Boundary waters co-2

by William Kent Krueger

  “Be my guest,” Jo offered with a broad smile and a sweep of her hand, hallmarks of that brief moment when all seemed well.

  48

  How long he’d been running, Cork couldn’t say. An hour? Three? He felt as if he’d been tortured for a century. Each stride was like drawing a rusty saw blade across his shoulder. He moved no faster than a rapid walk. The old road hadn’t been used for logging in years and was overgrown with rye grass and wild oats and timothy. Two swathes of crushed stalks straddled the center as if two huge snakes had passed there, side by side, an indication that a vehicle had traveled that way recently. Forest service, Cork guessed, or maybe mushroomers. He tried to keep to one of the swathes. Whenever he strayed, his feet tangled in the tall grass and threatened to trip him. Another fall would put an end to what little resolve he had left.

  Under a blue-white sky and a brilliant autumn sun, the North Woods had warmed again. Cork was soaked with sweat. He knew if he kept on this way he’d dangerously dehydrate. It was rapidly becoming a question of which of the hellhounds that pursued him would bring him down first.

  He had to think about something besides the pain, something to drive him on. He pulled up the image of Grimes fallen among the dripping raspberry vines. Next, he conjured the giant with the shaved head and saw him again, laid out under a gray sky, leaking dark red blood onto wet rock. Dwight Sloane materialized-a good man-with a hole blown clear through his body and the knowledge of his own death rising up into his brown eyes like water in a spring. Cork imagined Elizabeth Dobson, dying alone, afraid. He saw these things clearly, the tragic images falling over his eyes, blinding him to the trail in front of him, curtaining him from the beauty of the woods around him. He was deep in death, slogging through a quagmire of blood. It was like one of those awful nightmares when he tried to run but his feet would not move. And ahead of him, beyond the reach of his hand or voice, he could see Shiloh. She stood in an empty room, in the silence that was the music of death. He saw her turn toward an opening door where light burst through like the flash of fire from the muzzle of a gun. A shadow darkened her face. He heard her screaming.

  And the screaming broke through his vision. He was seeing the trail again, and the blue sky and the evergreens. The screaming became a horn honking at his back. He stumbled to a halt and turned around.

  A black pickup nearly half a century old rolled slowly to a stop and a head crowned by a wild rag of white hair poked out the driver’s window.

  “Hell’s bells, if it ain’t Corcoran O’Connor.”

  Cork recognized Althea Bolls, a widow who’d lived alone in a cabin in the Superior National Forest since the pickup she drove was new. He hobbled to her truck.

  “Lord, boy, I’ve seen roadkill looked better’n you.”

  “I need to get to Allouette.” His throat was parched, and the words came out thin and brittle as autumn leaves.

  Althea patted the good arm he rested against her door. “Sure, I’ll take you. You just get yourself in this truck before you fall right over.”

  Cork got in the passenger side. On the seat next to Althea were a pair of Leitz binoculars, a copy of Palmer’s Handbook of North American Birds, and a notebook. Althea was head of the local chapter of the Audubon Society and often made excursions into the deep woods to chronicle the birds. She shoved the truck into gear and lurched forward. “There’s coffee in that thermos there on the floor,” she said. “Help yourself. Sorry I didn’t bring anything stronger. Looks like you could use a snort. What happened to you anyway?”

  “Long story,” Cork said, and, for everyone’s sake, left it at that.

  49

  Shiloh indulged herself. She let the hot water from the shower run over her until her skin felt parboiled and her palms and fingers began to wrinkle. She sucked into her lungs the luscious air, hot and moist, as if she were in a steam bath in a Beverly Hills spa. At last she soaped and rinsed, and when she stepped from the shower, she felt clean and new.

  She pulled a folded green towel from a shelf above the toilet and began to dry herself.

  That’s when she heard the creak of the floor in the living room and she stopped dead still. She listened intently. She’d relaxed, closed the door to caution, and now she felt trapped again and afraid. She draped the towel around her, tucked in the corner to hold it in place. Quietly, she dug into the pocket of her jeans on the floor and pulled out the knife Wendell had given her. She opened the blade. Warily, she peered around the threshold of the bathroom. What greeted her made her step back in surprise.

  A woman-slender, blond hair, ice-blue eyes-stood caught in midstep less than a yard down the hallway.

  “Who are you?” Shiloh demanded.

  The woman stared at her, astounded, as if she were looking at an elephant who’d managed to squeeze into the trailer. “My name’s Jo O’Connor. And unless I’m crazy, you’re Shiloh.”

  “What’re you doing here?”

  “I saw smoke from the stovepipe.” Jo O’Connor motioned vaguely toward the roof. “I thought it might be Wendell.”

  Shiloh leaned back against the door, weak with relief, heavy with regret. “It won’t ever be Wendell.”

  “Did I hear the name Shiloh?”

  Behind Jo O’Connor, a man appeared. He looked at Shiloh with deep interest.

  “So you’re the spark that started the fire,” he said.

  “Who are you?” Shiloh asked.

  He smiled. “Some people think I’m your brother.”

  Shiloh folded the knife blade and retucked the end of the towel. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Just give us a few minutes to explain things,” Jo said. “Did you know you’ve got a whole county looking for you?”

  “Yeah? Well, they missed me.” She gave the man a closer look. “What did you mean you might be my brother? I don’t have any of that kind of family.”

  The man scratched his head and seemed almost ready to laugh. “You have a lot more than you imagine.”

  “You’ve been in terrible danger,” Jo said. “Were you aware of that?”

  “Oh, yeah. That was made very clear to me. How did you know?”

  Jo said, “Tell you what. Get some clothes on. I’ll make some coffee. And we’ll talk.”

  In the tiny kitchen, Jo found a coffeemaker.

  “She looks different,” Benedetti said.

  “Her hair’s been butchered.” Jo found filters in the cupboard. In the refrigerator was a bag of beans. Kona Blend. On the counter was a small Braun electric grinder. She hadn’t realized Wendell was such a coffee connoisseur. But it seemed that nowadays everyone was.

  “She looks pretty good otherwise,” Benedetti noted with an interest that sounded not at all like brotherly love.

  “She’s your sister,” Jo reminded him.

  “Allegedly.”

  Jo ground the beans, put the coffee together, and was just finishing as Shiloh came into the small living room. She wore clean clothes-a large work shirt and overalls rolled up at the cuffs-that Jo suspected belonged to Wendell.

  “Sit down, Ms…” Jo hesitated, uncertain how to address a stranger with but one name. “Sit down, Shiloh. We’ll explain some things. It’s a little complicated. First, I’d like to call the sheriff’s office and let them know we’ve found you.”

  “Fine.” Shiloh shrugged. “Whatever.”

  Jo lifted the receiver from the phone hanging on the kitchen wall. “That’s odd. No dial tone.”

  Behind her, the door to the trailer home opened, and she heard Shiloh exclaim, “Willie.”

  Jo turned quickly. In the doorway, with the sun at his back, stood a man in dirty jeans, a torn flannel shirt, and a green down vest. He took them all in carefully.

  Shiloh stood up. “What are you doing here?”

  A smile suddenly graced the face of Arkansas Willie Raye, and he replied, “Why, I was worried sick about you, darlin’. Lots of folks was.” He stepped in and closed the door.

  “That’s what th
ese people have been saying.” Shiloh swung a hand back to indicate Jo and Angelo Benedetti.

  “How do?” Raye said.

  Benedetti took a step forward and the look on his face was hard as brass knuckles. Jo jumped in quickly. “Mr. Raye, Jo O’Connor. Cork’s wife. I thought you were with him in the Boundary Waters.”

  Arkansas Willie scratched at the silver grizzle on his jaw. “Got separated looking for my girl, here. I came on back. I suppose Cork and the others’ll be along shortly. Christ almighty, it’s good to see you, Shiloh. Have you let anyone know you’re here and safe?”

  “Of course we have,” Jo said. “In fact I just finished speaking with the sheriff’s office.” Jo waved at the wall phone.

  Willie Raye gave that a thoughtful nod, then said, “That woulda been kinda hard, seein’ as how I cut the line a bit ago.” He reached behind him, lifted his vest, and pulled a pistol from his belt. “Why don’t y’all just get together with Shiloh over there and rub shoulders.”

  “Willie?” Shiloh frowned at the gun, then looked at Raye with puzzlement.

  “When were you goin’ to tell me, girl? After you took my child and butchered it?”

  “Tell you what? What child? What are you talking about, Willie?”

  “I created Ozark. Ozark is mine, not yours. You can’t just take it and destroy it.”

  “I own Ozark. Mother left it to me.”

  Raye began to pace, but he kept his eyes on the others. He passed through a bar of dusty sunlight and his shadow leaped toward them.

  “She left you a debt and a dream,” he cried. “I paid the debt. I made the dream come true. It was my sweat, my worry, my lost sleep that made it happen. Ozark is my baby. You think I’d just stand by and let you inflict on it whatever misery happens to creep into your head?” He turned and paced the other direction. The hand that held the pistol was beginning to become more animated, the barrel slicing the air like a conductor’s baton.

  “Shiloh’s your child, too,” Jo tried gently.

  “Like hell. She was never my child, only my responsibility.” His eyes snapped toward Shiloh like whips. “Gettin’ close to you, girl, was like tryin’ to hug a bunch of nettles. You never let me love you.”

  “You never gave me anything to love,” she shot back. “When I needed comfort in the night it came from nannies and nuns.”

  “I tried.”

  “No, you didn’t. You didn’t have to. I wasn’t yours. And nobody had to tell me that. Whenever you touched me, your hands were hard. Whenever you spoke, your words were slippery. You were one big lie, Willie, and you can’t hide a lie from a child. I always knew.”

  “I took care of you.” He emphasized his point by thrusting the barrel of the handgun at her. “I made sure there was a roof over your head. A damn good roof. Several of them. And I did that by building Ozark Records into something I was proud of.”

  “And something you’d kill for. It was you.” Shiloh’s voice carried the wonderment of a revelation, but her face carried all the lines of pain. “Libbie, Wendell. That was your doing.”

  “Libbie Dobson?” He laughed scornfully. “Now there was a true friend. She agreed to send me copies of all your letters. We had us an understanding. A debut CD all her own. She was easy. Cheap.”

  “You killed her.”

  “Had her killed. Had to. She knew where you were, knew your intentions. And she was goin’ to sell that information, make it all public. Death of Ozark right there.”

  “And Shiloh’s therapist, Patricia Sutpen. That was you?” Jo asked.

  “Patricia?” Shiloh looked like the wind had been knocked out of her.

  “I figured it would focus attention on the past, which I had nothing to do with.”

  Raye’s boots thudded heavily as he paced and the whole trailer shook under him. “And that Wendell, hell, that son of a bitch trusted me until we were ’bout halfway out there, then somethin’ happened. Somehow he knew and refused to take me any farther. So he’s dead.”

  “No, he’s alive, Willie,” Shiloh said, and she took a fast, angry step nearer. “He’s alive in everything he passed on to others.”

  “Shut up and get back.”

  Shiloh took another step. “He’ll be alive a long time after you’re gone. He was more a father to me-to a lot of people-than you could ever have been. His concern was never about what I could do for him. That’s what a father should be all about, Willie.”

  The gun was trued on her heart. But Willie Raye didn’t fire.

  Jo asked, trying to keep her voice quiet with reason, “What do you expect to accomplish here?”

  “What do I expect?” The question seemed to stump him. He searched the beige carpet where he’d tracked bits of dried mud. Finally he replied, “What I set out to do in the first place-and then some, looks like.”

  The coffeemaker grumbled suddenly and Raye swung his gun that way. When he realized what it was, he smiled and the moment seemed to give him some relief. “When they find your bodies, I’ll be back out in the Boundary Waters, hopelessly lost. Your husband will attest to that, Ms. O’Connor.”

  Angelo Benedetti stood up. “The first thing my father ever taught me about gambling was never draw to an inside straight. You’re missing an important card in the middle of the hand you’re holding, Willie.”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Angelo Benedetti. Vincent’s kid.”

  “So what am I missing, Vincent’s kid?”

  “They know about you. My father, the FBI, the sheriff here. They put it all together. You’ve lost the pot, friend.” Benedetti gave his shoulders a shrug as if it were the end of a game they’d all been playing strictly for the fun of it.

  “I’m not your friend, you sow-littered wop.”

  Raye fired. Angelo Benedetti stumbled back from the impact and toppled over the chair in which he’d been sitting. At the same moment, the door to the trailer flew open. Cork rushed in and threw a blow with his good right arm. He caught Arkansas Willie Raye hard on the side of the head before the man could turn. Raye went down. Jo stomped on Arkansas Willie’s hand, then pried the pistol loose from his fingers. She stood up, breathing hard.

  “Oh God, Cork. I’ve never been happier to see anyone in my life.”

  “You okay?”

  “Yes.”

  Cork touched his shoulder gently. Knocking Willie Raye down had hurt. “I could hear him ranting from halfway across the yard. Sorry I didn’t get here sooner.”

  Shiloh had moved quickly to Benedetti’s side. “Somebody get a doctor here.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Shiloh looked up. A figure had stepped into the doorway, dark against the brilliant sun outside, the face lost in deep shadow. Even so, Shiloh knew who it was-or at least what he called himself. Charon.

  50

  “ Put the gun back on the floor.” The man called Charon motioned with the big automatic he held in his hand. “Do it slowly.”

  Jo did as she was instructed. “Who are you?”

  He ignored her question and looked down at Arkansas Willie Raye who was gathering himself in an effort to stand. Raye touched his head where Cork’s blow had connected, and he grimaced. “I thought you were going to cover me from the outside.” He eased himself up.

  “You’re covered.”

  Raye took his pistol from the floor and scowled. He appeared about to speak, but instead, he lashed out and struck Cork on the side of the head with the gun barrel.

  The blow turned Cork, wrenched his shoulder, and he cried out. His ear rang afterward, and his jaw felt like Arkansas Willie had hammered a nail through the bone.

  “Now you got a mornin’-after headache, too, you son of a bitch. What the hell’re you doin’ here anyway?”

  Talking wasn’t easy, but he replied through gritted teeth, “We figured you out, Willie.”

  “You’re the one I had pinned down back there at Hell’s Playground.” The man called Charon looked Cork over intently. His eyes w
ere hard brown. There was something old about them, though not particularly wise. “How did you get here?”

  “Ran mostly,” Cork replied.

  “When you came down the road out there, I saw you holding yourself like you were hurt.”

  “Dislocated shoulder.”

  The man’s interest deepened and his face seemed to shift as if the very structure beneath had altered. “You ran out of those woods with a dislocated shoulder?”

  “It was dislocated for only half the way.”

  Raye butted in. “Let’s get on with what we came here for and get out.”

  “Angelo Benedetti told you the truth,” Jo said. Cork was amazed how calm she sounded. “Killing us does no good now. Everyone’s looking in your direction, Willie. And those men in the Boundary Waters know about you. You have no alibi.”

  “Shut up.” Raye jabbed the gun at her.

  “Is that true?” The man called Charon focused on Jo so intensely she felt as if her thoughts were being pierced.

  “You must be Milwaukee,” she said.

  “Son of a gun.” Milwaukee looked at Arkansas Willie wistfully. “I do believe they’re on to you.”

  “No evidence,” Raye said hastily. “This gun is untraceable. I go back into the woods, who’s to say I wasn’t lost out there the whole time?”

  “Don’t do this, Willie,” Shiloh said. “Good people are going to suffer.”

  Milwaukee looked at her and it appeared as if a smile almost touched his lips. “I thought going out there would be a picnic. I was wrong about you. And I’m not often wrong.”

  With his pistol, Raye frantically motioned toward Shiloh, who still knelt beside the fallen Angelo Benedetti. “Everyone over there.”

  No one moved.

  “Do it,” Milwaukee said. There was death in his voice, deep and empty as a waiting grave. “This man’s paid for the game. We play the cards however he deals them.” He leveled his automatic at Jo’s heart.

  Cork stepped next to Jo and stood with his shoulder pressed against hers. He tried to think what he could say that would alter the trajectory of that moment. But his mouth was dry and his voice was caught somewhere between his intention and his tongue, and all he could do was stand there as the barrel moved toward him like a compass needle that had found north and the man called Charon and Milwaukee poised himself on the edge of an act that would send them all plummeting into unknowable dark.