Desolation Mountain

by Krueger, William Kent

  Not much time had passed since his father discovered Fanny Blessing’s body, but already word was abroad. The rez telegraph in action, Stephen knew.

  She drew up a chair. “Was it a heart attack or something? Her health hasn’t been good for a long time.” Her eyes took in the stranger. “I’m Sarah,” she said to Bo. “I own the Moose.”

  “Bo,” he replied. “Old friend of Cork.” His smile was gentle through the rough stubble on his face. “A nice establishment you have here, ma’am.”

  She looked back at Cork for an answer to her question.

  “We won’t know for a while, Sarah.”

  “There wasn’t any . . .” She searched for the right words. “Foul play, was there?”

  “Why do you ask?” It was Bo Thorson who put the question to her.

  “It’s just that . . .” Again, she seemed at a momentary loss of words. “It feels like there’s something not right out here, ever since the senator’s plane went down. I see guys here and all over the rez who aren’t tourists and it gives me the willies.”

  “What do they look like?” Again, Bo’s question.

  “I don’t know. Not abnormal or anything. Just . . . intense. And they’re never alone. There’s always at least two of them. Sometimes more.”

  “Where do you see them?” Stephen asked.

  “They’ve been here, around town. And I see them coming in on back roads from the direction of Desolation Mountain. Sometimes they’re just parked out in the middle of nowhere. Creepy.” She made a shivering gesture with her whole body. “What about Tom? Does he know?”

  “I tried calling him,” Cork told her. “He’s not answering his cell phone.”

  “Not in his office? You might try Bourbon Lake, there where the Coot River flows out. I heard he’s been after a couple of otter poachers. Phone reception is pretty iffy that far out.”

  “Poachers? Did he report them to Daniel?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just what I heard.”

  “Thanks, Sarah. I’ll give it a shot.”

  She eyed Bo. “Get your deer yet?”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “I figure you must be a bow hunter. That’s the only season open at the moment.”

  Another smile appeared in the rough stubble. “I’m a hunter, Sarah. But not of deer.”

  As soon as they left the Mocha Moose, they checked at the tribal offices, but still no Tom Blessing.

  “Where’s this Bourbon Lake?” Bo asked.

  “East, along the edge of the Boundary Waters. Not all that far from Desolation Mountain.”

  “Hard to get to?”

  “Follow me,” Cork said.

  CHAPTER 16

  * * *

  “You seem to know him pretty well, Dad.”

  They were following a series of logging roads abandoned long enough ago that nature had reclaimed the ground. Scrub brush clawed the sides and undercarriage of the big vehicle as they maneuvered through. They crossed threads of water, streams nearly dry now, but during the next spring melt they would be impassable. Bo Thorson trailed in his Jeep.

  “I met Bo when I was sheriff. This was when Tom Jorgenson was vice president.”

  Tom Jorgenson was a name probably every schoolkid in Minnesota knew. He’d been a popular governor and then vice president.

  “The Jorgensons had a vacation home on Iron Lake for decades. Whenever the vice president was in residence there, I worked with Bo on security. We got on well, and let me tell you that wasn’t always the case when I had to work with federal agents of one kind or another.”

  “So you trust him?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  Stephen shrugged. “Everything feels off. Me, I’m not sure what I can trust.”

  “Or who? You trust me, don’t you?”

  “Come on.”

  “And I trust Bo. Good enough?”

  Stephen eyed the trailing Jeep, considered, finally said, “For now.”

  Cork slowed to a stop and peered through the windshield, studying the ground in front of the vehicle. “Somebody’s been this way recently.”

  “Tom Blessing,” Stephen said.

  “A lot of damage to the ground cover, more than a single vehicle would have caused.”

  “He’s probably been this way before. Sarah said he’s been trying to track down otter poachers out here.”

  “Maybe.”

  Cork continued on, but he watched the forest more carefully now. Meloux’s cautionary words echoed in his thinking: There is a beast in these woods that does not belong here It is huge and it is evil.

  “Over there,” Stephen said a few minutes later. He pointed toward two vehicles parked among the pines. Beyond them, thirty yards through the trees, blue water sparkled. Bourbon Lake.

  Cork parked near the other vehicles, one of them a big pickup, and Bo pulled alongside.

  “That’s Tom’s Tundra,” Cork said.

  “What about the other?” Bo asked.

  “I don’t know. But it has rez plates, too.”

  They walked over a soft carpet of pine needles to the rocky shoreline. The reason for the lake’s name was pretty evident: water the color of bourbon, the result of both the iron content of the soil and the bog seepage along the creeks that fed the lake. Except for the water itself, which shivered a little in the afternoon breeze, making the sunlight on the surface dance, nothing moved.

  “Where are they?” Stephen’s voice was hushed.

  Cork backtracked, carefully eyeing the ground and the bed of needles that covered it. “Here.” He went down on one knee and pointed to impressions left in the soft bedding. “They went east, toward the Coot River outlet.”

  He led the way, one eye to the ground and the other to the trees around them. Stephen and Bo seemed to have sensed his concern. They all walked carefully and didn’t speak.

  “Hold it right there!” The command came from the trees at their backs.

  Cork stopped dead, silently berating himself for leading his son and Bo into this ambush.

  “Turn around slowly.”

  They obeyed.

  The man rose from behind the trunk of a fallen pine, a rifle in his hands, the barrel trued on Cork. He wore a green ball cap whose bill shaded the upper part of his face. But a smile slowly spread across his lips and he lowered the rifle. “Boozhoo, Cork. Hey, Stephen. What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you, Tom,” Cork replied. “What’s with the hardware?”

  “Poachers,” Tom Blessing said, as if the word were dirty. “Otter poachers. You gotta be one heartless son of a bitch to poach a creature as delightful as an otter.”

  “Good warm fur,” Bo noted. “Brings a pretty penny, I bet.”

  Blessing eyed him with suspicion. “Who’re you?”

  Another figure rose from behind the blind of the fallen pine. Cork recognized Harmon Goodsky, who was a professional photographer with a gallery in Allouette. His right hand held a camera, to which a powerful-looking lens was affixed.

  “Boozhoo, Harmon.” Then to answer Blessing’s question, Cork said, “This is Bo Thorson. A friend.”

  “Well, friend,” Blessing said, “there’s more to an otter than its fur.”

  “I understand,” Bo replied. “Just talking about motivation. For some people, it’s all about the money.”

  “Those kind of people we don’t need.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Bo said.

  Cork glanced at Goodsky. “I know why Tom’s here. What are you up to, Harmon?”

  Goodsky was huge, towering. In an earlier time, he’d been an imposing, powerful figure. Now, in a way, he resembled the fallen pine in front of him, a great trunk slowly rotting. He was a veteran of Vietnam and a victim of Agent Orange. He had Parkinson’s and was riddled with cancer.

  Goodsky held up his camera. “Tom wanted me to document things.”

  “How do you know they’re poaching otters, Tom?” Cork asked.

  “There’s an otter lodge n
ear the Coot River outlet. With field glasses, you can see it from here. I spotted a couple of guys there a few days ago. I hollered at them and they took off. I’ve been hanging around since. They came back yesterday and I ran ’em off again. No other reason to be here than those otters.”

  “Have you mentioned this to any of the game wardens? Daniel’s looking for a couple of poachers, too.”

  Blessing gave a little croak of disdain. “Game wardens’ll just hand ’em a ticket. I get hold of these guys, they won’t be walking right for a while. I’ll make sure they understand the real cost of poaching otters on Shinnob land.” A woof came from the other side of the log. Blessing said, “Easy, boy.”

  “Is that Tornado with you?” Cork asked.

  “He’s not really a hunting dog, but I brought him along thinking he might help us sniff out these poachers. Or I could sic him on ’em if I had to.”

  The bulldog showed himself, appearing around the end of the log, his body tensed, as if prepared to attack should Blessing give the word.

  What Cork had to do next, he didn’t relish. “Look, Tom, I’ve got some bad news.” He gave it a moment, then added, “About your mom.”

  Blessing waited, but even before he received the word his face reflected an anticipation of the worst. Which is to say, all his features became stone, unreadable. And when he’d heard, his response was a simple nod.

  “I’m sorry, Tom.”

  Blessing’s dark eyes searched the woods, the sky, the lake, as if looking for the answer to a question as yet unasked. “All right,” he finally said, gathering himself. “We’re done here, Harmon. Come on, Tornado.” He slipped the rifle strap over his shoulder and began the long journey home.

  Goodsky let him walk away a bit, then said to Cork, “Just like in Nam.”

  “How’s that, Harmon?”

  He scanned the woods. “You know they’re out there. You just don’t know when they’ll hit you.” He followed Blessing and the dog, walking slowly. At every other step, he faltered, as if afraid the bones in that leg might crack under his weight.

  Stephen watched him limp away. “It’s not just his body.” In answer to Cork’s questioning look, he explained, “What’s eating him doesn’t just feed on his flesh and bone, Dad. That man is sick in his soul.”

  “Think Henry could help him?”

  “I’m not sure Harmon wants to be helped.”

  Cork understood. Some people fed on their anger or their bitterness or their resentment for so long that even though it was poison, it was what they craved.

  “Interesting, don’t you think, that these poachers seem to have appeared about the same time the senator’s plane went down?” Bo said.

  “Coincidence?” Stephen suggested.

  Bo smiled. “And do you believe in the tooth fairy, too?”

  “I think I’d like to talk to Daniel about those poachers he’s been chasing,” Cork said.

  He turned to leave, but Stephen didn’t move. He stood at the edge of the lake with his eyes closed. So Cork waited in the quiet of the Northwoods. This was familiar territory to him: the bourbon-colored water, the evergreen-scented air, the rustling bulrushes, the yielding needles underfoot. But something was off.

  “Waiting,” Stephen said, opening his eyes.

  “Who’s waiting?” Bo asked.

  “The manidoog,” Stephen replied. “The spirits here.”

  “Waiting for what?”

  On his son’s face, Cork saw the shadow of confusion and defeat, which had darkened it so often since he’d first received the vision.

  “Hell if I know.” Stephen turned and walked away alone.

  CHAPTER 17

  * * *

  Bo followed Cork’s big SUV west through the woods in the direction of Allouette. He was thinking about the question Stephen had put to him, which was essentially this: Could the appearance of the poachers and the crash of Senator McCarthy’s plane be a coincidence? Although he’d sloughed off the question, he knew that due diligence meant he had to eliminate the possibility absolutely. He was hoping once they’d talked with this game warden, this Daniel English, he could put the question to rest.

  They weren’t far from town when his phone gave a chirp, signaling a text message. Driving along the rugged back roads required his full attention, so he couldn’t check it immediately, but he was pretty sure who’d sent it and pretty sure he didn’t want to respond just yet.

  It wasn’t exactly a stroke of luck that Cork O’Connor had stumbled onto him. Bo would have gotten around to him eventually. He remembered Cork from his days with Secret Service, and when he’d agreed to take this assignment, one of his early thoughts was that if he had to, he might be able to tap Cork’s local knowledge. Luck came into play when it turned out that the kid he’d seen Gerard’s people grab was Cork’s son.

  Stephen O’Connor was an interesting case. This vision thing. Bo didn’t buy into it, but he could see that the young man’s father was invested. Maybe it was because of the O’Connors’ Native heritage or maybe the man wanted to believe simply because that’s what fathers did, supported their children. Bo didn’t have children. He’d never really had a father. So what did he know about that kind of relationship? He understood teamwork, however, and that when you’ve partnered with someone, as he had with Cork that day, you didn’t double-cross them. He hoped that in all that might occur going forward, this would be a tenet he could stand by.

  Cork parked at the tribal offices. Bo pulled up beside him and took a moment to check the text message he’d received: Report? He decided to wait until the day was over before responding. That would be soon enough.

  Daniel English wasn’t in the Conservation Enforcement office, but the head game warden, a colorful coot with a mole like a tick on his lip, pointed them toward the Mocha Moose, where English had gone for an afternoon break.

  They found him sipping coffee and eating a blueberry muffin at the same table where they’d sat earlier.

  English was tall, clearly Native, with black hair, dark eyes, high, fine cheekbones, and a steadiness in his gaze, the frank assessment of a law enforcement officer, which Bo could appreciate. Cork introduced them, and they joined English at the table. In an instant, Sarah LeDuc was there with them.

  “Did you find Tom Blessing?”

  “Out at Bourbon Lake, like you said, Sarah,” Cork replied. “Harmon Goodsky was with him.”

  “Harmon?” Her face showed some pain. “That poor man. What was he doing there?”

  “Documenting.” Cork looked at Daniel English. “Tom says there are some guys poaching otters at Bourbon Lake. You hear anything about that?”

  “Nothing about Bourbon Lake. How does Tom know they’re poaching?”

  “He spotted them near an otter lodge and put two and two together. He’s pretty burned about it.”

  “Was Harmon there to document the poaching or document the beating Tom was going to give the poachers?”

  “Maybe both. And maybe provide a little backup, too.”

  English looked skeptical. “He’s big, but he couldn’t provide much backup these days.”

  “A year to live,” Sarah said. “Maybe two. That’s the word anyway. Agent Orange. What were those people thinking?”

  “People who make that kind of decision think only in the moment,” Bo offered. “In my experience, it’s an unfortunate hallmark of governments.”

  “Sarah told me about Tom’s mother,” English said. “Does Tom know?”

  “Yeah.” Cork wiped the perfectly clean tabletop with an open palm, as if there was something there that needed to be brushed away. “It’s not like it was totally unexpected. She hasn’t taken care of herself.”

  “But something’s eating at you,” English said.

  “If it was just Fanny, that would be one thing,” Cork replied carefully. “But add to it the shooting of Cyrus at the Loves’ cabin, and it begins to feel questionable.”

  Sarah finally pulled up a chair. “You think these thin
gs are tied together? How?”

  Bo said, “I can think of at least one important way. The Loves and Tom Blessing were among the first on the scene of Senator McCarthy’s plane crash.”

  “Why is that important?” Sarah asked.

  Although the woman couldn’t see the connection, a look of understanding came to O’Connor’s face. Then to the face of Daniel English.

  It was young Stephen O’Connor who said what they were all thinking. “You were also one of the first out there, Daniel.”

  English’s only acknowledgment of this truth was a slight nod. “Phil Hukari was out there, too.”

  “Where is he?” Cork asked.

  “We came in from poacher chasing because he got a call from his wife,” English said. “She was having some pregnancy-related difficulty.” He pulled out his cell phone and made a call. He waited, finally spoke into the phone. “Phil, it’s Daniel. Give me a call when you get this message.”

  “Where does he live?” Bo asked.

  “They have a small place on Badger Creek, a mile or so outside of town,” English replied.

  As if of one mind, they all rose, except Sarah, who looked up at them with confusion. “What am I missing?”

  “Thanks for the coffee and muffin,” English said to her and quickly led the way out.

  * * *

  The caravan sped northeast with Daniel English in the lead. They took the main road for a mile before turning onto gravel and following a stream that threaded among pines and aspens. Bo wasn’t a man much given to intuition, but a palpable sense of menace had descended on him. From the glove box, he took the Sig he’d placed there earlier and put it within easy reach.

  The cabin was set among pines on the bank of the creek. No vehicles were visible. English was out of his truck and already at the front door, Cork and his son with him, before Bo had killed the engine on his Jeep. Bo gripped his Sig and stepped from his vehicle, but he didn’t join the others. The situation felt precarious to him, and he readied himself to provide cover fire, if necessary. He watched as English knocked, called out, finally opened the door, and disappeared inside. Cork and Stephen followed.