Boundary waters co-2

by William Kent Krueger

  Cork was certain that after that, whoever it was shadowing them, majimanidoo or otherwise, they would strike.

  25

  Shiloh sat upright with a jolt and listened. She stared straight ahead and blinked away the blur of sleeping. A thread of white smoke curled upward from a circle of ash near her feet and she realized she’d let the fire burn out. Panicked, she looked around desperately for the yellow eyes of the timber wolf who’d watched her from the darkness of the trees. A wet mist cloaked the woods and lake, and she could see nothing beyond a dozen yards. She reached for the knife she’d clutched much of the night, the Swiss army knife Wendell had given her as a gift. Although the blade wasn’t long, it was sharp, and it was all she had in the way of a weapon. She probed the mist and strained to hear again the sound that had awakened her.

  The night before, soon after she first saw him, the wolf had slipped away, vanishing as silently as he’d appeared. She’d risked a moment to feed the fire, and when she’d looked back, the eyes had been gone. She held tight to the knife, blade extended and gleaming in the firelight, and tried to see everything all at once-left, right, behind her. Although she seemed alone, she felt watched. All night, she felt watched. After a long time had passed, she knew she had to prepare for the cold, wet hours ahead. As Wendell had advised, she put on the thermals to wick moisture from her body. Over that a layer of wool-sweater and pants. Then her jacket, and finally a slicker as the light rain began to fall. When she finished, she clutched the knife in her gloved hand and settled herself against the big rock at her back. Before she knew it, she’d given in to sleep.

  Her sleep was restless, haunted not by fearsome images of the wolf but by an old visitation. She was in Wendell’s cabin. Safe. Outside, a light rain fell. She could hear it against the windows. She’d laid a fire in the stove, which had warmed her. The sound from the burning logs, the hiss and pop of sap, was like a song. A knock at the door disturbed her. Who would come so far to visit? Who would know how to find her in that hidden place? In the prescient way of dreams, she knew that it wasn’t Wendell and that she should not open the door. But the dream had a terrible momentum of its own. She watched herself cross the cabin floor and reach out to the latch. When she swung the door open, the Dark Angel swept in on black wings. Shiloh fell back. As always, the Dark Angel had no face, only a deep emptiness, black as a starless night, where a face should have been. From within that emptiness came a powerful force like the suck of a tornado trying to pull her into the void. She fought, uselessly, and felt herself being drawn into a place she knew was death.

  She woke before she was swallowed, drawn out of her sleep instantly by a sound.

  It came again, from the wall of gray mist that blocked the lake, the noise that had yanked her from her sleeping. A hoarse cough, somewhere out on the water. She tried to stand, but her whole body objected, every muscle cramped and knotted. Slowly, painfully, she stretched herself out. Carefully, she stood.

  It was like a prison cell, the small area she could actually see. Drab gray and menacing. Beyond the rock, the lake was flat and solid as iron plating. The mist shifted slowly of its own accord in the windless morning.

  A crow’s sudden cawing broke from somewhere out in the gray and startled her. She listened.

  Only that, she thought, relieved.

  Then a watery plop, followed by, “Shit, Roy, I can’t see my damn hand in front of my damn face. The fish can’t see nothing neither. No wonder we’re having the luck God give a three-legged racehorse.”

  A minute later, Shiloh heard the sizzle of fishing line played out fast from a reel and the splash of a big fish breaking water.

  “Got him!” the voice exclaimed triumphantly.

  “Well, hell, don’t tip the damn canoe, Sandy. You’ll lose him for sure.”

  “I ain’t tippin’ nuthin’. Shift the other way, goddamn it.”

  “Play him, Sandy boy,” the second voice urged. “You really hooked that son of a bitch.”

  “We’re tippin’, Roy!” Sandy shouted.

  “I got it under control. My butt’s practically in the water over here. Just land the damn fish!”

  The two voices barked back and forth a while until the splashing stopped.

  “What d’you figure, Roy? Eight, ten pounds?”

  “If it’s an ounce.”

  “Didn’t I tell you they come big up here?”

  “Yeah, but you didn’t tell me fishing from a canoe was going to be such a royal pain in the ass.”

  Shiloh called into the mist. “Hello?”

  She was greeted with silence.

  “I need some help,” she tried again.

  Out of the gray, a wary voice queried, “Who are you?”

  “Help me, please.”

  “Hell, Sandy, can’t you hear it’s a woman? Put that damn fish down and grab a paddle.”

  Shiloh heard the water break with rapid strokes. A moment later, they emerged from the mist. Two bulky men, bearded, wearing down vests and billed caps. They came at the shore fast, then backpaddled hard before they hit the rocks. The man in front looked up at Shiloh with concern.

  “You okay, miss?”

  “I am now,” Shiloh replied.

  The two men exchanged bewildered glances as she broke into great sobs of relief.

  26

  Wallys Channo reminded Jo of Abe Lincoln. Not because he looked like the Great Emancipator, although in his height and gauntness there was a certain similarity. It was more that Schanno seemed like one of those rails Lincoln had spent so much time splitting in his early years. Thin, dry, tough. Suited to the purpose of being part of a structure that delineated something. In the case of Lincoln’s rails, they were property fences. In Schanno’s case, he was the law in Tamarack County.

  When he opened the front door of his home to Jo, he was dressed in a white shirt, dark tie, gray pants held up by gray suspenders. He gripped a coffee cup in his hand and he smelled of Old Spice aftershave.

  “I’m sorry to bother you so early, Wally.”

  “That’s all right, Jo. Just finishing my morning mud.” He held up his cup. “Come on in.” He stepped aside and put a finger to his lips. “Arletta’s sleeping.”

  “How is she?” Jo asked in the foyer.

  Schanno took her coat and hung it in the closet. “About the same. I count it as a blessing that she doesn’t seem to be getting much worse. Doc Gunnar says Alzheimer’s is like that sometimes. Plateaus, you know.”

  Arletta Schanno was one of the finest, prettiest women Jo had ever seen. She’d been a schoolteacher before the disease hit her. Annie and Jenny had both passed through her classroom, and both still said third grade was the best year they ever spent at Aurora Elementary.

  “May’s here now, you know,” Schanno said, speaking of Arletta’s sister. “She’s a big help.”

  May stepped in from the kitchen. She was a darkhaired woman in her early fifties. She came from Hibbing and Jo didn’t know her well. She seemed a stern woman, not given to smiling, the way Arletta had always been. But she was obviously capable and willing to help. Goodness came in all kinds of packages.

  “Would you like some tea or coffee?” May asked. It was a polite question, but not especially warm.

  “Thanks, no, May. I just want to talk to Wally briefly.”

  “All right.” She disappeared into the kitchen immediately, as if the room had sucked her back in.

  They settled in the living room. Schanno took the big easy chair. Jo sat on the edge of the sofa.

  “The men who went into the Boundary Waters with Cork. I think they may not be who they claim to be. You spoke with them. Did you ask them for identification?”

  “Sure, I did. But-” A dour look came over his long, raggedy face.

  “What is it, Wally?”

  “I’m not saying anything for sure, but I have a strange feeling in my gut about this whole thing. Why are you asking?”

  Jo told him about her visit from Benedetti and his entourage.
Schanno listened quietly through the whole thing. Jo couldn’t recall hearing the man ever swear before, but when she finished, Schanno said, “Jesus.” He rubbed his clean-shaven jaw. “Like trying to decide which side of the razor blade to grab hold of.”

  “There must be a way to check on these men,” Jo said.

  Schanno sat back and thought a moment. “I’ll call Arnie Gooden. He’s one of the resident FBI agents in Duluth. He promised help if we needed it. Where can I reach you?”

  “I’m in court all morning. You can leave a message for me at the courthouse.” She stood up and went to the closet with Schanno. As he handed over her coat, she said, “You told me last night if you had to, you could get to Cork and the others quickly.”

  “Less than an hour.”

  Jo felt a measure of relief. “Good.”

  Schanno put his huge hand lightly on her shoulder. “If there’s anything strange going on, Jo, we’ll get their butts out of there fast, I give you my word.”

  27

  The mist lifted, but the heavy gray that overhung the Boundary Waters didn’t. Shiloh followed Roy Evans and Sandy Sebring to their camp, where the Deertail River flowed southeast out of the big lake. They pulled the canoes onto shore and Roy set immediately to stoking the fire with dry wood.

  “You know,” Sandy said, tugging on his beard, “you sure look familiar. Do I know you?”

  “I don’t think so,” Shiloh said.

  She sat on a rock near the fire and watched the smoke begin to rise as Roy bent and blew on the embers. In a moment, a crackling flame popped up. “That long hair,” Sandy said, moving slowly behind her.

  Shiloh put up the hood of her rain slicker.

  “You alone out here?”

  “Quit yammerin’, Sandy. Get me some food so I can fix her something to eat.”

  “All right, all right.” Sandy went to a nearby tree-a pine deeply scarred from a lightning strike-undid a rope, and let down a pack that hung from a high branch. “Bears,” he explained to Shiloh. “You like bacon?” He began digging in the pack.

  “Bacon would be fine,” she replied.

  “And eggs?” Roy asked. “They’re dehydrated, but you scramble ’em up and can’t hardly tell the difference.”

  “Whatever,” Shiloh said.

  Without the mist, she could see a distance across the lake. The expanse of water suddenly looked huge and impossible. The islands lay on the surface like dark beasts watching. She was surprised she’d come so far so well.

  “Me and Roy live down in Milaca,” Sandy said. “Work at the Wright Lumber Company there. Roy talked me into coming. Said we’d have the whole woods to ourselves. Said we’d be catching walleyes big as my thigh.” He handed Roy the food. “Shiloh!” he said suddenly, and his hand, full of bacon, froze in the air.

  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” Roy said.

  “Son of a gun.” Sandy broke into a broad smile, his thick lips nested among the wild hairs of beard.

  “You’re Shiloh. My wife’s got every album you ever put out. I knew there was something familiar about that hair. Roy, we got us a real celebrity here.”

  Roy dropped the bacon on the skillet and it sizzled immediately. “Shiloh? You mean the country singer? She ain’t Shiloh, Sandy. Hell, Shiloh’s-” He looked up from the bacon. “You ain’t Shiloh, are you?”

  Shiloh shook her head. “It’s not the first time I’ve been mistaken for her.”

  “Yeah?” Sandy moved to her side and looked at her carefully. “Well, if you ain’t Shiloh, who are you, then?”

  “Nagamon.” It was the name Wendell had bestowed on her. It meant ‘song.’

  “Nagamon? What kind of name is that?”

  “ Ojibwe.”

  “You Indian?”

  “Partly.”

  “Yeah?” Sandy eyed her good and snickered. “What part?”

  “Sandy, will you just shut up?” Roy said. “Sorry, ma’am. He’s a good camping partner, but he’s got all the tact of a chainsaw.”

  “That’s all right,” Shiloh said.

  The smell of the bacon was wonderful. The sound, too. Pop and sizzle. It was like music. She couldn’t help smiling, believing that now it would be all right. She wondered if she should ask the men about going back for the things she’d left behind, the important work she’d hidden at the cabin. They could be over and back in a day. She’d pay them. Pay them well. After she’d eaten, she would ask. They might not do it for Song. But maybe they would for Shiloh.

  “How ’bout some coffee while you’re waiting for breakfast?” Roy said. He lifted the pot off the fire, poured some into a hard plastic mug, then looked at the lake and paused. “Got us some more company. Sandy.”

  Out on the lake, a yellow craft approached them. It was bright against the gray water. The man in it used a double-bladed paddle and the little craft darted toward them swift as a water bug. A few feet from shore, he brought the craft to an abrupt stop, stowed the paddle, and waded to shore, drawing the craft carefully onto the rocks.

  “Morning,” the stranger said.

  “What the hell is that?” Sandy said. “Is that one of them duckies?”

  “That’s one name for them,” the stranger smiled. “It’s an inflatable kayak.”

  The stranger wore camouflage fatigues that gave him a military appearance. He had on a camouflage flotation vest and a dark green-billed cap that displayed the U.S. Marine Corps insignia. He wasn’t big, but he carried himself with the confidence of a big man.

  He looked toward Roy, who still held the coffeepot. “I saw the fire and smelled the coffee. Couldn’t beg a cup, could I? Been on that cold lake since before dawn. Feels like I’ve got ice over every bone in my body.”

  Roy shrugged. “Guess we could spare a little. Come on over.”

  The stranger smiled at Shiloh. “Morning, miss.”

  “You on maneuvers or something?” Sandy asked.

  “Not in the service anymore,” the stranger replied. “But whenever I’m roughing it, I still feel more comfortable in these.”

  “Know what you mean,” Sandy said. “Still got a bit of soldier in me.”

  “Yeah,” Roy agreed. “At the mill, we call him the general. General nuisance.” Roy laughed.

  The stranger sipped his coffee. He nodded. “You make a good cup of java.”

  “How’s that rubber duckie there work?” Sandy asked. He grinned at the term.

  “For maneuverability, it can’t be beat. And on a portage, it’s like carrying a piece of cloud.”

  “Don’t see any fishin’ gear,” Roy noted. “Just up for the scenery?”

  “The scenery,” the stranger said.

  Sandy stuck out his hand. “Name’s Sandy. Sandy Sebring. This here’s my partner Roy Evans.”

  “How do you do?” The stranger looked at Shiloh.

  “Oh, and this here’s…” Sandy stumbled a moment, then gave up. “Oh hell, I can’t remember how you say your name.”

  “It’s Shiloh, isn’t it?” the stranger said.

  “See. See there, Roy? I ain’t the only one thinks so.”

  “We already been over this,” Roy explained to the stranger. “She ain’t Shiloh, but folks mistake her for Shiloh. Ain’t that right?”

  The stranger looked at her steadily, as if he knew her lie. His eyes were earth-colored, a dark mix of brown and green. There were little specks of gold, too. “That’s not true, is it? You are Shiloh.”

  She didn’t answer but looked away instead.

  “Well, I’ll be,” Roy said. “It is you, isn’t it?”

  “Son of a gun!” Sandy hollered. “Son of a gun! What did I tell you? Shiloh. You’re cooking for a celebrity, Roy.” This time he actually did a little dance.

  Roy smiled. “Forgive him, Miss Shiloh. He don’t get out much.”

  The stranger shook his head. “Someone like you out here in the middle of nowhere. Who would’ve thought? Say, would you mind if I shot a picture? Nobody’d believe it oth
erwise.”

  “Not like this,” Shiloh said, waving toward her matted hair.

  “Come on,” the stranger said with a smile. “Up here, everybody looks a little bedraggled.” He turned back toward his yellow kayak.

  “Please, no.” Shiloh put out her hand as if to stop him.

  “Well, then,” the stranger said, pausing to unzip his vest, “if I can’t shoot you, how ’bout I shoot your two friends here?”

  He reached to his hip and his hand came up wrapped around something dark. He turned to Sandy, who looked at him with a little smile, as if he didn’t quite get the joke. The handgun gave a startling crack.

  A red explosion tore out the middle of Sandy’s back and he crumpled in a heap next to Shiloh.

  Roy’s eyes grew huge. “What… what the…” he stuttered before the pistol cracked again. He grunted as if he’d been hit with a log, then he fell facedown on the ground.

  The barrel swung toward Shiloh. “I’ve been looking for you,” the stranger said.

  28

  The bacon popped and spit in the frying pan. The stranger bolstered his weapon and walked to Shiloh’s canoe. He lifted out her pack, dumped everything onto the rocks at the water’s edge, and spent a few moments sorting through things. “Damn,” he said quietly. He moved to the fire and took an appreciative look at the bacon.

  “Crisp,” he said. “Perfect.”

  Gingerly, he plucked a strip from the hot grease and began to eat.

  Shiloh stared first at Roy, then at Sandy. “Oh, God,” she whispered. She looked up at the stranger.

  “You should eat, too,” he said.

  “Eat?”

  The flow of blood to her head seemed to have stopped. She couldn’t think, couldn’t put together in a way that had any meaning the senselessness of the last few minutes. She couldn’t make herself move.