Copper River co-6

by William Kent Krueger

  “How come you know about cougars?” Ren asked.

  “I’m a zoologist at the university, but I also consult for the Michigan Wildlife Habitat Foundation,” Schenk said. “Cougars are a special interest of mine. Since 1906 the official position of the Department of Natural Resources has been that cougars have been extirpated from Michigan.”

  “Extirpated?”

  “Driven out completely. This despite the fact that every year there are dozens of sightings in both the lower and upper peninsula. A couple of years ago we collected scat from a number of areas around the northern part of the state where sightings had been reported and sent them for DNA testing. Seven of the samples contained cougar DNA.”

  “What made you think it was cougar scat?” Ren asked. “I mean, out of all the scat you might find.”

  Schenk laughed. “It’s the sniff test. Cougar scat has an unmistakable smell. It’s kind of like a housecat’s overused litter box, but far more intense. We don’t know why. Maybe because they have a short gut and food passes through more quickly so their digestive juices are stronger.”

  “What should we do? Like maybe notify the DNR?”

  Schenk shook his head. “Unfortunately, their general response in a situation like this would be to kill the animal.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “For the time being, take precautions. Don’t go out alone, especially when it’s dark. And keep that lock on the trash bin. If you do happen to confront the animal, face it. They’re reluctant to attack from the front, especially if you stare at them. Generally they’ll back down. What I’d like to do is talk to some people I know who’d be interested in tracking and, if possible, sedating the animal. If it is hurt, maybe there’s something we can do to help it. I’d sure hate to see a creature this rare around here killed.”

  “I can handle that,” Ren assured him.

  “You’d probably like your cast back, wouldn’t you?” Ken Taylor said.

  Schenk handed it over. “Thanks, son. This is really a good thing you’ve done.”

  Ren looked down, as if embarrassed in the face of such praise.

  “I’ll be in touch,” Schenk said. “Come on, Ken, we’ve got work to do.”

  In parting, Taylor put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Ren, you be careful, hear?”

  “Sure.”

  After the two men had driven away, Cork stepped from Thor’s Lodge. “Do you have a hunting rifle, Ren?”

  The boy looked at him, confused. “You’re not going to shoot it?”

  “I just want to play it safe. I wouldn’t use it unless I absolutely had to. At the moment, all I have is this.” He held out the small Beretta. “It might discourage an animal, but it probably wouldn’t stop a two-hundred-pound cougar.”

  Ren said, “There’s two of us. Won’t that keep us safe? And the sound of the ATV?”

  He knew that what the boy was really arguing for was the life of the big cat, and he understood. Ren was probably right. A cougar, even a hungry one, would probably be reluctant to attack two humans, and the sound of the ATV would definitely not be to its liking.

  “All right,” he said.

  They straddled the seat of the ATV, Ren in front, Cork holding on from behind. The engine kicked over and caught. Ren guided the little vehicle through the trees to the Killbelly Marsh Trail, where Cork had found both cougar tracks and those of a man. The boy turned them toward the Copper River, which lay somewhere beyond the trees to the south.

  They headed into the woods with no idea of what they would eventually encounter, no idea of the full scope of the horror the Huron Mountains hid.

  30

  Clovis was not much of a town: an old Mobile gas station at a corner of a crossroad, a tavern diagonally opposite, a few houses surrounding them, the whole place situated in a pine barrens of sandy soil and scrub evergreen.

  Dina asked at the gas station and got directions.

  The house where Sara Wolf had lived with her aunt and uncle was something a good huffing and puffing could have blown right down. It stood back from the road behind a tangle of brush and diseased pines with brown needles brittle as toothpicks. In the front area-it didn’t exactly qualify as a yard-a completely rusted-over pickup without wheels sat in sand up to its axles. To the right was a sagging garage with most of the windows broken out. An old cocker spaniel who’d been lying in the weeds beside the front steps roused itself and began barking, a hoarse sound without energy. They all got out and waited a moment beside the Blazer because even an old dog has teeth.

  The woman who came to the door to look at them was short and wide. She wore jeans and a dark blue sweater. She shaded her eyes with a plump sandstone-colored hand and stared.

  “ Boozhoo, ” Jewell called, using the familiar Ojibwe greeting.

  “What do you want?” the woman called over the noise of the dog.

  “We’re looking for Sara’s aunt?” Jewell called back.

  “What for?”

  “We just want to talk to her for a few minutes. About Sara.”

  “Are you police? ’Cuz somebody already been here.”

  “No. We’re friends.”

  Under the awning of her hand, the woman’s eyes held on them a long time, then she said, “Shut up, Sparky.”

  The dog seemed grateful not to have to expend any more energy and immediately settled back on its haunches and panted in a tired way as it watched the women approach. When they were close, it eased itself onto all four legs. Its tail began to sweep against the weeds at its back in a friendly way, and it padded forward.

  Charlie put her hand out and said, “Hey there, Sparky. How you doing, boy?”

  “You knew Sara?” the woman asked.

  Jewell indicated the girl. “Charlie here knew her pretty well. I’m Jewell DuBois. This is Dina Willner.”

  The woman’s hair was black and fine and cut carelessly at neck length. Through the open door behind her, the living room was visible in the dim interior light, a cluttered place.

  “Could we come in and talk for a few minutes?” Jewell asked.

  “No,” the woman said. “Frank’ll be back anytime. You gotta go before he comes.”

  “Frank?”

  “My husband.”

  “Sara’s uncle?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When was the last time you saw Sara?” Dina asked.

  “Cops asked the same thing,” she said. “Almost a year ago. She took off one day, never came back.”

  “Did you notify the police?”

  She shook her head. “I was expecting it.”

  “Why?”

  “It wasn’t working out here.”

  “What exactly wasn’t working?” Dina asked.

  The woman looked at her, her brown eyes hard as hickory nuts, giving away nothing. “Who are you people? Why are you asking about Sara?”

  “We live in Bodine, where her body was found. We’re trying to understand what she was doing in our town.”

  She squinted, perplexed, or perhaps just a reaction to the bright morning sun. “But you’re not cops?”

  “No.”

  Charlie spoke up. “We were, you know, friends. I was at Providence House with her. I liked her.”

  The woman lowered her gaze and it locked on Charlie. Something changed in her aspect, a softening. She glanced toward the road behind them and said, “Come in, but just for a minute.”

  They stepped inside, into the stale smell of layered dust and cigarette smoke and spilled beer and cushions stained dark with skin oil. She didn’t invite them to sit. There was nowhere that was not covered with some discarded item: clothing, newspapers, magazines, a couple of pizza boxes. The dog, who was left outside, whined at the door.

  “When she ran away, did you know where she went?” Dina asked.

  “She didn’t run away. I told her to go.” The woman took a breath and her wide nostrils flared even more. “Frank.” She said the word as if she were saying shit. “She told me what he done, w
hat he made her do, and I told her she had to go. Not leave, you know. Get away.”

  “Did you send her to Providence House?”

  She nodded. “A girlfriend told me about it. I thought she’d be safe there. I hoped.”

  “Did your husband know where she’d gone?”

  “No. I didn’t say nuthin’. I told him she run away.”

  “The police think she might have gone back to prostitution. What do you think?”

  She shook her head firmly. “I don’t think so. Mashkawizii.”

  “ Mashka what?” Dina replied.

  “It’s Ojibwe,” Jewell said. “It means she was strong. She had inner strength.”

  The woman looked at her with interest.

  “My husband spoke Anishinaabemowin,” Jewell explained.

  “You Shinnob?”

  “Yes,” Jewell answered without hesitation.

  The woman nodded. “That girl, what life handed her didn’t amount to a bucket of spit, but she didn’t never give up, you know. I figured if she stuck here either she’d kill Frank or Frank’d kill her. Best thing was to get her someplace safe. That’s why I sent her away to that place.”

  “And you’re sure your husband didn’t know she was there?” Dina asked.

  “I don’t know how he could’ve.”

  “What does he do? I mean for work.”

  “Construction, when there’s something going.”

  “Does he ever work in Marquette?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Is it possible he saw Sara there?”

  She thought about it. “He’d’ve said something.”

  “What about Bodine? Has he done work up there?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Have you had any contact with Sara since she left?”

  Her eyes flitted away toward the blank television screen. She rubbed her hands, one over the other. “She called me sometimes.”

  “Here?”

  “Yeah. Just to tell me things were going okay.” Her head drooped in a tired way. “She kept telling me I should leave him.”

  Through the open door came the sound of an engine in need of a new muffler and Jewell turned. She watched a gray pickup pull into the drive, skirt her Blazer, and park near the house. A man got out who was like a bone, thin and hard and white. He wore a dirty jean jacket over coveralls, work boots, a ball cap. He checked out the Blazer, glanced at the house, and came toward the door.

  “Frank?” Dina asked.

  The woman nodded and her eyes had become afraid.

  “Have the police talked to him?”

  “I don’t think so. Not here anyway.”

  Dina quickly took a card from her purse and gave it to the woman. “Keep that safe somewhere. If you need me, call.”

  The man’s boots beat on the wooden steps like mallets as he came up. He yanked the door open and was inside, glaring.

  The woman had retreated behind Jewell and the others. Dina moved forward, taking the lead.

  “Who are you?” he said.

  “We’re here about Sara,” Dina said.

  “What are you? Social workers?”

  “Former Special Agent Dina Willner, FBI,” she said. The former went by quickly, and Jewell wasn’t sure the man even tracked it. Dina’s hand shot into her purse. She flashed some kind of ID, then slipped it quickly back where it had come from. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “About Sara? She took off a long time ago. Hell, she could be dead for all I know.”

  “She is, Mr. Durkee.”

  His eyebrows were thin and blond. There were long hollows in his cheeks, and the skin was rough as if his face had been carved on with a dull knife. His eyes were bright blue and startled. He stared at Dina. “How?”

  “When was the last time you saw her?” Dina asked.

  She’d taken a notepad from her purse, and she held a pen poised above a clean sheet. The man scowled at the notepad.

  “I ain’t seen her since she left.”

  “You’ve had no contact with her at all?”

  “I just said that.”

  “You haven’t talked to her on the phone?”

  “No.”

  “You do construction work, is that correct?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you working now?”

  “No.”

  “When did you last work?”

  “What does that got to do with Sara?”

  “Just answer the question, please. When did you last work?”

  “Couple weeks ago, laying some pipe.”

  “Where?”

  “Ishpeming.”

  “Ever go to Bodine?”

  “I’ve been there.”

  “When was the last time?”

  “Hell, I don’t remember.”

  “Friends there?”

  He shifted restlessly, put his hands on hips, stuck out his chin. “No. And I ain’t answering any more questions until I know why you’re asking.”

  “We know that you forced Sara into prostitution at one time. Who were the johns?”

  “What the hell are you talking about? Who the hell are you, coming into my home like this, accusing me of that kind of shit? I want you out of here.” His arm shot out rigidly pointing toward the door. His fingers were long, and the rims of the ragged nails were packed black with dirt and grease.

  “I’ll just come back with a warrant, Mr. Durkee. You’ll have to talk to me then.”

  “Fine. Bring your goddamn warrant. I got nuthin’ to hide.”

  “That’s what your wife said, too. Wouldn’t tell me a thing.” She gave him a scornful look, then turned and gave the same to the woman. “If I find out you’ve lied to me, I’ll be back, folks, and I guarantee I won’t be nice. Step aside, Mr. Durkee.”

  She stared at him until he moved from the door. She took Charlie’s arm and guided her past him. Jewell followed them outside. Returning to the brightness of the morning sun, she found herself a little blind. The cocker spaniel padded aside and let them pass. They trooped to the Blazer in silence, got inside, and Jewell started to back out.

  “We’re just, like, leaving her?” Charlie asked.

  “We’re just, like, leaving her,” Dina said.

  “He might hurt her.”

  “He might.”

  “Shit,” Charlie said. She crossed her arms and hunched down.

  “Exactly,” Dina said.

  “So what was that all about?” the girl asked. In the rearview mirror, Jewell could see the frown on her face.

  “Unless I’m mistaken,” Dina said, “Frank Durkee doesn’t know anything about Sara. That’s important.”

  “Yeah? Why?”

  “Eliminating possibilities, Charlie. It helps us know better where to focus our energy.”

  “So where do we focus now?”

  Dina looked out at the pine barrens. She was quiet for a minute, then she said over her shoulder, “Charlie, do you have any idea where the kids from Providence House hang out when they’re not at the shelter?”

  31

  T he Killbelly Marsh Trail connected with the Copper River Trail half a mile south of the cabins. Ren turned the ATV onto the well-worn path that wove among the trees and rocks along the riverbank. The river was thirty yards wide and swift flowing. Near the banks, the water was clear and Ren could see the bottom, which was sand and rock. Toward the middle, the water deepened to a black flow.

  Cork, who held on to Ren from behind, called, “Stop a minute.”

  The boy let the engine idle.

  “Bodine’s that way?” Cork pointed east, downriver.

  Ren nodded. “About a mile.”

  “What’s between here and there?”

  “Bunch of cabins on the other side of the river. Summer places. I haven’t seen anybody there lately.”

  While he considered the river as it flowed toward Bodine, Cork gently rubbed the place on his leg where the bullet had exited. “Okay,” he finally said. “Let’s keep g
oing.”

  The far bank of the Copper River rose in a steep incline. Occasionally sunlight flashed off the window glass of a hidden cabin. A little farther on, they came to the place where the river funneled between rocky ridges as it curved northwest into the Huron Mountains. Ren glanced up the slope at the thick blackberry bramble that covered the entrance to the old mine where Charlie had hidden. From the river, the mine was impossible to see. He considered pointing it out to Cork, but thought better of it.

  Cork tapped his shoulder and called, “Stop for a minute, Ren.”

  The boy brought the machine to a halt. Cork eased himself from the seat, walked to the river’s edge, and scanned the far height.

  “Any cabins along there?” Cork asked.

  “No. Some new ones are being built near the county road, but that’s a couple of miles away. I guess it’s too hard to get equipment and stuff all the way to the river.”

  “What about on this side?”

  “Nothing from here to the Hurons.”

  “Any logging roads, bridges, trestles?”

  “Yeah. An old trestle crosses a few miles upriver. No trains run on it anymore.”

  Cork spent a minute considering the terrain.

  It was a warm afternoon and humid as a result of the rain. The blackflies and mosquitoes that often plagued the woods in summer were gone, but the air was still alive with other insects that lazily buzzed past. Ren was aware of the deep tracks the ATV tires left in the wet earth, and he felt bad about it. ATVs weren’t allowed on the trail, which was supposed to be only for hiking and snowmobiling.

  Cork started back toward the ATV, then stopped and bent close to the ground. Without looking up, he said, “Your cougar’s been here.”

  Ren got off his seat and knelt beside Cork. He saw the print clearly. And he saw something else. “Look. Scat.” He walked over to the droppings, bent and sniffed. “Whew! If what Mr. Schenk said is true, that’s got to be a cougar.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” Cork said.

  “Do you think he’s following the river?” Ren asked.

  “Maybe. Keeping to the trail because it’s easier. Would make sense if he’s hurt. Do many people hike here?”