Tasha sat down next to Sammy. “It’s like having a nightmare,” she said. “I keep thinking that I’m going to wake up and none of it ever happened.”
Sammy declared, “I’m never going to go to sleep, ever again.”
As it was, they all slept until well past eight the next morning. During the night it had been snowing again, and the neighborhood was eerily muffled.
“I’m going to see Philip Kraussman this morning,” said Lily, as she poured out their Lucky Charms. “Bennie might have been too scared to ask him for that land, but I’m not.”
“You’re not going to leave us here alone?” asked Tasha.
“I’m not going to leave you alone for a single second, sweetheart—not until this is all over.”
Tasha and Sammy were still eating their cereal when the doorbell chimed. Standing on the doorstep stamping their feet were Special Agents Rylance and Kellogg, and Dr. Flaurus, too.
“Oh my God,” she said. “Have you found William?”
“Not yet, I’m afraid,” said Special Agent Rylance. “But the police have more than a hundred officers and deputies out looking for him, as well as who knows how many volunteers. Is it okay if we come in? We asked Dr. Flaurus to come along, in case we need to talk to the kids.”
“Okay. Can I offer you some coffee?”
“No—no, thanks. We really need to discuss one or two things with you. We have to get some kind of perspective on this.”
Lily took them into the living room. “I hope you’re not going to take long. Tasha and Sammy are very upset.”
“Well, that’s understandable,” said Special Agent Rylance. “But the thing of it is, there have now been four or possibly five deaths associated with you and your children, not to mention the killing of your dog. All of these deaths have been brutal in the extreme, involving violent dismemberment and the disappearance of body parts. Not only that: all of them have occurred in circumstances that are not only inexplicable but—at first sight—downright impossible.”
Special Agent Kellogg tugged off his black knitted hat. “We’ve had a preliminary report from the State Highway Patrol technicians, and they’re of the opinion that the vehicle you were traveling in yesterday was not involved in any kind of moving collision—either with another vehicle, or an animal, or any roadside structure or traffic sign. They said that the damage could only have been caused by something similar to an automobile crusher of the type used in commercial scrap yards.
“Except that your brother-in-law’s vehicle was right slapbang in the middle of I-35W, and the nearest commercial scrap yards are in Frogtown, in St. Paul.”
“I don’t know what happened,” said Lily. “The vehicle just collapsed.”
“But then there’s also the question of the human remains,” said Special Agent Rylance. Lily thought that he was looking very old today, and very tired, with flat, papery wrinkles under his eyes. “I don’t want to disturb you by going into too much detail, but your sister and your brother-in-law were taken apart in much the same way as your late husband and the man who was killed at the FLAME office. What little we found of them was strewn along the highway and across nearby fields. We found your sister’s left hand caught on a razor-wire fence more than two miles away.”
Lily slowly sat down on the couch. She felt as if she were someone else altogether. “They went through the windshield,” she said, so quietly that Special Agent Rylance had to lean forward and say, “Excuse me?”
“They went through the windshield. That’s all I saw.”
“But you’d agree that the way they died bears remarkable similarities to the way your former husband died? And this time we can’t even blame seagulls or pelicans for carrying their remains away. Something flew off with them, and I mean flew because we found no footprints in the snow around your brother-in-law’s vehicle and no footprints or snowmobile tracks across the fields.
“Whatever took ’em, Mrs. Blake, it must have carried them through the air.”
“I can’t think what it could have been. A crow, of some kind? I just don’t know.”
“A crow,” repeated Special Agent Rylance, clearly unconvinced.
Special Agent Kellogg sat down beside her. “You told the officers on protection duty that you were going shopping to Calhoun Square. Can you explain what you were doing heading southward on I-35W, in the opposite direction?”
“We changed our minds. We decided to go to the Mall of America instead.”
“Okay, then there’s one only more thing we want to ask you about. You know that old barn you took us to, at Sibley’s End?”
Lily looked at him warily.
“That barn fell down about a week ago. Well, ‘fell down’ isn’t quite accurate. At first the city council thought it was simply the weight of snow on the roof. But a local conservationist who examined the site said that the building had been literally ripped apart—forcibly disassembled, joint by joint. Said he’d never seen anything like it. There was an article about it in the paper.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
Special Agent Rylance said, “All I want to know is: can you think of any way in which these events might be connected? I strongly believe that there is a connection. I believe that there’s an explanation, too. But right now I’m darned if I know what it could possibly be.”
“I wish I could help you.”
“Yes, Mrs. Blake. I wish you could, too.”
Dr. Flaurus went into the kitchen and spent a few minutes with Tasha and Sammy, but when she came out again she shook her head. “I don’t want to push them any further. They’ve seen more horrible things than most people see in a lifetime. Maybe I can come back in a few days’ time.”
“Sure,” said Lily.
The agents left. They said nothing more, but Lily had the uncomfortable feeling that they suspected her of knowing much more than she had been prepared to tell them—which, of course, was true.
She told Tasha and Sammy to put on their sweaters and their coats, and they left the house. The sun had come out, and the snow was so bright that Lily had to put on her sunglasses. She went across the road to tell the protection officers where they were going, and then she climbed into her Rainier and they headed for Edina.
“That woman asked her if we’d seen anything strange,” said Tasha.
“So what did you tell her?”
“I said no, we were too frightened to look.”
“You could have told her the truth.”
“No. She wouldn’t have believed us, would she?”
Lily drove through the slushy streets to West Seventy-Seventh and parked outside the maroon brick offices of Kraussman Developments, which stood on the curving corner with Park Lawn Avenue. Inside the reception area, with its glossy marble-effect floor and its potted yuccas, she went up to the receptionist and asked to see Philip Kraussman. “Tell him it’s Lily Blake, from Concord Realty. Just a social call, really.”
They sat and waited for twenty minutes on a curvy maroon couch, flicking through magazines and listening to syrupy interpretations of Frank Sinatra hits, until Philip Kraussman came bustling down the stainless-steel staircase. He was a short, bull-headed man with cropped silver hair, a bulbous nose, and a very deep suntan. He was wearing a shiny gray shirt with a shiny red necktie, and gray pants that were two sizes too tight for him.
“Lily! Good to see you! Sorry I kept you waiting!” He grasped her hand and gave her a kiss on both cheeks. “These are your kids?”
“Tasha, Sammy—say hello to Mr. Kraussman.”
“Hi, Tasha! Hi, Sammy! They’re great kids! You must be so pleased to have gotten them back.” He took hold of Lily’s arm and lowered his voice. “I heard about the circumstances, and you have my condolences for that. Are the FBI any closer to finding out who did it?”
“Not yet. They’re not even sure if it was a who or a what.”
“You mean some kind of an animal attack? Like an alligator?”
“They do
n’t know yet.”
“Well, I’m still very sorry. Listen, I’m so glad you dropped by! But was there anything special you wanted to talk about? I’m pretty pushed for time right now.”
“As a matter of fact, yes. Can you give me just two or three minutes?”
“Okay . . . do you want some coffee? Kids—how about a soda? Nancy? Would you bring these two lovely young people a Dr. Pepper or something?”
Philip Kraussman steered Lily to a couch underneath the staircase. “So . . . what can I do for you?”
“It’s Mystery Lake . . .”
“Mystery Lake! You bet! Mystery Lake! That whole development is going to make us a small fortune, believe me. My planners told me this morning that we can probably fit in at least three more units without in any way compromising that ‘superior abode’ feeling—subtly raise a couple of sightlines, trim a few inches off a driveway here and there.”
“Well, that’s terrific news,” said Lily. “But I’ve been doing some background research on Mystery Lake.”
“Background research? Meaning what, exactly? Hey—you haven’t found any soil pollution, have you? I don’t want a repetition of that Boulder Bridge fiasco.”
“No, no. I’m talking about history. I wanted to give our potential buyers a feeling of time and heritage . . . I don’t know—a feeling of continuity with the past. So many of these prestige communities feel the same, don’t they? They’re beautifully landscaped, they’re very high-quality build; but they’re isolated from their surroundings—not so much geographically as socially.”
“Lily—that’s why people buy these properties. They want to be isolated from their surroundings. Socially, most of all.”
“But Mystery Lake used to be a Sioux encampment before they were all driven south of the river, and it was a very sacred place.”
Philip Kraussman let out a sharp bark of amusement. “Don’t tell me it’s going to turn out like that Poltergeist movie, and all the houses are going to collapse into some ancient Indian burial pit.”
“No—nothing like that. But that spit of land on the western side of the boat marina, where you’re going to be constructing the jetty—that was the place where a great Native American god made his appearance and told the Mdewakanton that they would soon lose their lands to the white man. I was thinking that if Kraussman Developments were to donate that spit of land to the Native American community, as a kind of memorial—maybe if you put up some kind of plaque or statue or piece of sculpture—that would give Mystery Lake a real sense of magic.”
“Magic?” Philip Kraussman frowned at Lily as if the word completely baffled him. “Magic?”
“Absolutely. It would create a fascinating feature on the lake shore, a real talking-point. But more than that, it would make you look like a developer who cares about local people and local culture.”
Philip Kraussman thoughtfully squeezed his nose between finger and thumb.
“No,” he said, at last.
“It would make a really memorable promotion.”
“No, you’re wrong. It wouldn’t. The kind of people who are going to buy property at Mystery Lake are not at all sympathetic to Native Americans. They associate them with alcoholism, drugs, gaming, and all kinds of antisocial behavior. Apart from that, why should anyone who’s just paid two-point-six million dollars want a constant reminder that the original owners of the land on which they’re now sitting were forcibly dispossessed, without any compensation, and even killed for it? You see, Lily—I do know a little local history.”
“But surely—”
“I’m sorry, Lily. The whole idea is very bad psychology. Apart from which, Kraussman Developments do not as a matter of principle make donations of any kind to anybody. The only charity which Kraussman Developments supports is Kraussman Developments—which is, me.”
“Philip—I believe that this could do you so much good. You’ve been thinking of standing for the city council, haven’t you?”
Philip Kraussman shook his head. “You can’t change my mind, Lily. The answer is no.”
She had promised Tasha and Sammy that she wouldn’t leave them, but now she had no choice. She dropped them off three streets away, at the home of one of Tasha’s school friends, Maris Halverson, promising to pick them up again by seven P.M.
John Shooks was waiting outside her house in his old black Buick, wearing his fur hat and his sunglasses. As she turned into the driveway, he climbed out and approached her.
“Mr. Shooks,” she said.
“Oh, I think you can start calling me John, don’t you?”
“All right, then.” She glanced across the street at the protection officers. One of them was reading a newspaper and the other was asleep with his cap over his face.
“Did you get it?” asked Shooks, as she unlocked her front door.
“No. Philip Kraussman is adamant about it. He doesn’t make philanthropic donations of any kind and, in particular, he refuses to give that piece of land to the Mdewakanton.
“In that case, Lily, you’re in very deep shit.”
She closed the door, went straight through to the living room and opened the whiskey decanter on the bureau. “Do you want one?” she asked him.
“I’ve never been known to decline a drink. And you know why? Because there’s no sure way of telling if it’s going to be my last.”
She poured a large tumbler of Jack Daniel’s for each of them, and sat in the button-back armchair close to the fire. “So what can I do now?”
Shooks knocked back his whiskey in one gulp. “Okay if I help myself to another? That might be my last, too.”
“Help yourself.” She leaned forward and gave the fire a prod with the poker. “What do you think would happen if I killed him?”
Shooks stopped in mid-pour. “You mean George?”
“Yes. Supposing I went after him and shot him?”
“Jesus. I don’t know. I guess you’d end up in Shakopee Women’s Prison. At least it doesn’t have a fence around it, and the food’s supposed to be pretty good.”
“I’m asking you if the Wendigo would still come after me.”
“Oh, for sure. You see, George has already honored his promise to the Wendigo by giving him a human sacrifice or three; and so the Wendigo will make darn sure that you honor your promise to George, even if you’ve blown George’s brains out. And if you don’t honor it, or can’t, then you’ll have to pay the price. It’s a blood thing. A Native American thing. If you say you’re going to give something to somebody, then you give it to them, no matter what, even if it’s the most precious thing that you possess.”
“Maybe I could offer him an alternative piece of land.”
“Do you have one?”
“Not right now. But my friend Joan Sapke works part-time for the Minnesota Indian Affairs Council. She might be able to suggest someplace else . . . someplace that still has some sacred connotations for the Mdewakanton but doesn’t happen to be right in the middle of a multimillion-dollar residential development.”
“I guess you could try. I can’t think of anyplace offhand, but you could always suggest it.”
“You mean I should go talk to George?”
Shooks gave a one-shouldered shrug. “What other way is there?”
“That man slaughtered my sister and my brother-in-law and my fifteen-month-old nephew. It’s as much as I can bear knowing that he’s still living and breathing. How can I talk to him?”
“Because you have to.”
There was a very long silence between them. Then Shooks said, “Truly, Lily, you don’t have any choice. The Wendigo will come for you, sooner or later, and it’ll find you, no matter where you try to run.”
Lily looked up at him. “So—will you come with me?”
“I don’t know, Lily. I don’t want George to start thinking that I’m a white woman’s pet poodle. There’s a good chance that I’ll need his help again in the future.”
“You’d ask him to raise up the Wendigo agai
n, after everything that’s happened?”
“Lily—I’m not a judge and I’m not a jury. I’m simply a guy who facilitates the finding of people that nobody else can find. Everything in life has to be paid for, one way or another.”
“But when you go to George Iron Walker, you know that people are going to get killed!—innocent people, some of them! How can you live with yourself?”
“It isn’t easy, Lily, believe me. But don’t forget how you felt when Jeff took your kids away from you, and those loony tunes from FLAME almost burned you to death. What I do—there’s kind of a sort of justice to it, albeit a justice of the tooth-and-claw variety.”
“Oh God,” said Lily. “I really don’t know what to do.”
John Shooks looked toward the window. “Snow’s stopped. Sun’s still shining. I don’t mind driving you to Black Crow Valley. That’s if you’re game to do a deal with the devil.”
When they arrived at George Iron Walker’s house, however, there was no sign of him, nor of Hazawin. George’s Subaru Forester was parked outside, and its hood was covered in snow, so it obviously hadn’t been driven anywhere recently. But when Shooks rapped at the door, there was no reply.
“George! It’s John Shooks! Anybody home?”
Still no answer. Shooks turned to Lily and said, “Maybe they’re sleeping. Or high. Sometimes they smoke this blood root, so that they can converse with the spirits or something. Makes you kind of horny, too.”
“George!”
Shooks tried the doorhandle, and the door was unlocked. He stepped inside and Lily cautiously followed him. The log fire was still smoldering in the hearth, and there were two half-empty coffee mugs on the table, so wherever George and Hazawin had gone to, they couldn’t have been gone for very long.
Shooks went into the kitchen, and then he looked into the bathroom and the bedroom. Then he went back out on to the verandah and hoarsely shouted, “George! Hazawin!” But there was no reply, not even an echo. Only the faintest rustling of the wind among the pine trees, and the furtive dropping of little clumps of snow.
Edgewise Page 17