Desolation Mountain

by Krueger, William Kent

  “Think of me as backup, Harmon. Give me a call and wait. We’ll handle it together. Okay?”

  “Sure,” Goodsky said.

  But Cork wasn’t at all certain he meant it. “Before you do anything rash and get yourself into trouble, think about Winston.”

  Goodsky glanced up, where the sound of his grandson’s footsteps moved across the floorboards. “Yeah,” he agreed soberly.

  From the gallery, Cork walked two blocks to the tribal clinic, where he found that Rainy had already left for the day. A few minutes later, as he stood on Manomin Street, which was empty, he remembered the dream Waaboo had related to him that morning, his nightmare about a monster with lots of heads. Which was precisely the way Bo Thorson had described the government, a many-headed Hydra. He considered all the elements at large in Tamarack County, all the agencies named and unnamed, and he wondered if Waaboo, like Stephen, saw things that others could not.

  CHAPTER 21

  * * *

  Cork spent over an hour knocking on doors in Allouette, asking friends and relatives of Sue and Phil Hukari if they’d seen the couple that day. He’d spread the word about the shooting of Noggin. Most had already heard about Fanny Blessing. Because he had no answers, only questions, he worked at keeping things calm—his demeanor, his approach, his vague explanations. He decided to say nothing yet about Ned or Monkey Love, or about Cyrus staring dead-eyed up at him from the bottom of Little Bass Lake. For the moment, simpler was better and probably scary enough.

  He headed out of Allouette after the sun had set but while the sky was still red, his mind hard at work, trying to find a thread that, if he pulled it, might help unravel the knot of troubling occurrences since the senator’s plane went down. He wasn’t focused on his own current situation, and the vehicle in his rearview mirror, when he finally became aware of it, was already closing on him.

  Because it was dusk, he’d turned on the headlights of Stephen’s Jeep. The vehicle fast approaching from behind was running without lights. Cork hit the accelerator, but the Jeep was old and hadn’t been made for speed. The SUV—he could see that it was big and black, with tinted windows—continued to gain. A couple of hundred yards ahead of him glowed the taillights of a slower-moving vehicle. Although he knew he might be paranoid—not without good reason—he thought he was about to be put in a squeeze play.

  He’d driven that road a thousand times and knew every twist and turn. His mind raced, visualizing what was ahead. The red embers of the taillights in front of him disappeared around the first curve of an S in the road. Cork flicked off his headlights and put the accelerator to the floor. He careened around the curve, just in time to see the taillights ahead of him move into the second curl of the S. For the next ten seconds, because of the thick woods along the first curve, he would be invisible to the SUV behind him. He hit the brakes and swung onto the gravel access to Wolf Point on Iron Lake. There were no signs for the turnoff. If you didn’t know the road, you’d never see it coming. He shot up the first hundred yards, then slowed down. Dark was gathering and speed was a risk. Another hundred yards and he came abreast of the ruins of an old bait shop on a small inlet. He pulled off the road opposite the dilapidated shack, maneuvered the Jeep deep into the trees, and killed the engine. The descending dark was silent all around him, and he waited.

  A few minutes later they came, two vehicles moving slowly, tires growling over the gravel, headlights stark and glaring. They approached the old bait shop, shone spotlights on the gray, flaking wood, the glassless windows, the sagging porch. They moved on toward the end of the point, another quarter of a mile west.

  Cork considered hightailing it. He could probably be back on asphalt before they were able to swing around in quick pursuit. But he wasn’t sure he could outrun them in the old Jeep. He continued to sit and wait.

  They returned, their spotlights probing the woods with long white fingers as they crept along. The lights played across the Jeep. Cork held his breath, hoping the scratched, dull green paint and the dried mud and dust that coated it would camouflage the old heap. The vehicles moved on.

  His cell phone rang, and it made him jump.

  “Where are you, Cork?” Daniel said on the other end.

  “Hiding at the moment.”

  “Where? Who from?”

  “Out on Wolf Point. And I don’t know who from. Where are you?”

  “At Uncle Henry’s. We’re all here.”

  “Rainy, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll come as soon as I can.”

  “Do you need help?”

  By the time Daniel or anyone else reached him, Cork knew it would be too late. “I’ve got this.”

  After ten minutes, he eased the Jeep back onto the gravel access and drove to the main road. Both directions, the asphalt tunneled into the empty murk of descending night. He eased back onto the road.

  He’d gone less than a mile when the SUV pulled out of the woods ahead and blocked his way. He slammed on the brakes, planning a desperate U-turn, but behind him, the second vehicle cut off any escape. He never carried a firearm, though this was one of those times he wished he did. There was nothing for him to do but sit and see how this played out.

  Two men exited the SUV, both dressed in the kind of military fatigues worn by the searchers in the aspens on Desolation Mountain. They walked toward Cork, blinking into the glare from the Jeep’s headlights. One was tall, older, craggy, with a silver crew cut, the other much younger, female, with a face set in an expression of iron grimness and a rifle in her hands. Cork lowered his window.

  “I warned you already, O’Connor,” the craggy one said while the headlights still blinded him. Then he saw who was behind the wheel. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Not the O’Connor you think, Gerard.”

  “All right, out of the Jeep.”

  “Not until I see some identification.”

  Gerard squinted, his face pinched and impatient. “Craig,” he said to the woman with him. “Show this man some ID.”

  The grim blonde in camo lifted the rifle she carried and aimed it at Cork.

  “Is that ID enough?” Gerard asked.

  “You’d really shoot me?”

  “You have three seconds to find out.”

  Cork opened the door and stepped from the Jeep.

  “Who are you?” Gerard asked again.

  “Cork O’Connor. You spoke to my son this morning.”

  Gerard looked past him at Stephen’s Jeep. “What were you doing at Olson Field this afternoon?”

  “Chalk it up to curiosity. A lot going on around here.”

  “What’s your interest in Beulah Love?”

  “I’m interested in her safety. And I’d like to know what’s become of her brother and nephew. And while I’m at it, I’d like to know the same about Phil and Sue Hukari. I don’t suppose you could enlighten me?”

  Gerard studied him. “You were at the site where Senator McCarthy’s plane went down. You and your son both. You were a part of the early search.”

  “Others were there earlier.”

  “You were with the Indians going over the woods.”

  “I was one of the Indians going over the woods.”

  “You’re not Indian.”

  “Because I’m not wearing a headdress and feathers? Anishinaabe indaaw.”

  The man’s eyes were steely, as if he believed Cork was taunting him.

  “In the language of my people, that means ‘I am Anishinaabe.’ ”

  Gerard made a sound in his throat, a dismissive grunt.

  “What is it that everyone is looking for in Tamarack County, Gerard? What is it that you all believe one of us has taken? The black box?”

  “There is no black box.”

  “Then tell me what it is.”

  “The only thing I’m going to tell you is this: Keep out of our way. I have the power and the authority to see that you’re put somewhere you won’t like.”

  “Authority grante
d by whom?”

  “Are you a patriot, O’Connor?”

  “I’m an American citizen and proud of that.”

  “Proud of being a Redskin, too, I suppose,” Craig said.

  Gerard’s head swung around and he snapped, “That’s enough, Lieutenant.” He looked at Cork again. “Are you a hunter? Of course you are. Every man up here is a hunter. You’re after what? Deer? Bear? Grouse? Pretty easy to know what you’re shooting at. Me, I’m a hunter of the enemies of our democracy. They are many, O’Connor, and they often look just like you and me. Separating the good guys from the bad isn’t such an easy job.” He paused, and Cork thought he might go on with his lecture. Instead he said simply, “You’re free to go.” He signaled the black SUV, and it backed onto the shoulder, clearing the road.

  Cork grabbed the Jeep’s door handle, but before he got in, he said, “To a man who’s really hunting the truth, guys up here like me could be a big help.”

  “Good night, O’Connor. And a last warning, to you and your son and your friends. Stay out of our way.”

  As he passed the SUV, Cork tried to get a look at the license plate, but the darkness made this impossible. He kept an eye on the rearview mirror, uncertain if Gerard’s dismissal was for real. He couldn’t read the man. Which served to drive home Gerard’s point about knowing the good guys from the bad. In Tamarack County, that was becoming next to impossible.

  CHAPTER 22

  * * *

  Trixie had settled herself comfortably in a corner of Henry Meloux’s cabin, which was the spot all of Henry’s dogs had claimed for themselves over the years. Henry’s last dog, an old Irish setter named Ember, had died quietly a few weeks earlier, and the Mide had decided that was enough. He joked that the next thing he would deliver into Mother Earth’s waiting arms was his own body.

  “Mishomis,” Waaboo said, addressing the old man respectfully, using the Ojibwe word for grandfather. “Baa-baa says that you were a warrior. Did you ever fight white people?”

  The child sat at the table in Henry’s cabin, along with Stephen and the old man. Jenny and Rainy and Leah Duling were absent at the moment, preparing Leah’s cabin to shelter this sudden influx of visitors. Stephen smiled at the innocence of his nephew’s question.

  “Fight them how?” the old man asked. Henry carved on a stick, his old hands working skillfully, shaking not at all.

  “You know. Shoot them with arrows.” The boy pointed toward a bow that hung on the wall.

  “I never used it to kill anything that walks on two legs,” the old man told him.

  “Did you use that?” This time the boy pointed toward an old Winchester mounted near the bow.

  “Not that either. When I have found it necessary to fight white people, I have used this.” The old man pointed at his head. “It has always served me better than any weapon.”

  “My dad uses a gun.”

  “He carries a gun,” Stephen clarified. “He’s never had to use it against anyone, Waaboo.”

  “What if someone wanted to hurt him? Or Mommy? Or you?”

  “I hope that’s a bridge he never has to cross.”

  It was a phrase Waaboo clearly didn’t understand and he looked at his uncle with confusion.

  “I have something for you, Waaboozoons.” Meloux handed the boy the stick he’d been carving.

  “A whistle,” Waaboo said with delight. “Migwech, Mishomis.”

  “Not a whistle. A flute.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “A whistle makes noise. A flute makes music.”

  Waaboo put the little instrument to his mouth and blew, his fingers dancing over the holes, which made Stephen smile. It wasn’t music, but neither was it just noise.

  “Why don’t you show the flute to your mom?” he suggested.

  Waaboo was out the door and running through the dark toward Leah’s cabin. Stephen shut the door behind him.

  “Before the night is out, you might be sorry you gave him that gift, Henry.”

  The air smelled of the stew simmering on the stove in the middle of the cabin. Leah had prepared enough for them all, if they ate moderately. Stephen wasn’t comfortable barging in this way.

  “Migwech, Henry,” he said, his heart full of gratitude. “For taking us in.”

  “We will fast tonight, you and me,” the old man told him. “Tomorrow, we will sweat.”

  The door opened, and Daniel stepped in with an armload of split firewood. Because of the dark, he wore a headlamp. He restocked the wood box near the stove and turned off the lamp. “I just spoke with Cork.”

  “Where is he?” Stephen asked.

  “Hiding on Wolf Point.”

  Stephen went rigid. “Who from?”

  “He doesn’t know.”

  “We need to go.” Stephen was up and moving toward the door.

  “He said he could handle it.”

  “I’m going.” Stephen reached for the latch.

  “Patience, Stephen O’Connor,” Henry said at his back.

  “My father’s in trouble.”

  “Your father is hiding. That is one way to avoid trouble.”

  “What if they find him?”

  “He has said he can handle it. Do you trust him or not?”

  Stephen stood with his hand on the door latch, torn.

  “Wolf Point is far away. Whatever happens there, it will happen long before you arrive.”

  Stephen lowered his hand. The door opened, and the others came in from the dark. Rainy looked from Stephen to Daniel and finally to her great-uncle Henry. “What’s wrong?”

  Daniel explained.

  “I should go,” Stephen told her.

  She replied calmly, “Cork said he could handle it.”

  “What if he’s wrong?” Stephen reached again for the door latch.

  “If you’re bound and determined, we’ll go together,” Daniel said. “Henry, that old Winchester on the wall, is it in working order?”

  “It will do what a rifle does.”

  “Aunt Rainy?” Daniel said.

  She nodded. “I know how to use it, if it comes to that.”

  Jenny put her hand on Daniel’s cheek. “Be careful. Dad wouldn’t want you to do anything that will get you hurt. I don’t want that either.” She hugged him, then Stephen. “Take care of each other.”

  * * *

  They moved quickly down the path through the forest, away from Crow Point. Trixie trotted ahead. It was little Waaboo who’d insisted the dog go with them.

  “He smells monsters,” the boy had assured them.

  “Monsters, maybe,” Meloux had said. “But also other things a man might not sense. A dog is always good protection on a hunt.”

  And so the old dog was at their side.

  The sky was filled with stars, the moon on the rise but not high enough yet to illuminate the landscape. Daniel’s headlamp lit the way. Stephen had always felt a comfort in these woods, but now they seemed to hold only menace. Anything might come at them from the dark, and he was glad to have Trixie along.

  He had always wanted to be Mide, like Henry, like Rainy. A healer. A person who understood ninoododawdiwin, which was harmony, who lived in the way of bimaadiziwin, which was the good life. But since he’d first had the vision of him and the boy and the falling eagle, he’d felt unbalanced, lost. Maybe even unworthy, because although he could usually see the right path with his mind, he hadn’t always been able to follow it. Like right now. His father said he could handle the situation on Wolf Point. Henry had counseled patience. And yet there he was, rushing headlong toward a situation he didn’t fully understand, dragging Daniel with him.

  “You didn’t have to come.”

  “Right back at you,” Daniel replied.

  “If it was you hiding on Wolf Point, I’d be coming to help.”

  “Not if I thought I could handle it.”

  “Why didn’t you let me go alone, then?”

  “Your dad, when he says he can handle something, knows
what he’s talking about. You’re a good man, Stephen, but you’ve still got a lot to learn.”

  “Just because I’ve never worn a badge?”

  Daniel stopped and turned to him. The glare of the headlamp was blinding for a moment, and Stephen lifted his hand to block the light.

  “You’re not your father and you’re not me and you never will be. You aren’t ogichidaa. You aren’t a warrior. You need to be okay with that. You have something Cork and I will never have, and it makes you a kind of man Cork and I will never be. You are Mide. Like Uncle Henry.”

  “He was a warrior once.”

  “Don’t try to be Uncle Henry either.”

  Daniel continued down the dark path, where Trixie had paused, waiting for them. Stephen followed, twisted inside. But Daniel wasn’t the target of his anger. It was Stephen himself. If he’d understood the vision in time, he might have been able to do something to prevent all this upheaval. If he’d understood his earlier visions, maybe his mother would still be alive. Maybe he wouldn’t have let a madman put a bullet in his back. Maybe, if he was a little less who he was and a little more like his father and Daniel and even Henry, everything would be different.

  Just as they reached the road and the place near the double-trunk birch where they’d parked their vehicles, Daniel’s phone rang.

  “It’s your father.” Daniel answered the call. “I’m here, Cork.” He listened. “Stephen and I have left Crow Point. Do you want us to meet you somewhere?” He studied the stars. “All right. We’re on our way.”

  He put the phone in his shirt pocket. “Your dad’s fine. He wants us to meet him at the house. He’s going to try to get Bo Thorson there, too. A little strategizing.”

  Stephen drove his father’s Expedition. Trixie lay on the backseat, tired from the long walk. Daniel led the way, with Stephen following the red eyes of the pickup’s taillights. The road to Aurora was a familiar one, but Stephen found himself scanning the dark on either side, wondering what great evil might, even at that moment, be watching him.