Copper River co-6

by William Kent Krueger

  “Don’t say that.”

  “What am I going to do? I’m, like, an orphan.”

  Orphan. It was an odd word to Ren, archaic somehow, from a different era. It made him think of that comic-strip character with orange frizzy hair. But Charlie was right. That’s exactly what she was.

  “You can stay with us,” he said.

  “Oh yeah, like those social service freakazoids are going to let that happen.”

  “I mean it. We’ll figure a way.”

  Lightning flashed somewhere in the distance, an instant of blue light that filled the room and made Charlie a bright, solid presence in his bed.

  “I thought for a while you were dead,” he said.

  She turned her head, her face dark, unreadable. “Why?”

  “They pulled a dead girl from the lake today. We heard she was a teenager. I thought at first it was going to be you.”

  “Who was it?”

  “They don’t know.”

  “Ren.” She drew in a sudden breath. “Maybe it was the same body Stash saw in the river.”

  “I was thinking that, too.”

  “Was she from around here?”

  “Constable Hodder said he didn’t think he’d ever seen her before. He said he would have remembered because she had this weird tattoo on her arm.”

  “What kind of tattoo?”

  “A snake or something.”

  He felt Charlie stiffen.

  “Which arm?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Left?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  She turned to face him, tucking her legs under her. “Did he say anything else?”

  “Like what?”

  “How big was she? Small like you?”

  “I’m not small.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Why are you asking all these questions?”

  “I might know her. There’s this girl at Providence House. She’s there all the time. Her name’s Sara Wolf. She has a big-I mean really big-snake tattoo on her left arm.”

  Ren thought back to that afternoon and remembered something. “The constable said it was big for such a small girl. He also said she had lots of piercings.”

  “Oh shit.” Charlie sank back. “How?”

  “They think suicide.”

  “Bullshit. That’s bullshit.”

  “ Shhh. Keep your voice down.”

  “No way she’d off herself.”

  “Don’t get mad at me. I’m just telling you what they said.”

  Another flash of lightning, so far away the sound of the thunder took forever to reach them. In the long quiet, Ren heard Charlie crying. Charlie never cried. He wasn’t sure what to do. Awkwardly he reached an arm around her shoulders. She laid her head against his chest, and he felt her shaking.

  “The world is fucked, Ren. Totally, screamingly fucked,” she sobbed.

  After a minute, she pulled away and wiped her nose on the sleeve of her borrowed sweatshirt. She lay down next to Ren and rolled over so that her back was to him. He gently nudged his pillow under her head. In a little while, he could tell from her breathing that she’d gone to sleep.

  Ren lay a long time staring up at the ceiling, listening to the sound of the storm outside, thinking Charlie was probably right about the state of the world.

  Totally, screamingly fucked.

  22

  Cork didn’t sleep well. The pain in his thigh kept him uncomfortable and he had fevered dreams: that his house in Aurora was full of mud and his children were sinking into it and he couldn’t find Jo anywhere; that he was driving a car and couldn’t get the brakes to work no matter how hard he pressed the pedal; a brief one in which instead of bullets he was loading wads of toilet paper into the cylinder of his revolver.

  He woke up and the first thought he had was about what Dina Willner had said to him the night before: that sometimes he wasn’t a very compassionate human being. She might have been talking about recent events, but Cork suspected it went a bit further back.

  She’d entered his life as a consultant hired by Lou Jacoby to see to it that Cork didn’t screw up the investigation of Eddie Jacoby’s murder. Dina had made it clear early on that she found him seriously attractive. Cork, devoted family man though he was, had found himself sorely tempted in return. He’d held back from acting on that temptation, but in the end he’d used Dina’s feelings against her. Briefly he’d led her to believe that she’d charmed him into submission and in doing so had laid a trap she’d stepped into. His motive had been understandable-to unravel the tangle of misdirection the Jacobys had looped around the case and to get to the truth of Dina’s involvement-but he’d hurt her badly and he knew it. Although the situation probably justified his actions, he wasn’t proud of his behavior. Especially considering all that Dina had done since to help him.

  So sometimes he lacked compassion. Big deal. Hell, what did she expect? What could anyone expect of him now? It had been a tough couple of weeks. Three times someone had tried to kill him. He’d been suspended as sheriff, suspected of murder, was on the run from people trying to fit him into a coffin, and because of his wounded leg he was useless to everyone who needed him. To top it off, his family didn’t have the slightest idea of his current situation, whether he was alive or dead.

  The wind had stopped and he couldn’t hear the rain anymore. Birds were just beginning to sing, and he knew dawn wasn’t far away. He thought about getting up, but instead lay there thinking about being a good cop.

  A good cop. It was something that had been important to him, the line he followed to get through a lot of tough situations. He was a cop largely because his father, whom he’d loved fiercely, had been one.

  He was still tired. He closed his eyes.

  And his father walked out of the dark across four decades and stood beside him. He wore a tan chamois shirt, dungarees, and Converse high-top tennis shoes. He was tall and clean-shaven. His hair had recently been cut. He held a football in his big hands.

  Day off? Cork asked.

  Thought we’d toss the pigskin. His father smiled, displaying an incisor outlined in silver.

  Cork loved Saturday afternoons in the fall when the leaves were like drops of butter and brown syrup on the grass, and the chores were done, and for an hour before supper his father directed him on passing routes in the backyard-down and out, post, buttonhook-floating the ball into Cork’s hands. “Little fingers together,” his father would call out. “And bring the ball into your body. Cradle it into your body.”

  I can’t play today, Cork said. Bum leg.

  His father tossed the ball straight up a couple of feet, giving it a twist so that the laces spun. He caught it with a soft slap of leather against his palms.

  I screwed up, Cork said.

  You think so?

  I should be with Jo and the kids. I should be protecting them.

  I thought you were. Isn’t that what this is about?

  Did I do the right thing?

  I can’t answer that for you.

  There’s a girl here. She ought to be talking to the police.

  Isn’t that you?

  Out of my jurisdiction.

  Doesn’t stop you from helping.

  I’ve missed you, Cork said.

  He could smell the leather of the old football, the scent of raked leaves clinging to the chamois shirt, the bay rum his father used every morning as aftershave.

  Then it was gone.

  An instant later he was aware of a pounding at his door that brought him awake in the faint light of early dawn.

  “Cork?” It was Jewell.

  “Yeah?”

  “We need you. Something’s happened.”

  He hobbled into Jewell’s cabin dressed in the jeans he’d borrowed the day before and a clean shirt that Jewell had given him that had also been Daniel’s. Everyone else had already gathered around the dining room table. Cork could smell coffee brewing.

  Gary Johns
on, the newspaperman, had called early and given Jewell some bad news. A friend of Ren’s, a kid named Stuart Gullickson, had been hit by a car the night before and was in critical condition at a Marquette hospital. Johnson thought Ren would want to know.

  Jewell poured coffee for Cork and topped off what was already in Dina Willner’s cup. Ren and Charlie were drinking orange juice.

  “I’m taking Ren to Marquette to see Stuart,” Jewell said.

  “I’m going, too,” Charlie said. From her stubborn tone, Cork gathered it wasn’t the first time she’d put forward that proposition.

  “I’ve told you, Charlie, it’s too great a risk,” Jewell replied. “If someone sees you, we could have the police here in no time.”

  Charlie gripped her juice with both hands as if she were trying to strangle the glass. “He’s my friend, too.”

  “I understand,” Jewell said. “But you’ll just need to be patient until Ren and I get back. I doubt they’re letting anybody but family see him anyway.”

  Charlie sat back hard and crossed her arms defiantly. “We’re family, Ren and me.”

  “They won’t see it that way, Charlie. You’re not going.”

  Ren said to her, “I’ll call you from the hospital.”

  Charlie stared at the table with stone eyes.

  “Cork,” Jewell said. She gave a nod toward the front door.

  He stepped onto the porch with her. The morning was cool and wet from the night storm. Leaves stripped from the trees littered the ground, and the bare patches of dirt had been turned to black mud. The sky was a promising blue, however, and honey-colored sunlight already dripped over the tops of the Huron Mountains.

  “You’ll need to watch her,” Jewell said. “I’m afraid she might try to get to Marquette on her own.”

  “I’ll put Dina on it. She already ran Charlie down once.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “We’ll feed her breakfast and do our best to keep her mind off things. She’ll be fine until you get back.”

  Jewell looked tired. It had been at least a couple of nights since she’d had an uninterrupted sleep. With all the grief she carried, Cork figured it might have been even longer. Her eyes were dark circled and her black hair needed a good brushing. Yet, there was a strength in her voice, a determined sense about her actions that Cork admired.

  “If what Gary told us yesterday is true, we might get other reporters out here,” she said.

  “We’ll handle them,” Cork replied. “You and Ren do what you have to do.”

  She took a deep breath. “Okay. How’s the leg this morning?”

  “All this activity actually seems to help.”

  “I’ll take a look at it when I come back.”

  “Deal.”

  She turned toward the door and started inside, then hesitated. “Cork, I’m sorry.”

  “What for?”

  “I’ve been hard on you. But I’m glad you’re here.”

  He smiled and shrugged. “Family,” he said.

  23

  Things did not go well.

  From the start, it was clear that Charlie resented being left behind, that in her mind Cork had no authority over her, and that she’d just as soon spit on Dina. She slumped on the sofa with her arms locked across her chest and refused to be coaxed or cajoled into civility.

  “How about some breakfast?” Dina offered cheerfully from behind the kitchen counter. “What do you guys want? Eggs? I make a mean omelet.”

  “I’m fine with cereal and juice,” Cork said.

  “Come on, let me impress you. How about you, Charlie?” She pointed a long-handled wooden spoon at the girl. “I don’t know where you were hiding, but I’m willing to bet it wasn’t a bedand-breakfast. What’ll you have? I can make almost anything.”

  Charlie kept her back to Dina and addressed the front door. “You wouldn’t have caught me except I slipped in the mud.”

  “That was last night. This is this morning, a whole new day. Let’s start over. What do you say?”

  “I could beat you in a race any day.”

  Cork watched Dina as she assessed the back of Charlie’s head and flipped through the whole registry of possible responses. Her eyes became hard green pellets.

  “You’re fast, Charlie,” she said, “but not as fast as me.”

  “Right. You’re, like, what? A hundred years old?”

  “It doesn’t matter how old I am. You run, I’ll catch you.”

  “Fine,” Charlie snapped. “Race me.”

  Dina left the kitchen, still holding the wooden spoon. She walked purposefully across the floor until she stood directly in Charlie’s dour line of vision. Charlie lifted her eyes, which were full of defiant fire.

  “I’m not going to race you, Charlie. We’ve already been there. The thing that’s important for you to understand now is there’s no reason to run. You’re safe. We’re not going to let anything happen to you.”

  “Safe? Because of you two? Grandma Moses and”-she cast a desultory look at Cork-“the gimp? If I believed that, I’d be so screwed.”

  Dina paused, giving a few moments of weight to the girl’s words, evidence that she’d heard. Then she said, “One of the things I’m sometimes paid to do is protect people. I’m very good at it.”

  “Yeah? Bite me.”

  Dina tossed the spoon toward Cork, who managed a decent catch. “Stand up,” she said to the girl.

  Charlie stayed firmly rooted on the sofa.

  “Stand up and hit me.”

  Surprise replaced the girl’s glare. “What?”

  “You’ve been in fights before?”

  “Sure. Lots.”

  “Ever hit anybody?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then stand up and hit me.”

  “You think I won’t?”

  “I think you can’t.”

  Charlie launched herself from the sofa. She went straight at Dina, who nimbly sidestepped. Charlie spun, her right fist in a fast, angry sweep. Dina caught her arm, twisted, and sent Charlie down. The girl was so fast, she seemed to be back on her feet even before she’d hit the floor. This time she attacked with a kick. Dina danced back and the girl’s foot connected with air. Charlie’s own inertia caused her to lose her balance and she fell squarely on her butt. This time she sat there, breathing hard and staring at the floor.

  “So,” Dina said dryly above her, “how about a little breakfast after that workout?”

  “I’m not hungry.” Charlie picked herself up and stomped toward the guest room at the back of the cabin.

  After he heard the door slam, Cork said, “You didn’t exactly win her heart.”

  Dina grabbed the wooden spoon from him. “All right, maybe it was a little over the top, but she pissed me off, okay. I didn’t like her attitude. The important thing is that if the shit ever hits the fan, she’ll understand I can handle it. By the way, how’s the leg this morning, gimp?”

  “Let’s just hope the shit doesn’t hit the fan. I’d be so screwed.”

  “How about that omelet now?” She headed toward the kitchen.

  “If I said no, would you beat me up?”

  “Don’t test me.”

  He watched her work in the kitchen, such an everyday kind of thing. Chopping mushrooms and onions, grating cheese, beating eggs. By the end whatever irritation she’d felt as a result of Charlie seemed to have vanished and she hummed softly to herself. The omelet she made, with additional hints of garlic and basil, was marvelous.

  “Thanks,” he said as he finished his last bite.

  “For the gourmet meal? You’re welcome.”

  “And for coming.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “And for being willing to forgo Jacoby’s money. After all, I’m worth half a million dead, no questions asked.”

  She scooped the final bit of omelet onto her fork. “Don’t think it’s not tempting.”

  “I owe you an apology. In Minnesota, I misjudged you, then I used you.”

  “You had your reasons. Good
ones. If I had a family like yours, I’d do whatever it took to keep them safe.” She finished eating and dabbed the napkin to her lips. “More coffee?”

  “No, thanks. Let me do the dishes?”

  “With that leg? Dude, you’d be so screwed. I’ll take care of things. You just sit.”

  “Sitting is all I’ve been doing. But I could sure use a shower.”

  “Go on. I’ll keep an eye on Charlie.”

  Outside, the day felt good. The storm had washed the air clean, and the sunlight and meditative quiet gave the morning a hopeful feel. The ground was littered with leaves and small branches torn from the trees. Rainwater filled every depression. Cork made his way toward Cabin 3, the tip of his cane leaving small perfect circles beside his deep shoe prints. As he came to the steps of his cabin, he paused and studied the wet ground. He knelt, moved aside a big russet oak leaf, and saw clearly what had been partially obscured. A paw print, one that had not been there the day before.

  The cougar had returned.

  Cork followed the tracks, easily done because the muddy ground held the impressions well. The animal had circled his cabin. It had also visited the locked trash bin, where scratches indicated the big cat had tried to claw its way in. He picked up the trail again at Thor’s Lodge and followed the tracks to the shed where his car was parked. The hood of the yellow-green Dart was covered with muddy paw prints, as were the windows. The cat had been very interested in the car. Cork wondered if it had smelled the blood that soaked the seat inside.

  One hungry animal, he figured.

  Although the presence of the wild cat was a concern, Cork discovered something else that was far more disturbing: boot prints. They were all around the Dart, particularly deep on the side that was pocked with bullet holes. Cork studied the waffle pattern of the prints, which had been made by boots much too large to belong to anyone at Jewell’s place. Unlike the cougar’s prints, they weren’t filled with rainwater. They’d been made sometime after the rain had stopped. The tracks ended at the edge of the shed, a vantage from which the cabins could be easily observed. They were even deeper there than beside the car. Whoever it was, he’d spent a while standing, sinking into the ground, watching.