Copper River co-6

by William Kent Krueger

  “I prefer to think of it as a cover name.”

  “Aunt Donna,” Ren said, trying it out. “That’s all right with me.”

  Cork wasn’t thrilled, but he didn’t see another way. “Stay close to her, Ren, and follow her lead. And be careful what you say.”

  “I will,” the boy promised.

  “Don’t worry,” Dina said. “We’ll be fine.”

  But he did worry. He watched them go knowing there was a great gulf between what Ren bravely believed he was capable of and what the reality of the situation might force on him. The boy would have to walk a tough line, holding to the truth here, embracing a lie there, all under the cold eye of people with badges and uniforms. It was a lot to ask. Not many adults could pull it off.

  Except that Ren had something most others did not. He had Aunt Donna.

  12

  The constable’s office was on Harbor Avenue, sandwiched between the Ace Hardware store and Kitty’s Cafe. An old, narrow, redbrick one-story, it had a desk area up front and two holding cells in back accessed through a heavy metal door. Ren had been in the jail area before. His mother and Constable Ned Hodder were old friends, and Ned had once locked Ren in one of the cells to give him a sense of what it was like to be incarcerated. Ren was just a kid; it had been a kick. That was before his father was murdered and cops became the enemy. Ren wasn’t even certain his mother had spoken to Ned Hodder since his father’s death.

  They parked Ren’s ATV in front of the building and walked inside. The constable was at his desk, writing in a small lined notebook. As soon as the door swung open, he shut the notebook and put it away in the top desk drawer. When he saw Ren, a big smile dawned on his face.

  “And here I thought it was going to be just another boring Sunday.” He stood up.

  In his video collection, Stash had a movie called Anatomy of a Murder that Ren had watched with him one rainy Saturday. The movie was pretty good. It had been filmed not far from Bodine and starred a guy named James Stewart, apparently a big-deal actor in his day. The constable reminded Ren of that guy. Ned Hodder was more than six feet tall and lean. For an adult-and a cop on top of it-he had an easygoing approach to most things. He was straight when he spoke to you, though he sometimes stumbled around for the right words. And every feature of his plain face seemed to tell you that he wouldn’t lie to you even if his life depended on it.

  Every year Hodder confiscated the illegal fireworks that folks brought with them when they came up from Wisconsin, where such things were legal. He stored them in a locker in the basement beneath his office. Every Fourth of July, just after sunset, he enlisted the help of the town fire marshal and, in Dunning Park right on the lake, set off all those pyrotechnics to the delight of most everybody in Bodine.

  Last summer, he’d arrested two members of a band playing at the Logjam Saloon for urinating in public. They were young musicians without a lot of money, so he’d offered them a deal. In lieu of a night in the city jail, the band put on a free concert in Dunning Park. It turned out they knew a lot of old swing tunes, and folks ended up dancing on the grass and having a fine time. Ren was there with his mother, and it was one of the few instances since his father died that he’d seen her look happy.

  Hodder came from behind his desk and extended his hand toward Dina. “Don’t believe I know you. I’m Ned Hodder. How do you do?”

  “Fine, thanks. I’m Ren’s aunt. Donna Walport. Ren here has something pretty awful he needs to tell you.”

  “That so?” Hodder bent a little in Ren’s direction and looked serious. “What is it?”

  “Charlie’s father,” Ren blurted. “He’s dead.”

  “Max? Dead?” The constable straightened up. “What makes you think so?”

  “I saw him.”

  “Where?”

  “At their trailer, a little while ago.”

  “How do you know he’s dead?”

  Ren began to shiver. “Somebody, like, smashed his head in.”

  “Where’s Charlie?”

  “I don’t know. She wasn’t there.” He went on shivering. He couldn’t stop.

  “A little while ago, you say. How long?”

  “Half an hour.”

  Hodder put a large comforting hand on Ren’s shoulder. “You mind going back there with me?”

  Ren didn’t like the idea at all, but he said, “I won’t go inside.”

  “I won’t make you, I promise.”

  “All right.”

  Hodder looked at Dina again. “Ren’s aunt, you said. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you here before.”

  “My dad’s sister,” Ren put in quickly. “She lives in San Francisco. I never get to see her. She’s visiting us for a few days.”

  “Ren’s mom is at work,” Dina went on smoothly. “I didn’t think he should come here alone. If you don’t mind, I’d like to go with you. Be there for Ren, you know?”

  Hodder thought it over briefly, finally shrugged. “I guess that would be all right.”

  They took the constable’s black Cherokee, which looked to be quite a few miles past warranty. Ren sat huddled in back. He didn’t want to be going where they were going, but he hoped it might help Charlie somehow. Hodder asked him some questions on the way: why he’d been at the trailer, how he’d got inside, if he had any idea where Charlie might be. He pulled into the weedy gravel drive and parked behind the old Toyota pickup that belonged to Charlie’s father. He turned off the engine and said, “Wait here.”

  “Constable?”

  He turned to Dina.

  “Do you ever carry a weapon?” She nodded toward his empty belt.

  “Not generally. I keep a shotgun in the trunk, but honestly I’ve never had occasion to use it. I carry a pocketknife that comes in handy once in a while.”

  “Uh-huh.” She raised an eyebrow and nodded, as if she found his approach rather quaint. “Have you ever been at a murder scene?”

  “How do you know it’s murder?”

  “You think he bashed his own head in?”

  “I’ve never been at a murder scene,” he admitted.

  Hodder got out and approached the trailer with caution, turning his head as he scanned each window in front, looking, Ren supposed, for some movement out of place in a trailer home with only a dead man inside. He mounted the steps and reached for the screen door.

  “Constable,” Dina called from the Cherokee. “You might want to put on gloves before you touch anything. At least, that’s what they do in the movies.”

  Hodder glanced at his bare hands, then at the door handle. He pulled his pocketknife from the pouch that hung on his belt and unfolded the blade, which he used to open the door. He disappeared inside.

  “Andy Griffith,” Dina said with a shake of her head.

  “Who?” Ren asked.

  “Forget it.”

  He looked at her thoughtfully. “Have you ever been to a murder scene? I mean in your work and stuff?”

  “I’ll let you in on a secret, Ren. I used to be with the FBI.”

  “FBI?”

  “Yep.”

  “But not anymore.”

  “Nope.”

  “Why?”

  “Long story.” She’d been staring intently at the trailer, but now her intense green eyes settled on Ren, and he felt himself grow warm under their scrutiny. “Why don’t we talk about it over a beer sometime.”

  It took a moment for the smile to grow on her lips, and then he understood it was a joke and he smiled, too.

  “I’ll buy,” he said, feeling good, feeling special.

  Then he looked back at the trailer and stopped smiling.

  “Have you seen people who were murdered?” he asked.

  “Yes. And it’s always ugly and upsetting, even for cops.”

  Hodder came back out and walked to Dina’s side of the Cherokee. “Ms. Walport, there’s a cell phone in my glove box there. Would you mind handing it to me?” He took it and punched in 911. “This is Constable Hodder in Bodine. I
’ve got what appears to be a homicide on my hands.” He gave the address, listened a moment, and said, “I’ll be here.”

  Detective Sergeant Terry Olafsson of the Marquette County Sheriff’s office had a wide, ruddy face. He was sandy-haired, not much taller than Dina Willner, but with a broad chest. He wore a red windbreaker with the sleeves pulled up to his elbows. Veins ran across the hard muscles of his forearms like thin ropes against smooth wood.

  After the introductions were made, Dina said, “I’d like to stay with Ren while you interview him.”

  “You an attorney?”

  “Like I said, his aunt. I’m just concerned.”

  Olafsson said, “Where’s his folks?”

  “My father’s dead,” Ren jumped in, irked that the detective was ignoring him. “And my mother’s a veterinarian. She’s out on a call and we can’t reach her.”

  Olafsson looked toward Constable Hodder for confirmation.

  Hodder nodded. “Just like Ren says.”

  They stood beside the constable’s Cherokee. Marquette Sheriff’s people went in and out of the trailer home. “Crime scene technicians, right?” Ren asked Dina.

  She winked at him and gave a nod. Then she added, “See that guy?”

  A tall, balding man wearing a white shirt and black slacks and carrying a medical bag stepped from a blue sedan and walked toward the trailer.

  “Coroner?” Ren guessed.

  “Or medical examiner,” she replied.

  Ren was grateful for Dina’s observations. They kept him from thinking too much about what was inside the trailer or what might have become of Charlie.

  “Any reason the boy needs an adult with him while we talk?” Olafsson said.

  “Any reason he can’t have one?” Dina replied.

  With a slight nod, Olafsson gave in. “All right.” He took out a small notepad and focused on Ren. “How’d you find the body, son?”

  “I just walked in and there it was.”

  “Walked in? The door was open?”

  “Yes.”

  “Both doors?”

  “The inside one was already open. I just opened the screen.”

  “Anyone tell you to come in?”

  “No.”

  “Is it your custom to walk into a house uninvited?”

  “I was worried about Charlie.”

  “Charlie?”

  “Charlene Miller,” Hodder clarified. “The dead man’s daughter.”

  “And why were you worried about her, son?”

  “Her father drinks sometimes. When he does he gets scary. He was drinking last night.”

  “And you know that how?”

  “Charlie told me.”

  “You saw her last night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Give me a time.”

  “I don’t know. A little after midnight, maybe.”

  “Where?”

  “We were down at the lake.”

  “What were you doing at the lake at midnight?”

  “Charlie’s dad was drinking and she didn’t want to go home until she was sure he’d passed out. We were just hanging.”

  “She went home when?”

  “Like I said, a little after midnight.” Ren thought a moment. “That’s when she left me, anyway. I guess I don’t know for sure that she went home.”

  “Did she seem upset, angry?”

  “Not when she left.”

  “What time did you get here this morning?”

  “Around ten.”

  “Why’d you come?”

  “I had a kolache for her. Sometimes she doesn’t eat right.” Ren looked down at the gravel under his feet. “The truth is I just wanted to make sure she was okay.”

  “You opened the screen door and went in. Then what?”

  “Everything was a mess, worse than usual. I went back to her room and I saw, like, this stuff on the wall. The blood and all. I was afraid it was Charlie. I thought he’d hurt her. Then I saw him on the floor.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I got out of there as fast as I could.”

  “And went straight to the constable?”

  “No. I went home first.”

  “Why home and not to Constable Hodder?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Do you know where Charlene-Charlie-is?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have any idea where she might be?”

  Ren hesitated. “No.”

  “But you do know the girl pretty well?”

  “We’re friends.”

  “I don’t know Charlie myself, but I just got off the phone with some folks in the juvenile division who do, son,” Olafsson said. “One thing they told me about Charlie, she has a temper. And they told me about her father and how he treated her sometimes.”

  “So?” Ren didn’t like the feel of the detective’s words.

  “You saw the baseball bat beside the body?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you know who the bat belongs to?”

  “It’s Charlie’s.”

  “That’s right. Charlie’s. I want to ask you something, son, and I want you to answer me as honestly as you can. Will you do that?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Do you think Charlie could have done this to her father?”

  Dina stepped in. Ren appreciated how firm and cool she seemed. “I don’t think that’s an appropriate question, Detective.”

  “I’m just asking for an informed opinion.”

  “Of a fourteen-year-old boy? About a murder? That’s low and you know it.”

  “It’s okay,” Ren said quickly. He looked at Detective Sergeant Olafsson steadily. “She couldn’t. He was a bastard sometimes, but she loved him. She wouldn’t do something like…like in there.”

  Olafsson nodded, scowled a little. “I understand you live in the woods, a resort, with your mother. That right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You ever see a small animal, a rabbit, say, trapped in a corner? Even a rabbit can get vicious when it’s threatened.”

  Dina said, “He’s not the jury, Detective. And you’re not the prosecutor. No need to convince him of anything.”

  Olafsson looked at her, and Ren saw his jaw tighten. “You certainly seem to think you know your way around the law, Ms. Walport. What is it you do?”

  “I watch a lot of television. Cop shows. You’d be surprised what you can pick up.”

  Although a smile played briefly across the detective’s lips, it didn’t seem friendly. The way he started to look at Dina, as if she were a steak sizzling on a grill, didn’t sit well with Ren, either.

  Olafsson returned his attention to Ren. “Did you touch anything or move anything while you were in the trailer, son?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Olafsson seemed to be waiting for Ren to reconsider. With his silence, Ren held his ground.

  “All right, then. I guess that’s it for now.”

  Hodder said, “Okay if I take these folks back to town?”

  “I suppose. We may want to talk to the boy later.” He glowered at Ren. “No trips out of town for a while, okay?”

  Ren nodded.

  “I want you back here right away, Ned,” Olafsson added. “We need to go over the vic’s friends, acquaintances, drinking buddies, girlfriends. Whatever you can tell me.”

  “I’ll be back in ten.”

  Olafsson strode toward the trailer home.

  They piled into the Cherokee. Hodder backed out and headed north into town.

  Dina spoke toward the windshield. “You know Olafsson?”

  “I’ve worked with him before. Never a murder investigation. He’s not what I’d call a warm man, but he’s thorough. And fair.”

  Ren said, “He sounded like he thought Charlie did it.”

  “He’s got to consider that possibility,” Hodder replied. He turned onto Lake Street. Lak
e Superior stretched away on the right, the great old homes of Bodine rose on the left. “Everybody knows Charlie’s a firecracker. When she goes off, well…”

  Hodder sounded like a policeman now, and Ren didn’t like it.

  “I’d like to talk to your mother about all this. When she gets home today, have her give me a call, okay?”

  Ren held off answering.

  “Okay?”

  “Okay,” he mumbled.

  “How’re you doing?” Hodder asked, sounding more like a normal guy. A guy who might actually care about what had happened to Charlie.

  “I’m fine.”

  “I hope it goes without saying, Ren, that if you hear from Charlie, you’ll let me know.”

  Ren stared out the window at the houses sweeping by. They were just coming up on Amber Kennedy’s place. He thought about the shining feeling he’d had when he rode past on his way to Charlie’s. How was it possible to feel that good and this lousy in the same morning?

  13

  Cork lived in an old, well-kept two-story clapboard house. The front porch had a swing. A huge elm that was older than Cork shaded the front yard. The house was on Gooseberry Lane in Aurora, Minnesota. He’d grown up in that town and had chosen it as the place to raise his family. Its rhythms were as natural to him as the pulse of his own blood.

  Aurora was hundreds of miles away. At the moment it seemed even farther, on the other side of a barrier that was more than just miles. It was a barrier of experience, the result of monstrous events that could not be undone or forgotten.

  He lay on the bunk in his cabin, helpless against despair.

  His wife had been drugged by Lou Jacoby’s grandson, an angry young man who then raped her. Cork pictured Jo with her ice-blond hair all wild as it had been the morning after that terrible night. He saw again her dazed face, her eyes blinking like fireflies as she stared at the gun in his hand, then at the water of a swimming pool turned red with a dead man’s blood.

  In Cork’s anguished thinking, the whole earth was a vast hunting ground, and you were either predator or prey. Killing was the answer. Killing the man who’d spilled his rage into Jo. Killing the men who’d put a bullet through his leg. Killing Lou Jacoby, the son of a bitch who’d set it all in motion.

  “Damn!” He realized that the Beretta that Dina had given him in Evanston was still in the glove box of his car. If the men who’d attacked him in Kenosha showed up now, he had no way to protect himself.