The William Kent Krueger Collection 2
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“For the museums?”
He frowned. “Not amusing, Cork.”
“My point is what does she do there?”
“I don’t know. I don’t ask. Can you find her?”
“From what you’ve told me, she could be anywhere in the world.”
He shook his head. “She left her passport.”
“Well, that narrows it down to a couple of million square miles here in the U.S.”
“I don’t need your sarcasm, Cork. I need your help.”
“Does she have a cell phone?”
“Of course. I’ve been calling her number since she left.”
“We can get her cell phone records, see if she’s called anyone or taken calls from anyone. Did she pack a suitcase?”
“No, but sometimes when she takes off, she just goes and buys whatever she needs along the way.”
“According to her credit card records, not this time?”
“Not this time.”
“Does she use a computer? Have an e-mail account?”
“Yes.”
“Any way to check her e-mails?”
“I already have. There’s been no activity since last Sunday, and nothing in the communication before that that seems relevant.”
“Is it possible she has an account you don’t know about?”
“It’s possible but not probable.”
“How did you manage to get her e-mail password?”
“We’re close,” he said, and left it at that.
“Look, Max, there’s something I need to say.”
“Say it.”
“I have two grown daughters and a teenage son. It strikes me that I have less control, less access to their private lives than you have with your sister. Frankly, it seems odd.”
Cavanaugh stared at him. His eyes were the hard green-brown of turtle shells. Cork waited.
“My sister is flamboyant,” Cavanaugh finally said. “She inspires. She walks into a room and the place becomes electric, brighter and more exciting. People fall in love with her easily, and they’ll follow her anywhere. In this way, she’s charmed. But she has no concept of how to handle money. The truth is that financially she’s a walking disaster. Consequently, for most of her life, I’ve overseen her finances. It hasn’t been easy. There have been issues.”
“Recently?”
He hesitated. “This arts center of hers. She gifted it significantly from her own resources—our resources. The idea was that other avenues of financing would then be found. They haven’t materialized. I’ve been bleeding money into this project for some time now.”
“Do you have the ability to bleed?”
“There’s plenty of money. That’s not the point.”
“The point is her unreliability?”
He considered Cork’s question, as if searching for a better answer, then reluctantly nodded.
“One more question. Has your sister received any threats related to the situation at Vermilion One?”
“No. She’s not associated with this at all. The mine is my business.”
“All right.” Cork quoted his usual daily rate, then added, “A five-thousand-dollar bonus if I find her.”
“I don’t care what it takes. Will this interfere with your investigation of the mine threats?”
“I’m sure I can handle them both. I’ll prepare the paperwork. Will you be around this afternoon?”
“I have a meeting until four, but I’ll be at my home this evening.”
Cork said, “I’ll drop by. Say around six?”
“Thanks, Cork. But I’m hoping you’ll begin this investigation immediately.”
“I’m already on the clock.”
TWO
* * *
Corcoran Liam O’Connor had lived in Tamarack County, Minnesota, most of his life. He’d grown up there, had gone away for a while and been a cop in Chicago, then returned to the great Northwoods to raise his family. Several years earlier he’d been the county’s sheriff, but hard things had happened and he’d left official law enforcement and now ran what he called “a confidential investigation and security consulting business.” He was a PI. He operated his business alone, which was pretty much the way he did everything these days. He’d been a widower for a little over a year, recently enough still to feel the loss deeply; a father, but that summer his children were gone; what was left to him at the moment was the big, empty house on Goose-berry Lane and a family dog constantly in need of walking.
He followed Cavanaugh’s black Escalade east ten miles to Aurora, then along the shoreline of Iron Lake. Rain had begun to fall, and the lake was pewter gray and empty. It was Monday, June 13. Spring had come late that year, and so far June had been cool enough that it had everyone in Tamarack County talking about summers they swore they remembered snow clear into July. Cavanaugh turned off Highway 1 and headed south into a low range of wooded hills capped with clouds and dripping with rainwater. Fifteen minutes later, they entered Gresham, a small town that had been built in the early days of mining on the Iron Range. The Vermilion One Mine had been the town’s economic base, and, until the mine closed in the mid-1960s, Gresham had bustled. Now the streets were deserted; the buildings looked old and ignored. Every other storefront on the single block of the business district seemed long vacant, and yellowed signs bearing the names of realty companies leaned against the glass in otherwise empty windows. Lucy’s, which was a small café, was brightly lit inside, and as Cork passed, he could see a couple of customers at the counter and Lucy Knutson at the grill, but no one seemed to be talking. It reminded him of an Edward Hopper work, Nighthawks, and he felt the way he always did whenever he looked at that painting: sad and alone.
Which brought back to him the dream he’d had the night before: his father’s death. He could never predict when the nightmare would visit him, but it inevitably left him feeling broken and empty and unsure. He looked through the windshield streaked with rain and wondered, Christ, could the day get any worse?
Cavanaugh had sped through Gresham and was so far ahead that Cork couldn’t see the Escalade anymore. Less than a mile outside town, he began to encounter the protesters. They wore ponchos and rain slickers and sat on canvas chairs and held their placards up as he passed.
No Nukes Here!
Stop the Madness!
Not in Our Backyards!
Washington—Go Radiate Yourself!
At the moment, there were maybe twenty protesters, which, considering the rain, seemed like a lot. They were an earnest and committed body.
A legal order restrained anyone from interfering with entry to the Vermilion One Mine, but as Cork approached the gate, a tall, broad figure in a green poncho stepped into the road and blocked his way. Cork was going slowly enough that it was no problem to brake, but he wasn’t happy with the aggressiveness of the move. When the Land Rover had stopped, the figure came around to the driver’s side, lifted a hand, and drew back the poncho hood, revealing the scowl of Isaiah Broom.
Cork rolled his window down. With as much cheer as he could muster, he said, “Morning, Isaiah.”
Broom looked at him, then at the closed gate of the mine entrance, then at Cork again. He had eyes like pecans, and he had the high, proud cheekbones that were characteristic of the Anishinaabeg. He was roughly Cork’s age, just past fifty. Cork had known him all his life. They’d traveled many of the same roads, though never together. They were not at all what anyone would call friends.
“You going in there?” Broom asked.
“That’s my intent, Isaiah.”
“You know, a lot of us Shinnobs are wondering about your allegiance these days.”
“My allegiance, Isaiah, is to my own conscience. So far, I haven’t done anything that worries me in that regard.”
“These people,” he said, nodding toward the mine operation, “they don’t worry you?”
“These people are my neighbors. Yours, too, Isaiah.”
“They’re chimook, Cork,” he said, using the
Ojibwe slang for white people. “Are you chimook, too? Or are you one of The People?”
Broom had called himself Shinnob. That was shorthand for Anishinaabe, which was the true name of the Ojibwe nation. Roughly translated, it meant The People, or The Original People. Cork supposed that in this way the Anishinaabeg—as they were known collectively—like every human community, thought of themselves as special. Broom and the others were there because the southern boundary of the Iron Lake Reservation abutted the land holdings of the Vermilion One Mine.
“At the moment, Isaiah, I’m just a man trying to do a job. I’d be obliged if you’d step back and let me be on my way.”
“ ‘In terms of the despiritualization of the universe, the mental process works so that it becomes virtuous to destroy the planet.’ Russell Means said that.”
Broom was fond of quoting Russell Means, who was Lakota, and also Dennis Banks, who was a Shinnob. In the early seventies, these men had been among the founders of the American Indian Movement. Broom had known them both and had himself been present at the 1972 Trail of Broken Treaties march in Washington, D.C., which had ended in the occupation of the Bureau of Indian Affairs office. He’d continued to be a voice for activism in the Ojibwe community. He’d run several times for the position of chair of the Iron Lake tribal council but never won. He spoke hard truths frankly, but for most Shinnobs on the rez, his voice was too loud and too harsh to lead them.
“I’m not here to destroy the planet, Isaiah, that’s a promise.”
Broom looked skeptical but stepped back. Cork rolled up his window and went ahead.
At the gate, he signed in with Tommy Martelli. Martelli’s family had been in mining for generations, and Tommy had himself worked the Vermilion One straight out of high school and after that the Ladyslipper until his age and hip problems made him become, as he put it, “a damn desk jockey.” He wore a short-sleeve khaki shirt and nothing on his head, and, as he stood at the window of the Land Rover, warm summer rain dripped down his face from the silver bristle on the crown of his skull.
“Mr. Cavanaugh said you’d be right behind him,” he told Cork. “Got us a real puzzler here. Haddad chewed our asses good, like it was our fault.”
“What’s going on, Tommy?”
“Nobody told you?”
“When he called me, Lou said some threats had been made.”
“There’s more to it than that, Cork. But if the boss didn’t tell you, I’d best keep my mouth shut.” He reached out for the clipboard Cork had signed, flashed a smile not altogether friendly, and said, “Love to see you figure this one out.” He moved back to his little guardhouse, and Cork drove through the gate.
For a hundred yards, the pavement cut through a stand of aspen mixed with mature spruce. The road climbed up a steep slope, rounded a curve, broke from the trees, and suddenly the old mine buildings stood before him. They were dominated by the headframe, a steel tower a hundred feet high and covered with rust, which stood above shaft Number Six and supported the hoist for the mine elevator. The largest of the buildings, Cork knew, was the engine house. The other buildings, most in disrepair, had served other functions during the sixty years the mine had been in operation: a single-story office complex; the wet room, where the miners had peeled off their muddy clothing at the end of their shifts; the dry house; the drill shop; the crusher house. The buildings were backed by a towering ridge of loose glacial drift where a small forest of pines had taken root. To one side of the office building entrance stood a tall flagpole that pointed like an accusing finger at the dripping summer sky, and from which a soaked Old Glory fluttered limply in the breeze.
The potholed parking lot was nearly empty. Cork pulled next to Cavanaugh’s Escalade, killed the engine, and got out. The air was an odd mix of scents: rainwater and sharp spruce and the flat mineral smell that came up from deep in the mine. He walked to the front door of the office and went inside, where he found a small reception desk, sans receptionist. There was a corridor running lengthwise, lined with closed doors. The place had the feel of one of those storefronts he’d passed in Gresham, a business long abandoned. He listened for the sound of activity or voices. Except for a newly mounted wall clock that noted the passing of each second with a brittle little tick, the place was dead quiet.
The phone at the reception desk rang. No one came running to answer it. Finally Cork leaned over and lifted the receiver.
“Hello,” he said.
“Margie?”
Cork recognized Lou Haddad’s voice. “Nope. It’s O’Connor.”
“Cork? Where’s Margie?”
“Got me, Lou.”
“Well, come on down. We’re waiting for you.”
“Where?”
“End of the hallway, last office on your right.”
As he hung up, Cork heard the flush of a toilet, and a door halfway down the hall swung open and Margie Renn hurried toward him.
“Just powdering my nose,” she said, smoothing her silver hair and her blue skirt. “Tommy was supposed to call and let me know you’d arrived.”
“Ta-da,” Cork said with a little dance step. Margie didn’t seem to appreciate his humor.
“Let me call Mr. Haddad,” she said.
“I already talked to him, Margie. I’m on my way there now.”
“Let me show you.”
“End of the hall, last door on the right. Right?”
She seemed disappointed that he didn’t need her assistance, and Cork figured that, in the limbo that was the Vermilion One Mine these days, there must not be much for her to do except sit in the empty corridor and listen to the damn wall clock chopping seconds off her day.
Photo © Tony Nelson
WILLIAM KENT KRUEGER is the award-winning author of twelve Cork O’Connor novels, including Northwest Angle and Trickster’s Point, as well as the novel Ordinary Grace. He lives in the Twin Cities with his family. Visit his website at www.WilliamKentKrueger.com.
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ALSO BY WILLIAM KENT KRUEGER
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Vermilion Drift
Heaven’s Keep
Red Knife
Thunder Bay
Copper River
Blood Hollow
The Devil’s Bed
Purgatory Ridge
Boundary Waters
Iron Lake
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2006 by William Kent Krueger
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
For information address Atria Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
This Atria Paperback edition July 2009
Cover design by John Vairo Jr.
Cover photograph © Pal Hermansen/Getty Images
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The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com.
ISBN 978-1-4391-5781-7
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ATRIA PAPERBACK
A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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www.SimonandSchuster.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2005 by William Kent Krueger
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
For information address Atria Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020