They returned Amos Powassin to his home on Windigo Island. Once Jenny and Cork had told their story, the blind man had been mostly silent. On his weathered wooden dock, before Cork and the others left for Young’s Bay Landing, Powassin offered some parting advice, directed mostly at Stephen.
“Remember what I told you. In all that’s good, the possibility of evil. And in evil, the possibility of good. There’s gonna be a lot of people try to tell you otherwise, Makadewagosh. Don’t you listen to ’em.”
“I won’t, grandfather,” Stephen promised.
Then the old man’s sightless eyes swung in Cork’s direction. “Goes for you, too.”
“Migwech,” Cork said, thanking the old man in Ojibwe.
To Jenny, Powassin said, “A bird sheds a little feather, that feather comes to rest where Kitchimanidoo always meant for it to be. Nothing in all creation happens by accident. Granddaughter, you take care of this little feather that’s come to rest in your hands.”
“I will, grandfather.”
The old man stood on the dock a long time, and although he could not see them, his face turned as if watching them until they rounded a point on Windigo Island and were lost to him.
Deputy Sheriff Tom Kretsch awaited them at Young’s Bay Landing, along with a small gathering of other residents of the Angle. Bascombe had radioed ahead, reporting the gist of the situation. When Bascombe’s launch pulled up to the dock, Kretsch helped everyone out and took a good look at the baby, who lay awake but quiet in the wicker basket.
“This is him, eh?” The deputy wore no uniform. He was dressed in jeans and a rugby shirt. He glanced at Jenny, who held the basket. “You the one who found him?”
“Yes.”
“Seth radioed that you found a dead girl, too.”
“That’s right.”
“Murdered you think, is that correct?” Kretsch didn’t try to hide his skepticism.
Cork stood behind Jenny and the baby. He said, “What was done to her she didn’t do to herself, Deputy.”
Which earned Cork a long look of appraisal from the man.
Kretsch could have been fifty-five or thirty-five. He had one of those boyish faces that would never age. He was just under six feet tall, handsome, with a thick shock of wavy brown hair and blue eyes that had an enviably uncomplicated look about them. There was a leanness to his body and a firmness and definition to his muscles that suggested he’d always been athletic. Bascombe had told Cork that Kretsch was the only official law enforcement on the Angle, and he was pretty much part-time.
“You’re O’Connor?” Kretsch asked.
“Yes. Cork O’Connor.”
“And you saw this dead girl, too?”
“I did.”
“And you’re sure it wasn’t the storm that killed her?”
Cork said, “Tom, is it?”
Kretsch said, “Tom’ll do.”
“Tom, I was a deputy and a sheriff for nearly twenty years. I know a murder victim when I see one. I can tell you without a doubt it wasn’t the storm that put a bullet through that girl’s forehead.”
Kretsch chewed on that piece of information and seemed willing to swallow it. He said, “This was on one of the islands out there on the Canadian side?”
“That’s right.”
“Out of my jurisdiction, but I think we ought to have a look before I alert the provincial police in Kenora. Can you find this island again?”
“I’m sure I can.” Cork nodded toward the deputy’s empty belt. “When you go, you ought to take a sidearm at the very least. A good rifle would be better.”
“Why’s that?”
“There’s a man out there with a scoped rifle that looked to me to be a Weatherby. Could be he killed the girl. In any case, judging by his reaction to our presence on that island, he won’t take kindly to us coming back.”
Kretsch looked at the baby in the basket in Jenny’s hands, and in his uncomplicated eyes was the very simple presence of great compassion. “Tough way to start a life.” Then he said to Jenny, “I’ve let Lynn Belgea know what’s up. I think you should take this little fella to her place and have her look him over. When your father and I get back from checking out this dead girl, we’ll figure what to do with him. Probably have to talk to county social services down in Baudette. In the meantime, are you okay taking care of him?”
“Yes,” Jenny said.
“Babs,” he said to a woman standing near him, “can you get these folks over to Lynn’s place?”
“No problem, Tom.” She lifted her hand and said by way of introduction, “Babs Larson.”
Kretsch turned back to Cork. “You got something more than that swimsuit to put on?”
“Not at the moment.”
“You look about my size. I suppose I can rustle up something for you. How about shoes?”
Cork shook his head, then showed Kretsch his wounded soles.
Kretsch whistled. “Let’s go to my office and tend to those feet. I probably can spare you a pair of sneakers, if you can tolerate wearing something. Then we’ll have a good long talk. Seth, you mind coming along?”
“Fine by me,” Bascombe replied.
Cork turned to Stephen and Mal. “Why don’t you two wait here, at that grill across the road. When Tony Ebnet comes in with Annie and Aaron, get him whatever he wants to eat, and yourselves, too, then order something to go for everybody else, okay?”
Stephen seemed uneasy about deserting the others, but Mal clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Remember, son, an army moves on its stomach.”
That was all the encouragement Stephen needed. “I’m starved,” he said. “Let’s go.”
Kretsch had a small place near Young’s Bay Landing, a little square of a house painted green. There wasn’t much furniture, and the clutter made it clear that this was the home of a bachelor. Kretsch had Cork and Bascombe wait in the living room, then he disappeared for a few minutes. He returned with a pair of baggy khakis, an old green Henley shirt, white socks that could have used a good soak in bleach, a pair of oil-stained canvas boat shoes, and a battered canvas hat. He also had some gauze pads, a roll of adhesive tape, and a tube of Bacitracin ointment.
While Cork tended to his feet, Kretsch said, “That’ll keep those cuts from getting infected until we can get you looked at professionally.”
“The cuts are nothing. I’m more interested in getting some answers,” Cork told him.
When Cork was dressed and had slipped on the socks and boat shoes and succesfully tested his ability to walk, Kretsch said, “Let’s go into my office.”
Which turned out to be a small, fishing-gear-filled room off the kitchen. His desk was cluttered with lures. His walls were hung with stuffed and mounted muskies and northerns. Kretsch sat in the chair behind his desk and indicated that Cork should take the chair opposite him. Cork lifted a multibarbed Rapala Husky Jerk from the chair seat and set it on Kretsch’s desk.
“Sorry,” the deputy said. “I don’t get a lot of visitors here.”
Cork nodded toward the lure and said, “Don’t think you’ll catch many with that.”
Bascombe laughed and leaned against the wall, near enough to the open mouth of a mounted muskie that it looked as if the big fish was going to feed on his head. He said, “They have any luck locating the other folks missing in that storm?”
“All accounted for,” Kretsch said and filled them in. Boats had been damaged or destroyed, and some of the fishermen had sustained minor injuries, but all things considered, they’d been pretty lucky.
“Now, down on the south shore of the big water, that whole area between Warroad and Baudette’s been pretty well torn apart. I spoke with the sheriff this morning, and he’s got his hands full. Anything happens up here right now, we’re on our own.”
“What about the Canadian authorities?” Cork said.
“Basically in the same situation as our people. Kenora was dead center in that storm’s path, and I’m sure they’re scrambling, trying to keep t
hings civil and ordered. That’s why I’d like to have a look at the island myself before they have to pull people off other duties to come all the way out here to the boondocks to investigate.”
It made sense to Cork. And the truth was that he wanted another chance to look the scene over himself without having to talk his way across a line of yellow crime scene tape.
“First, tell me about this girl,” Kretsch said. “And then we’ll get to the guy with the Weatherby. Can you give me a good description of her?”
Cork said, “Somewhere between sixteen and twenty years old. Long black hair. Not tall, maybe five-three or five-four. A hundred and twenty pounds. Pretty. Ojibwe.”
Bascombe crossed his meaty arms and said to Kretsch, “Lily Smalldog.”
“Don’t go jumping to conclusions, Seth,” Kretsch said. “That description would fit a lot of First Nations girls.”
“Sure, but how many First Nations girls who fit that description have been missing for four months?”
Cork cocked an eyebrow at Kretsch. “The girl’s been missing?”
“A girl’s been missing,” Kretsch clarified.
“What happened?” Cork asked.
Kretsch ran a hand through his thick brown hair, and his boyish face took on a slightly troubled look, as if debating whether to offer Cork the details. Finally he said, “Four months ago, Lily Smalldog disappeared. She’d been working for some religious folks who own a camp on Stump Island, which is way the hell out there, south of Garden Island. One morning those folks woke up and Lily was gone. Just like that.”
“Somebody took her off the island?”
“That was certainly one of the possibilities. None of the camp’s boats were missing, so Lily didn’t take off by herself.”
“One of the possibilities?”
“There was some speculation that she might have thrown herself in the lake and drowned. They found a sweater of hers floating on the water, but we never did find a body to go along with it.”
“Any reason to think she might have killed herself?”
“According to the folks at the camp, she’d become pretty despondent.”
“Because she was pregnant?”
“They didn’t know that. That speculation began only recently. A few days ago somebody spotted Sonny Chickaway loading a big box full of baby formula onto his boat.”
“Who’s Chickaway?”
“A friend of hers. Bachelor. Lives alone. Because of all that formula, folks started putting two and two together.”
“There’s something else about Lily. She’s kind of a special case,” Bascombe added.
“Special in what way?” Cork asked.
Bascombe said, “I think these days we call those folks ‘challenged.’ ”
“Mentally retarded?”
“Mildly retarded,” Kretsch said. “Sweet as they come, that kid. Someone took advantage of her.”
“Any speculations?”
“Oh, yeah.”
It was clear from the way Bascombe spoke that this was the kind of scandal a small community chewed on with delight.
“Seth,” Kretsch cautioned.
Bascombe pushed away from the wall. “Now, Tom, you know there’s good reason for what folks are saying.”
“Christ, just tell me,” Cork said.
“Her brother, for one,” Bascombe blurted.
Cork looked to Kretsch for confirmation, and the deputy reluctantly nodded. “His name’s Noah. Noah Smalldog. He’s kind of infamous in these parts.”
“Infamous how?”
“Shady. Elusive. Hates whites with a passion. Back in the days when Indians were into scalp taking, Noah Smalldog would’ve had enough to sew himself a winter coat.”
“Criminal record?”
“Nothing serious and nothing recent. Too smart. But most folks are pretty sure he’s big into smuggling. He’s got himself a cigarette boat that can outrun anything on Lake of the Woods.”
“As I understand it, going too fast on that water can be disastrous.”
“Smalldog grew up on this lake,” Kretsch said. “His father was one of the best guides in these parts, and Smalldog did a lot of guiding himself when he was younger. I’m not sure there’s anyone knows Lake of the Woods better.”
Bascombe said, “I heard that when he smuggles he runs at night without lights or GPS.”
“This guy sounds a little mythic,” Cork said. “Like Paul Bunyan.”
“Yeah, if Bunyan had been a son of a bitch.”
“Smalldog got into trouble in his late teens,” the deputy went on. “D and D mostly, that kind of thing.”
“Just that, drunk and disorderly?” Cork said.
Kretsch shook his head. “Other things, too, but like I said, nothing really serious. It was clear that he had anger issues, and if he kept going in that direction he was looking at the possibility of jail time down the road. I guess the First Nations elders gave him the option of channeling his anger or getting run off the rez. So he joined the army and went to war. From what we heard, he was pretty good at it. Fought with the Canucks in Afghanistan. Came back a couple years ago, and pretty much disappeared in Lake of the Woods. We get Smalldog sightings all the time. Like Elvis, you know.”
“But he had this sister, Lily,” Cork said.
“Half sister, really,” Bascombe said. “Same mother, different fathers.”
“He must have had some contact with her,” Cork said. “He must have come out of hiding enough to justify the speculation that he fathered her child.”
“The folks at the camp filed complaints alleging that Smalldog sometimes trespassed at night to visit his sister.”
“Alleging?”
“They never caught him, but somebody was there. Left her little gifts,” Kretsch said.
“Gifts?”
“The camp folks figured they were bribes or payments for letting him have sexual relations with her.”
“Did they ever have her examined by a doctor after one of these visits?”
“Not as far as I know. But from what you found on that island out there, it’s clear something of a sexual nature went on.” Kretsch picked up the Rapala lure and idly touched the hook, as if thoughtlessly checking the sharpness of the barb. “So, what did this guy with the Weatherby look like?”
“My height,” Cork said. “Probably about my weight, one eighty. Long black hair in a ponytail. He had on a tan ball cap that shaded his face, so I didn’t get a good look at his features. But Indian, I’d say.”
“How old?”
“Hard to tell. A lot younger than me, but that seems like everybody these days.”
“Could be Smalldog,” Bascombe said.
“Or any number of First Nations men.” Kretsch put the lure down. “I think it’s time I had a look at that island.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Lynn Belgea stood at the open door to her home, which was nestled among a stand of tall red pine on Angle Inlet, a small community a couple of miles north of Young’s Bay Landing. She watched Rose and Jenny and Babs Larson pile out of Larson’s truck and start up the dirt path through the patch of wild grass and flowers that was her yard. At her feet stood a brown and black dog, a standard poodle, who barked at their approach and eagerly wagged his tail.
“Hush, Teddy,” Belgea said. “You’ll wake the baby. Come on in, folks. I’ve been expecting you.”
They entered her home, a modest little cabin nicely furnished with pine furniture and braided rugs, and immaculately clean. The dog danced along beside them, jumping up on his hind legs to get a look inside the basket.
“Sit, Ted,” Belgea said, and the dog obeyed. “I haven’t had him long,” she apologized, “but he’s learning. I’ve found that peanut butter works wonders with him. This way.”
She led them to a small examining room with a view of the pines in back.
“Let’s have a look at this little man,” she said.
Jenny took the baby from the basket and handed him to Belgea, who didn�
��t blink an eye at his misformed upper lip. The woman laid him on the examining table and looked him over carefully while Jenny explained the circumstances in which she’d found him.
“I’d say he’s between eight and ten weeks old,” Belgea said. “His weight seems good, despite his ordeal. He’s been well cared for.”
“What about his lip?” Jenny asked.
Belgea’s capable hands cradled his little head, and she looked closely at his mouth. “Not all that unusual. Native Americans have the highest rate of children born with cleft lips and palates.”
Rose said, “Why would that be?”
“Some of it’s genetic. Babies inherit a gene that either causes the cleft directly or is part of a syndrome that includes clefting as one of its symptoms. Sometimes it’s simply a gene that makes a child more susceptible, and an environmental issue actually triggers the clefting.”
“Environmental issue?”
“Smoking or drinking or drugs during pregnancy. Sadly, that’s a real problem for a lot of young Indian mothers. And this guy has another strike against him. Male babies are twice as likely as females to have clefting.”
“What can be done about it?”
“He’s young enough that the cleft can be easily closed surgically. In a few years, all that will show is a bit of a scar that most people won’t even notice.”
Jenny said, “You’re from the Angle. Do you have any idea who he is?”
Belgea and Babs Larson exchanged a brief but knowing look.
“Go ahead, Lynn,” Babs said. “She’s bound to hear the whole story eventually, so it might as well come from you.”
Belgea handed the baby back to Jenny. The grating call of a blue jay from outside drew her attention. She stared beyond the window screen where the pines isolated her home, spent a moment gathering her thoughts, then told what she knew.
* * *
It began with Vivian Smalldog, a woman of mixed heritage and mixed nationality, who’d grown up on the Angle. Her father was a logger and a drunkard, her mother a First Nations Ojibwe from Reserve 37, a weak, battered woman. Growing up, Vivian never had much of a chance. She was wild and pretty and got into trouble early on. When she was seventeen, she met an Ojibwe from Sioux Narrows on the north end of the lake, an older man named Leon Smalldog, who saw the pretty in her and ignored the rest. They got married and had a child, a boy they named Noah. Leon Smalldog was a well-known guide, a settled man, who soon wised up to the fact that the woman he’d married was not the marrying kind. He remained in the marriage for nearly a decade before his wife’s drinking and infidelities drove him to separate from her. As far as Belgea knew, the couple never officially divorced. Smalldog moved back to Sioux Narrows and took Noah with him.
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