’s Greenhouse, Pruitt’s Antiques, and Superior Lanes, the town’s bowling alley. It was all familiar territory. The same place it had always been. The geography hadn’t changed, but something had.
As they crossed Calumet Street, he looked automatically to the west. Not far away stood the small trailer where, over the years, he had watched hours of television, played a lot of Risk, built a go-kart from the junk in the backyard, and straddled his bike under the maple trees while he talked with Charlie before hitting the long road home. And where that morning he’d found a man dead.
As they skirted the harbor area, his mother said, “Lots of folks down near the pier. Is something special going on today, Ren?”
He didn’t know and told her so.
“You’ve been quiet the whole way back,” she said.
“Just thinking.”
“We’ll find her, Ren. She’s somewhere and she’s fine.” She smiled encouragement.
Which was something Ren couldn’t remember coming from her in a long time. This was his old mom, the one who’d been around before his father died, who’d taught him silly songs—It was a one-eyed, one-horned flying purple people eater—who’d dressed like a were-wolf one Halloween with a furry face and fake fangs and won first prize at the community center party, and who, while Ren watched, had once pulled a lamb, wet and quivering, from the body of a dead ewe and cradled it gently in her arms as if it were her own child.
Cork and Dina Willner were still in Thor’s Lodge. Ren could see that Dina had showered: her hair was still damp. She was on her cell phone when they came in, but she hung up quickly.
“Did you find her?” Cork asked.
“No,” Ren said. “We’re going back later.”
His mother walked into the kitchen. “Anyone hungry?”
“I could eat,” Cork said. “By the way, someone came looking for Ren. A guy name of Johnson.”
“Gary Johnson?” Jewell craned her neck around the refrigerator door. “What did he want?”
“To talk to Ren about this morning at the Miller place. Said he was an old friend.”
“You grow up in a small town, everybody’s an old friend.”
“He wanted you to call. He also said he thought other reporters might be dropping by.”
“You think that will happen?” she asked, looking worried.
“In my experience, reporters would dive into an outhouse hole if they thought there was a story down there.”
Dina said, “I’d be glad to help you handle them. One of the many things I’m paid to do.”
Ren saw his mother’s eyes hold on her for a moment, as if she were trying to decide how she felt about the other woman’s presence. Then she smiled cordially. “Thank you. I appreciate your help.”
For some reason, it made Ren feel good that his mother was being polite to Dina.
“Tuna sandwiches okay?”
“Great,” Cork responded. “What did you find out in Marquette?”
Ren stood near Cork. He ran his index finger over the tabletop, tracing the grain of the wood beneath the varnish. “Charlie didn’t go to the shelter last night. They open the doors again at four-thirty, so we’ll go back and see if she shows up.”
“Do the police know she uses the shelter?” Dina asked.
She’d put her phone in the pocket of her jacket and had come close to Ren. He liked her being that near, but it made him nervous, too.
“I don’t know,” he said.
His mother was at the counter, opening a can of tuna. “I don’t know why they would. She’s only been using it for a year or so, and I don’t believe she’s been in any trouble that’s involved the police lately.”
Dina nodded and laid her hand on Ren’s shoulder. Her touch surprised him, but he didn’t move away. It was like something warm leaked from her fingers and soaked into him.
She said, “Then maybe you have a good shot at getting to her before the police do.”
The wind outside shifted suddenly and the screen door banged. Dina’s hand slid away.
“What if she doesn’t show up?” Ren asked.
“If she’s hiding in Bodine, do you have any idea where that might be, Ren?” Cork asked.
“I’ve been thinking about it,” Ren said. “But nothing makes sense.”
“Does she have any other friends? Any relatives she might be with?”
As far as he knew, there wasn’t any family. No one close enough that Charlie had ever talked about anyway. And friends? Everybody in Bodine knew Charlie, but she wasn’t one of the popular kids. She was like him, considered odd. “I don’t think so,” he said.
“Her family’s scattered,” his mother offered. She’d pulled out mayonnaise and was stirring things in a bowl. “Nobody left in these parts. Nobody close enough to be of immediate help.”
Or help, period, Ren thought. He realized that if he were in her situation, he’d head over the Hurons and stay with his relatives in L’Anse—people who would welcome him and be glad he was there. He was lucky. He had family. Charlie had no one.
“I’m not hungry right now,” he said to his mother. “I’m going outside.”
He went to his bedroom, grabbed his sketchpad and a charcoal pencil, and left the cabin. The wind was strong. Clouds raced across the sky, their shadows like dark hands scraping the ground. He found a sheltered spot in the lee of the last cabin and sat down in the dirt. He opened his pad. The most recent drawing had been a sketch of White Eagle in pen and ink, a careful line rendering of the hero in a loincloth, the muscles of his chest and arms and calves flexed mightily, a single eagle feather set in his long black hair.
The idea of White Eagle had come to Ren from his great-grandfather, a man named Jacob Harker. He was old, moved slowly, spoke with a fragile voice, and had skin that was thin, brittle, and spotted. His eyes were not old, though. There was something sharp and fine in them, and often funny. For a man who seemed to be cheating the grave day by day, he had a remarkably generous view of time. He shared a lot of what he had left of it with Ren. He told the boy about his young days at a government school, how he ran away, mined copper on the Keweenaw. He told stories of his people, the L’Anse Band of Ojibwe, whose blood was in Ren. He was Ma’iingan, he said proudly. Wolf clan.
Once, late at night, when Jacob Harker lay snoring in the guest room, Ren heard his parents talking heatedly upstairs.
“But we’re not Indian, Dan,” his mother said. “It’s like a lion that’s been bred and raised in a zoo claiming it’s from Af
rica.”
“Not the same at all, Jewell. And this is important for me. I never had a real family.”
“You do now. Me and Ren. And we’re not Indian. I’m not going to wear a jingle dress and I don’t want you beating a drum at a powwow, all right?”
It left Ren wondering who they were, who he was.
Not long after, Jacob Harker died in his sleep. He wasn’t in Ren’s life very long, but in many ways, he changed its course.
Ren studied the drawing of White Eagle, the legendary warrior who Jacob Harker had said was Wolf clan, too. His feet were suspended in midair, as if he’d just dropped from the sky and was about to land somewhere. Although the details of his face were still uncertain, one thing was for sure: in every drawing Ren had done, the warrior was in motion, in the midst of action. He wished he were White Eagle, that instead of sitting, he knew exactly what to do to save Charlie.
* * *
Cork found the boy sitting against the wall of Cabin 6, the sketch pad open on his lap.
“Sorry to break in on you, Ren, but your mother insisted I bring you a sandwich.”
Ren didn’t seem to mind. “Thanks.”
“Okay if I sit down?”
“Go ahead.”
Cork handed him the paper plate that contained a cut tuna sandwich, a handful of potato chips, some grapes, and an Oreo cookie. He’d had a tough time keeping it all together in the wind. Supporting himself with the wooden cane, he eased down beside the boy.
Cork stared into the woods where that morning the cougar had screamed at him. Through the shifting branches of some birch trees he could see the flaming crests of the Hurons in the west.
“You know, it occurs to me you’re very lucky,” he said.
Ren, who’d just bit into his sandwich, paused with crumbs on his lips and gave Cork a quizzical look.
“You always have a place to go, that place in your head where your art comes from. Seems to me it must be a place where things come together for you. Miziweyaa. Know what that means?”
Ren shook his head.
“It’s an Ojibwe word. It’s when everything comes together, all of a piece.” Cork kept his eyes on the mountains, careful not to look at Ren’s drawing, which would have been a trespass. “You’re Ma’iingan. There’s a lot of power in your blood. Did you know that?”
Ren looked down at his plate. “Mostly it makes me weird here.”
“You get a lot of flak?”
“It didn’t used to be a big deal, not until my dad died. Then everybody was like, ‘Hey, Tonto.’ ”
“What do you do when they give you a hard time?”
“I say Screw you in my head and try to ignore ’em.”
“Sounds reasonable.”
The wind shifted for a moment and the papers on the sketch pad riffled wildly. Ren held them down.
“Mom’s not big on being Indian,” he said.
“I know.”
“Ever since Dad died she’s seemed kind of mad all the time.”
“At you?”
“Not me, but everything else. Mostly Dad, because of what he was doing and that it got him killed.”
“How do you feel about it?”
He looked up at Cork. He seemed taken by surprise, as if no one had ever asked him that. “He was doing what he thought was right. I guess I understand.”
Cork put his arm around the boy. “It may take your mom a little longer to get there, Ren.”
“If those men who shot you had killed you, would your wife understand or your kids?”
“I hope they would.”
“But you’re a cop. That’s pretty dangerous.”
“I never thought about it in terms of the danger. I always thought more about trying to do what’s right.”
Ren nodded thoughtfully.
A dab of tuna fell onto Ren’s sketch pad and the boy wiped it off. Without thinking, Cork glanced down and saw a greasy smear across a sketch of a cougar. The drawing was quite good and seemed accurate, except for one thing: the face was feminine and lovely and belonged to Dina Willner.
“I’ve been thinking about Charlie,” Ren said. “She didn’t come here. She didn’t go to the shelter.”
“And?”
Ren’s chest rose with a deep breath. “Whoever killed her dad, maybe . . .” He looked at Cork, his dark eyes fearful. “Maybe they took her.”
Cork said, “All right. Let’s think about that. Why would they take her?”
“I don’t know. She saw something?”
“What would she see?”
“They killed her dad.”
“So she’s a witness?”
“Yeah.”
“And they wanted to keep her silent?”
“Right.”
“Why wouldn’t they have killed her right there, like her dad?”
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t, either. But that’s what would have made the most sense. What also makes sense is that she understood the danger and she ran. I think you’re right, though. I think she knows exactly what happened in that trailer, and she’s hiding.”
Ren looked as if he wanted to believe this, but something stood in his way. “Why didn’t she come here?”
“She has a good reason. When we find her, we’ll ask. Okay?”
Ren let it roll around in his head a moment, then he gave a sober nod. “Okay.”
“I’m heading back in.”
Ren said, “Me, too.”
Cork worked his way to his feet while Ren gathered up his things. They started back together.
The phone was ringing as they came through the cabin doorway. Jewell answered. “Hello?” She nodded. “Yes, Sue.” Cork, as he hobbled to a chair, saw her face go ashen. “Thanks, Sue.” She hung up.
She stared at the floor a moment, then raised her eyes, but avoided looking at anyone directly.
“Sue Taylor,” she said. “She and her husband own a hotel that overlooks the harbor. Ren and I saw a commotion down that way as we came into town.”
Ren had stopped in the middle of the room, his sketch pad wedged under his arm, his paper plate in his hand. Dina sat in a rocker near the fireplace. She stopped rocking.
“Sue thought we ought to know.” Jewell ran a hand, thoughtless and swift, through her hair.
Ren stood rigid as a stick of chalk. “Know what, Mom?”
She said the last of it in a breathless rush and Cork heard the heartbreak in every word. “The police pulled a body from the water. Sue didn’t know much except that—I’m sorry, Ren—it was a teenage girl.”
18
You live in a place your whole life. You know it. It’s as familiar as the mole on your left wrist or the flatness of your nose or the way your tongue rests in your mouth. You stop noticing.
Then something happens, and it all changes. You step through some unexpected looking glass of tragedy—the murder of your husband, say—and although everything around you appears the same, nothing really is, not at all, not ever. You wait for a day that feels normal, when the sun is a reason to smile, when the sight of a couple holding hands doesn’t make you want to cry, when you walk without dragging a coffin behind you.
You pray for even a moment of letting go. But it never comes.
She shook her head, clearing those thoughts, preparing for death again and wishing there was a way to prepare Ren, who’d insisted on going with her into Bodine. He sat pressed against the passenger door, cringing like a dog that had been kicked and was waiting to be kicked again.
God, you bastard, if that girl is dead . . .
She let it go. What good was railing at the deaf?
The Taylors stood on the steps in front of the Farber House. They both wore jackets. Sue had her arms crossed. Ken, tall and angular, looked a little like a dead tree leaning in the wind. They stared across the street at the pier where the remnants of a crowd still lingered. Jewell parked in an open space in front of a yellow fire hydrant. She and Ren got out.
“Where is sh
e?” Jewell called above the rush of the wind off the lake.
“They took the body away a few minutes ago,” Sue replied.
Ren walked to the Taylors. His hands were buried in his pockets and his eyes were deep beneath a furrowed brow. “Was it Charlie?”
“We don’t know, son,” Ken answered. “It was hard to see. They kept people back.”
“How do you know it was a girl?” Ren demanded.
“People who got a closer look told us,” Sue replied gently. She clasped her hands; her small fingers flushed red. “Ren, we heard about what happened after you left this morning. We’re so sorry you had to see something like that.” Her eyes were wet as she looked to Jewell. “We heard Charlie was missing, then they pulled this poor girl from the lake, and we thought . . . well, we thought you’d want to know.”
“Thank you, Sue,” Jewell said. She moved next to Ren and put her arm around his shoulders.
She looked toward the long pier. It had been a commercial enterprise for decades, a place for big ships. Now it was a tourist walk lined with planters, a place for a stroll on a beautiful day, a spot for snapshots to remember. There was a breakwater a quarter mile out, but the wind was strong enough to push the normally calm water of the harbor into high waves that crashed against the pier pilings and the rocks along the shoreline in eruptions of white spray. The clouds had thickened. Where their shadows fell on the lake the water had a dark, brooding look. Normally on a Sunday afternoon, the bay would be full of sailboats and cruisers, but the strong wind and the whitecaps had driven them in and the lake was deserted. There were two Marquette County Sheriff’s cars parked at the pier entrance. Several deputies stood near them, talking.
“I don’t see Ned Hodder,” Jewell said.
“I saw him go back to his office.” Ken Taylor leaned into the wind and seemed ready to curse the lake. “What a tragic day. I can’t remember one like this since . . .” He thought a second. “Well, since that whole Tom Messinger thing.”
“In a town like this . . .” Sue said, making it sound unthinkable and immeasurably sad.
Jewell and Ren hiked up the street to the constable’s office. She noted how rigidly Ren moved, like an old man stiff with arthritis. Ned Hodder sat inside, his long left arm poised above his desktop, his right hand gripping the phone. He was making notes on a pad, and when he saw them enter he used the pencil to wave them toward chairs.
The William Kent Krueger Collection 2 Page 79