Red knife co-8

by William Kent Krueger

From Fullmouth’s reaction, Cork could see that he’d guessed correctly, and he understood now why Blessing had made the pilgrimage to the lake after Kingbird’s funeral. To the Red Boyz, it was a place of power.

  “Your five minutes are up.” Fullmouth headed to a soft-drink vending machine.

  “What about Lonnie Thunder?”

  “He isn’t one of the Red Boyz.” He fed a dollar into the machine and looked over his choices.

  “He says he is.”

  “Fuck what he says.”

  “What did Kakaik think of Thunder?”

  “That he could help the son of a bitch.”

  “Is that why he asked Thunder to be one of the Red Boyz?”

  “He didn’t. Waubishash wanted Thunder in. They’re cousins.”

  “I know.”

  Fullmouth poked a button and after some internal clunking, the machine delivered a twenty-ounce plastic bottle of Sprite. He pulled out the bottle and shook his head. “Thunder, he wanted to be one of us for all the wrong reasons.”

  “Which were?”

  “He’s big, likes to throw his weight around. He thinks that’s what we’re about. That and dealing dope.”

  “You don’t deal?”

  Fullmouth unscrewed the cap on the Sprite, took a long sip, and followed it with a loud burp. “No, man. Staying pure, that’s what the Red Boyz are about. And helping other Shinnobs to stay pure. We find someone dealing on the rez, we don’t mess around. We kick ass.”

  “Lonnie was dealing. And he was doing worse than that with young Shinnob girls. How come you didn’t kick his ass?”

  “We didn’t know anything about that. Even Waubishash won’t take his side now.”

  “You’d kick his ass now?”

  “Up to me, we’d cut his balls off and stuff ’em down his throat. Nothing but trouble comes from him. But he’s done that bug thing.”

  “Bug thing?”

  “Found a rock somewhere and crawled under it.”

  “You don’t know where he is?”

  “If I did, I wouldn’t be shooting pool right now.”

  “Benny, I think Thunder might have killed Kakaik.”

  Fullmouth stared at Cork. “You’re shitting me. Why would he do that?”

  “I think Kakaik was prepared to turn him over to the sheriff.”

  Fullmouth thought it over. “Kakaik would’ve killed Thunder before he gave him over to the cops. Hell, he should have killed him to begin with. Would’ve made everybody happy. The Red Boyz, the cops, even that crazy old Reinhardt.”

  “Is that the Red Boyz way?”

  “That’s the way of the warrior, O’Connor. Old man like you, I don’t expect you’d understand that.”

  “If I found Thunder and turned him over to you, what would you do with him?”

  “You mean after I slit his throat?”

  “Is that how all the Red Boyz feel?”

  “We’re brothers. One heart, one mind.”

  “Nice talking to you, Benny.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  A nnie had prepared a good stroganoff, which she served with beets and a tossed salad. Jo volunteered to do the dishes. Cork and Stevie cleared the table, then went into the backyard for a little batting practice while there was still enough light. Stevie’s nose was taped, and Cork didn’t want to risk damaging it again-at least right away-so they used a Wiffle ball and a plastic bat. Trixie wasn’t a bad outfielder, chasing after whatever Stevie hit.

  As the evening faded and night crept in, Cork called a halt and Stevie reluctantly went with him inside. His son headed upstairs to put on his pajamas while Cork tracked down Jo, who was in her office, going over papers at her desk.

  “You mind doing the bedtime routine with Stevie?” he asked.

  Jo took off her reading glasses and gave him a puzzled and slightly concerned look. “I thought you were going to stay here tonight.”

  “I’ll be back. I just want to talk to Will Kingbird.”

  “What about?”

  “Alexander. I’m trying to get a feel for what his thinking about Lonnie Thunder might have been at the end.”

  “So you can find Thunder, bring him in, and jail him?”

  “I’m beginning to believe that even if I find him, I might not be able to jail him.”

  “Why?”

  “Will you take a rain check on that answer? Just until I get back?”

  “All right.” She got up and came to where he stood in the doorway. She put her arms around him. “I hate to sound like a broken record, but please be careful, Cork.”

  Lucinda laid Misty in her crib for the night, then sat on the living room sofa, bone tired and ragged with worry. No word from Will, and the dark, monstrous fear of what he might have done weighed on all her thinking. Her husband had killed before, as a very young man in Vietnam, and later as part of Division Recon, involved in Direct Action missions, especially in what he called prisoner recovery. He was not only an excellent sniper, he was trained in many ways to kill with quiet efficiency. He sometimes got calls in the night and was gone for days. When he returned, though he wouldn’t speak of where he’d been or what he’d done, it was as if he carried bodies on his back. Was it any wonder he was so closed? Who would want to talk of such things? Who would be proud of it? After he’d become an instructor at Lejeune, the night calls and sudden deployments stopped, but there were still times when he’d vanish and lay the blame on the corps when Lucinda knew it was not so.

  The doorbell pulled her from her black thoughts and from the sofa. When she opened the front door, Cork O’Connor stood on the porch, smiling cordially.

  “Evening, Luci. Is Will at home?”

  “No, he’s not.”

  “At the shop?”

  “He is out of town.” She saw disappointment in his eyes. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  “I wanted to talk to him about Alexander.”

  “You could talk to me.” She opened the screen door. “Would you like to come in?”

  “Thank you.”

  When he was inside, she asked, “May I get you something? Coffee maybe?”

  “Nothing, thanks.”

  She returned to the sofa; he sat in the maroon easy chair usually occupied by Will.

  “What would you like to know?” she asked.

  “I’m not exactly sure, Luci. I’m trying to find Lonnie Thunder.”

  “The young man who gave the drugs to the Reinhardt girl.”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t think I can help you.”

  “I’m wondering about Alexander and his state of mind regarding Lonnie Thunder and the Red Boyz before he was killed.”

  “His state of mind?” She laughed, though not with humor. “That’s like asking me what the coffee table is thinking. Alejandro almost never spoke to me about what was on his mind.”

  “What about Rayette? Did she say anything that might have been of help?”

  Lucinda thought of the wonderful talks with her daughter-in-law on those Sundays they rode together to church. The memory made her terribly sad.

  “She said Alejandro was quieter lately, even more than usual. She thought he was worried.”

  “About Buck Reinhardt?”

  “I don’t know.” She thought again. “The last time I saw Alejandro alive he said something to me. He said he understood his father better now. The responsibility, he said, of a family was great. Me, I didn’t think that Rayette and Misty were difficult, so perhaps he wasn’t talking about them.”

  “The Red Boyz?”

  “Rayette told me that many of the Red Boyz looked to him as they might have a father. Now I will tell you something that is what I think but Alejandro never spoke to me about it, so it might be nothing. When he came back here, he was not the Alejandro I knew. He was like a clay pot, hardened in the fire. It was difficult to be with him. But he changed again after he married Rayette and especially after Misty was born. I think-and this is my own thinking-that he found what he’d al
ways been looking for.”

  “And that was?”

  “Home. He found home.” Lucinda heard the side door open and the sound of someone in the kitchen. “Will?” she called eagerly.

  “No, Mom. Just me.”

  Ulysses walked into the living room. His friend Darrell Gallagher was with him, wearing the horrid black leather coat that fell below his knees, and the black hair so purposefully cut askew, and the black look on his face that made her cringe, not with fear but with the thought that here was a child who hadn’t been loved in a long time. She didn’t like Uly being so often in his company, but her son had no other friends. Perhaps this was true of Darrell, too.

  “Hi, Uly,” Cork O’Connor said. To the other boy he said, “You’re Darrell, right? Skip Gallagher’s grandson?”

  “Yeah,” Gallagher replied in a flat voice.

  “I haven’t seen your grandfather in a while. How is he?”

  “Old,” Gallagher said.

  “Going to my room,” Uly said. He didn’t wait for his mother to reply.

  Lucinda’s eyes followed where Gallagher had gone. “Do you know his family?” she asked Cork O’Connor.

  “He doesn’t have much family to speak of. Lives with his grandfather. I know Skip from way back. He was a state trooper for a long time. A crusty old guy. I can’t imagine he relates very well to a teenager.”

  “All that black,” Lucinda said, shaking her head.

  “Goth, Luci. A lot of kids seem to be into it.”

  “Have I helped you at all?” she asked.

  “I think so.” He stood. “I appreciate your time. When do you expect Will back?”

  “I don’t know.” She hesitated, then said, “There’s something else. I don’t know if it’s important.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I’ll tell you what I think about Alejandro and the Red Boyz. This is my own thinking. He never talked to me, but I have thought a lot about it. I think that Alejandro joined the marines for two reasons. I think he wanted his father’s approval, and I think he wanted a place to belong. I don’t think he found either. For him the marines were not what they had been for his father. I think he became involved in that gang in Los Angeles because he was still looking for a place to belong. I think he did not find it there, either. When he came back here, he was still searching. With the Red Boyz, I think, he found that place. And with Rayette and Misty, he finally felt that he had a home. Maybe it is just what I want to believe, but I think that for a little while he was happy.”

  “Thank you, Luci.” He walked to the front door and she followed. “Is Misty doing okay?” he asked when he was standing on the porch.

  “She is an angel. She is a blessing.”

  “I wish they all were,” Cork O’Connor said.

  She closed the door and thought, They all begin that way.

  Cork drove to the rez and took the cutoff to the place where Fannie Blessing’s house had stood. The moon had risen, only a half-moon but bright enough in that isolated area to cast shadows. Cork parked in front of the old gas station across the road from the patch of black ash that was all that was left of the Blessings’ home. He grabbed his Maglite, got out, and walked to the derelict building. In its day, the place had not only dispensed gas and a few of the sundry items essential to fishermen and campers, it had also been a garage with a bay for vehicle repairs. Elmer Waybenais, a full-blood Ojibwe, had owned the station, and his son, C.J., had been the mechanic, one with a good reputation. Elmer Waybenais was long dead, and C.J. had taken a job at the Tomahawk Truck Stop, where he still had a good rep, particularly with diesel engines. Cork walked to the wide door of the garage area. The door was down, locked, and the windows where the glass had long ago been shot out by vandals were covered with newspaper. Cork flicked on the Maglite and looked closely at the newspapers.

  When he’d talked that morning with Tom Blessing in the shade of the willow next to the ancient building, he’d noticed that the newspapers covering the garage windows were white, not yellowed with age. It was a small detail that he hadn’t given any importance. After he talked with Benny Fullmouth and with Lucinda Kingbird, the detail suggested something to him. He’d been trying from the beginning to figure out what Alexander Kingbird had meant when he’d said he would offer Buck Reinhardt justice, a statement that in light of all the apparent circumstances made little sense. In Cork’s thinking, to offer justice, Kingbird would have had to hand Thunder over to the sheriff, which would have been a betrayal of the Red Boyz. Turning Thunder in might have had another unwanted consequence as well. Thunder wasn’t likely to be grateful for the move, and probably wouldn’t be inclined to be silent about things the Red Boyz would prefer remained secret. If it was true that the gang was warehousing drugs for the Latin Lords, Thunder might be more than willing to cut a deal that would keep him out of prison. So putting Thunder in the hands of the cops probably wasn’t what Kingbird had in mind.

  Illuminated by the Maglite, the date on the newspaper that had been used to cover the garage door windows was clear: one week earlier, to the day. No wonder the paper was still so white. Cork tore the newspaper away from one of the glassless windows and shot the flashlight beam inside, where it reflected off a headlight. He ran the beam left and right across the grill and hood of the vehicle inside. It was a dark green Xterra, the same kind of vehicle Lonnie Thunder drove. Cork tried the door to the office part of the old building, which was secured with a new hasp and padlock. The long windows were boarded up with plywood that had rotted over time. Cork kicked the plywood with the flat of his foot and the wood splintered. A few more kicks and he broke his way in. He eased through the splintered opening. Inside he found a cot set up on the dusty floor. Beside it was an overturned orange crate with a Coleman propane lamp on top. Under the cot sat a gym bag full of rumpled clothing. Lying on the blanket that covered the cot was a vehicle license plate: RedStud.

  Jo sat with her back propped against the headboard of their bed, her reading glasses in her hand. She’d set her book aside in order to listen to Cork, and now she asked, “So what does it mean?”

  Cork paced their bedroom as he talked. “Thunder was at the old trapper’s cabin at one point, then he was gone. He took those shots at me at Sam’s Place, then he was gone. He did the drive-by of Buck Reinhardt, then he was gone. The question I’ve been asking myself lately is how could Thunder have been out so much and not have been spotted by someone? The answer is that he wasn’t. Lonnie Thunder’s dead. He’s been dead for some time.”

  “And you think it was Tom Blessing who was driving his SUV?”

  “Probably. This morning I thought he was parked out there to watch the investigators go through the rubble of his mother’s house. It’s more likely that he just wanted to make sure no one got nosy around the old gas station.”

  “The vanity plate you found. He took that off the SUV to keep from being so conspicuous?”

  “That would make sense. Unless you fired a few rounds from the driver’s seat in order to get noticed, a dark green SUV wouldn’t attract much attention. I’m betting the plates on there now were stolen.”

  “Why go through all that trouble to make people believe Thunder’s still alive?”

  Cork sat on his side of the bed. “I think I’m responsible. I told Blessing I believed that Thunder had a good motive for killing Kingbird. Blessing played on that and led me right along.”

  “That still doesn’t answer the question of why. Unless Blessing killed Kingbird.”

  “Or was trying to cover for whoever did.”

  “How do you find out?”

  Cork stared for a moment at the open bedroom window. A breeze came through and the curtain trembled. “I think someone needs to make Blessing an offer he can’t refuse.”

  “Someone?”

  Cork turned to Jo. “It’s best if this is a conversation we never had.”

  “You’re scaring me.”

  He reached out and took her hand. “If this is about what
I think it’s about, we should all be scared.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  Friday morning they ran a course that, near the end, brought them to Sam’s Place. Annie slowed down in the parking lot and stopped at the picnic table under the red pine. She stood looking out at Iron Lake, which at that moment seemed to her to have exactly the characteristic its name suggested: a thing intractable and enduring. With so much about to change in her life-leaving home for college, going out on her own-she wanted to believe some things would be forever.

  Her father jogged up behind her, breathing hard.

  “Tired?” he asked.

  “Just wanted to stop for a minute, Dad. Okay?”

  “Sure.” He sounded a little grateful.

  She glanced back at the old Quonset hut. “Feels strange not working at Sam’s Place the weekend of fishing opener.”

  “I think the fishermen’ll survive. Too many other things on my plate at the moment. Maybe next weekend.”

  “The Kingbird stuff, right?”

  “Yep, the Kingbird stuff.” Her father sat on the picnic table and used the bench as a footrest. “Are you going to the playoff game this afternoon?”

  The Aurora Blue Jays were hosting, home field advantage.

  “Coach said I could sit on the bench with the team, even though I couldn’t suit up,” she said.

  “It’ll be hard, I imagine.”

  “We’ll do okay. We’re a team.”

  “Hard on you, I meant.”

  “It sucks, but that’s the way it is.”

  “Who’s pitching in your place?”

  “Meg Greeley.”

  “She won’t last more than four innings.”

  “Kris Evans will relieve her. She’ll bring the game home just fine.”

  “I’ll try to be there.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m proud of you, you know that, don’t you?”

  She stared at the hard morning blue of the lake and didn’t meet his eyes. “Thanks.” She turned toward Grant Park, south beyond the vacant field. “Let’s finish the run.”

  At ten A.M. Cork was parked in the driveway of the burned-down Blessing home. He’d been waiting fifteen minutes when he saw Tom Blessing’s Silverado coming from the south. Blessing hit the crossroads, took a right, and half a minute later, pulled up behind Cork’s Bronco. They both got out.