Iron Lake co-1

by William Kent Krueger

  “You look tired,” she said

  “I didn’t sleep.”

  “Me either.”

  “You know what I did, Jo? I lay awake putting it all together, all the signs, signals. I could see it now, in neon. But, you know, what I couldn’t put together was where it began.”

  “I don’t think you need to know the details. I don’t think that would do anybody any good.”

  “You wanted to talk. This is what I want to talk about.”

  Jo leaned against the oak desk thankful for the support of the solid wood. “It was after the shooting at Burke’s Landing. When Sandy and I were down in St. Paul together working to negotiate a settlement before any more blood was spilled. Things were intense. It just happened.”

  “Just happened.” Cork shook his head.

  “We were drifting already, Cork, don’t deny it. There were days we’d come home and not say more than a dozen words to one another, and then it was to talk about money or the kids’ school things or the most recent rumor making the rounds in Aurora. I don’t know, maybe we thought we knew each other so well we didn’t have to talk. If that was it, we were wrong. Because every night it felt as if I was going to bed with a stranger.”

  “Even when we made love?”

  “By then we were just having sex, Cork. I don’t even know when we stopped making love.”

  Cork set his gym bag down and put the bearskin on top of it. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the door. “And along comes Sandy Parrant with his good looks and his money and just sweeps you off your feet.”

  “It wasn’t his money or his looks. I needed someone, Cork. We’re not all as strong and self-contained as you are.”

  “Oh, yeah, I was real strong after Burke’s Landing. Hell, I couldn’t even muster the energy to fight the recall petition. I could have used a little support then.”

  “I tried to reach out, Cork, but you were like something made of ice. It was like everything in you had frozen over. There wasn’t any warmth toward me or the kids. Stevie was afraid to go near you, for Christ sake.”

  “And that’s why you asked me to leave. It didn’t have anything to do with Sandy Parrant,” he said with bitter sarcasm.

  Jo looked down. “You’re right. It probably had a lot to do with Sandy.”

  “Christ, Jo, do you know how long I’ve felt like shit, felt like everything was all my fault?”

  “I know, Cork, I know. The truth is,” she confessed, “I let you believe it because it made things easier for me.”

  There was a knock at the door. Rose poked her head in and smiled. “I’m about to start breakfast. Anyone interested?” She glanced down and saw Cork’s gym bag and the bearskin, then she looked sadly at the two of them.

  “I won’t be staying, Rose,” Cork told her. “Thanks anyway.”

  Jenny pushed in behind her, rubbing sleep from her eyes. “Dad, I want to feed the geese.” She yawned. “Can you take me to school? We can stop by Sam’s Place on the way.” She looked carefully at the three adults, then at Cork’s things on the floor. She seemed wide awake suddenly. “You’re going back?”

  “Yeah. But I’ll give you a ride so you can feed the geese.”

  “No, thanks,” she said. “It doesn’t matter now.” She turned and shoved past Rose out the door.

  Rose eyed them both again, gave her head a faint shake of disapproval, and stepped out.

  “I’m sorry,” Jo said.

  “Who isn’t?” Cork picked up his gym bag, hefted the bearskin, and left.

  A dirty van waited outside Sam’s Place, the engine running. On the side, barely readable through the crust of grit, was printed “Winterbauer Plumbing and Heating.” Art Winterbauer stepped out. He held coffee in a big paper cup from Jeannie’s Donuts, and there was a splotch of white cream filling on his upper lip.

  “I promised you first thing, Cork. And first thing, here I am. Freeze your butt over the weekend?” He was a short man with a square body and square face. He wore a hat with flaps that hung down the side like the ears of a basset hound. Sliding his van door open, he pulled out a heavy toolbox. He carried his coffee in one hand, his toolbox in the other.

  “I took your advice. Stayed somewhere else.” Cork unlocked the door.

  Winterbauer stepped in and saw the mess. “Christ, what happened in here?”

  “You know where everything is,” Cork replied without answering.

  “Yeah,” Winterbauer said, looking at the destruction around him. “But is it still there?”

  “I’ll be outside if you need me,” Cork told him, and left.

  He dug into the grain sack and took the bucket of dried corn out to the lake. A light snow was falling. The flakes settled on the gray open water and disappeared. At first he didn’t see Romeo and Juliet. Then he spotted them huddled under a safety station at the edge of the ice. They seemed oddly subdued, quiet and motionless, and didn’t appear to be in any hurry to feed.

  A maroon Taurus station wagon pulled up beside Winterbauer’s van. Helmuth Hanover, editor of the Aurora Sentinel stepped out, spotted Cork, and started toward him. Hanover was a tall, slender man in his mid-forties. A veteran of Vietnam, he’d left the lower part of his right leg on a rice paddy dike, courtesy of a claymore mine. He had a prosthetic appendage and walked with a slight limp. He’d begun to bald young, a characteristic he’d chosen to exaggerate by shaving his head clean. With his narrow face, blue unkind eyes, and that shaved head like a cleaned bone, he had an intimidating austerity about him, not unlike a sharply honed knife. Although his byline read “Helm Hanover,” he was unaffectionately known as Hell Hanover by anyone who’d been the target of his editorials. And Cork had. During the spearfishing business, Hanover had flayed Cork alive.

  Helm exercised a good deal of wisdom and restraint in publishing the Sentinel, which was a small town paper devoted to small town news-commissioner’s meetings, church bazaars, births, obituaries. He crammed as many names in a story as he possibly could and he was sure to spell them all correctly. In reporting the local news, he generally kept things about as controversial as cottage cheese. But in his editorials and the Letters to the Editor section, he allowed a lot of latitude. Consequently, the Sentinel was frequently a voice for all the crackpot philosophies at liberty in Tamarack County. He’d printed odes to the Posse Comitatus, elegies to the Branch Davidians, proclamations of supremacy from the Minnesota Civilian Brigade-all with a nod toward the First Amendment. His own editorials generally carried a sharp, bitter edge, and more often than not, the target of his criticism was government. In any form. Helm Hanover had no use for the distant, inept interference of the federal government, particularly. Cork suspected a lot of this was a deep, burning anger that went all the way back to the flesh and bone Hell had left in Vietnam.

  “Morning, Cork,” Hanover said. He nodded stiffly in greeting.

  “Helm,” Cork said. “I don’t suppose you’re out here hoping for a burger and a shake.”

  “I’ve just come from the sheriff’s office. I’d like to ask you a few questions.” Hanover took a small notebook and pencil from the pocket of the down vest he wore. “About last night.”

  The geese were slowly making their way to shore, black ripples following in the gray water. Cork watched the geese. He didn’t want to look at Hell Hanover. The man always made him angry.

  “What exactly did the sheriff tell you?” Cork asked.

  “I’d like it to be in your own words,” Hanover said.

  “My words, Wally’s words, what difference does it make? You’ve got the facts.”

  Cork set the empty bucket in the snow. Hanover glanced in as if there might be something worth writing about inside it.

  “The sheriff said Lytton called you. He wanted to show you something. What was it he wanted to show you?”

  “If he hadn’t been killed, I might know.”

  “You haven’t got any idea? When he called, he didn’t say anything?”

  “He
only said to come out.”

  “Why did you feel compelled to go?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Anything to do with killing his dog?”

  Cork glanced over and found Hanover’s hard, unkind eyes watching him closely, his sharp pencil poised above his notebook. “Who told you about the dog?”

  “Might’ve been the same person who told me about the Windigo. I heard the Windigo called his name. Is that true?”

  Cork looked Hanover in the eye. “You’re a newspaperman, Helm. You deal in facts. The Windigo is a myth.”

  “It wasn’t a myth that killed Harlan Lytton.”

  “My point exactly.”

  “Did you see the assailant?”

  “Just a silhouette.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “Why do you say ‘him,’ Helm? There’s nothing sexist about murder. Women kill, too.”

  “Can you describe the assailant?” Hanover corrected.

  “You can get my description from the sheriff.” Cork bent and lifted the bucket. The geese seemed reluctant to come to shore with Hanover there. Cork turned back toward Sam’s Place. Hanover limped after him.

  “Funny thing about that dog,” Hanover said at his back. “If you hadn’t shot him, he might’ve warned Lytton.”

  Cork stopped. “What are you getting at, Helm?”

  Hanover shrugged innocently. “I’m not getting at anything, Cork. I’m just asking questions. It’s my job.”

  “But it’s not mine to answer them. You want to know anything about Lytton’s death, talk to Wally Schanno. He’s paid for it.”

  Hanover wrote in his notebook; Cork went on ahead. Hanover caught up with him at the door to Sam’s Place.

  “Just one more question. When the judge died, you were there. When Lytton died, you were there. If you were on the outside looking in, wouldn’t that strike you as a little funny?”

  “See you around, Helm.” Cork eyed him pointedly until the newspaperman turned and limped back to his wagon. Hanover took out the notebook again and stood in the falling snow, writing. He glanced back at Cork, then slipped into the wagon and drove away.

  Cork stood in the doorway. As much as he hated to, he had to agree with Hell. It was a little funny.

  By the time Cork reached the old firehouse, the new snow had given a soft, fluffy covering to everything. Parrant’s white BMW sat in the parking lot. The windshield was still clear, and Cork figured Parrant hadn’t been there long.

  Joyce Sandoval glanced up from her computer screen and eyed Cork over her half glasses. “I heard about last night,” she said. “It sounds awful.”

  “I’d like to see Sandy.”

  “Sure,” she said, and reached for the phone. “Just a moment.” She punched in three numbers. “Corcoran O’Connor is here to see you.” She listened a moment, then hung up. “He’ll be with you in a moment. Are you all right?”

  “Fine, Joyce,” Cork replied, and turned abruptly away. He stood in front of a picture in the hallway, a framed aerial shot of Aurora. Yellow pins that indicated Great North holdings, covered the map like small pustules. The subdivision called Larkin Hills, the Aurora Mall, the Four Seasons Condominiums, the Aurora Office Park. The newest and most expensive of the holdings was also there. The Chippewa Grand Casino. Along the bottom of the enlarged photograph was the inked inscription, “Happy Birthday, Sandy. The Judge.”

  “He’ll see you now,” Joyce said.

  Parrant stepped out of his office just as Cork reached the top of the stairs. He eyed Cork steadily. “I’ve been expecting you. I talked with Jo this morning.”

  “Talked? I didn’t think that was what you and Jo did together.”

  Parrant was dressed for business. Blue suit, white shirt, red silk tie. The fragrance of a fine musk cologne scented the air around him.

  “One of the things,” he replied calmly.

  The door across the hall opened and Parrant’s secretary stepped out. “Mr. Parrant-” she began.

  “Can it wait, Helen?” Parrant asked. “Cork and I were just about to have a conference in my office.”

  “Oh, sure,” Helen said, and turned away.

  “Why don’t we step inside to discuss this,” Parrant suggested.

  Exposed beams ran across the ceiling of Sandy Parrant’s office. It had the same effect as a weight lifter showing his biceps. Strength on display. Parrant’s desk was very large, very dark, and very shiny. The papers on it were in small neat stacks.

  Parrant went to a table near the window and picked up a silver pot. “Coffee?”

  “I didn’t come on a social call.”

  Parrant poured coffee into a white porcelain cup. “What are you here for, Cork? Want to take a swing at me?” He stirred in sugar and cream.

  “I want to ask a question.”

  “Only one?” Parrant carefully tasted his coffee.

  “Do you intend to marry her?”

  Parrant walked casually back to his desk and set the cup down. “I don’t see that that’s any of your business.”

  “She comes with baggage,” Cork said.

  “Baggage? You mean the children.” He looked at Cork disdainfully. “I’d never refer to my children as baggage.”

  “They’ll never be your kids. You may get my wife, but you’ll never get my kids.”

  Parrant sat on the edge of his desk, his hands folded calmly in his lap. He had the air of a high school principal sadly disappointed in the behavior of a student.

  “Would you use them like weapons, Cork? What kind of father are you that you have to fight me through your children?”

  “I don’t have to fight through my children.”

  “I don’t think you have it in you to fight any other way.”

  Cork exploded and lunged at him. Parrant seemed to have anticipated the move and ducked so that he caught Cork full in the chest with the top of his shoulder. They tumbled back. Parrant came up with a hard punch to Cork’s ribs that felt like the butt end of a log, then he danced easily away.

  “Intramural boxing champ at Harvard.” He grinned at Cork.

  Cork charged again, wrapping up Parrant in his thick arms. They went down heavily, knocking the phone off Parrant’s desk and toppling his chair. Parrant hammered jabs at the place on Cork’s ribs where he’d landed the first jarring blow, the same area that had taken a beating a couple of days earlier at Sam’s Place. The pain made Cork let go. Parrant rolled away and bounded up, his hands fisted. Cork struggled up, too, just as Parrant’s office door opened and his secretary stepped in. She stood a moment looking at the two men.

  “Oh,” she said when she understood. “I saw your line go on and I thought-”

  “That’s all right, Helen,” Parrant said, dropping his hands. He straightened his red silk tie and brushed his blue suit. “We were just finishing our discussion. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  The woman nodded, glanced at Cork, and backed quickly out.

  Parrant ran his hand through his hair and looked smooth as ever. He moved back to his desk, picked up the phone, and righted the fallen chair.

  “Jo said you had photographs. Where’d you get them?”

  Cork’s ribs hurt every time he took a breath, but he didn’t want Parrant to know. “Does it matter?”

  “I’d like to know who’s so interested in my private life.”

  “You’re a senator now. You haven’t got a private life.”

  “What are you going to do with the photos?”

  “I haven’t decided.”

  Parrant sat down and eyed Cork with an unruffled air. “I’m sure you can’t hurt me, Cork. But if you try, I’ll squash you like a bug.”

  “I’m shivering in my boots, Sandy.”

  He turned to leave. As he reached for the door and opened it, Parrant said at his back, “I’m used to winning, Cork. It’s what I do best.”

  Outside Cork got into the Bronco. He undid his shirt and looked at the place where his ribs hurt lik
e hell. The skin was already a brooding purple from the beating he took at Sam’s Place. There seemed to be a yellow-green border developing around the bruise. He wondered if Parrant had broken anything. He reached into his shirt pocket for a Lucky Strike, and hauled out a crushed pack. He extracted a bent cigarette, straightened it out, and lit up. After that he sat for a while staring at the windshield that was blanketed with snow.

  Eventually he opened the gym bag. He hadn’t looked at the pictures since the night before. There was no point in looking again. He knew that. No point except to feed the coldness inside him. In a strange way, that was exactly what he wanted now. He wanted to feed himself to the cold until the cold had consumed him and he didn’t care anymore.

  He stared at the folder. Manila, old and beaten. Doodles on the outside. Although dried blood obscured some things, others were quite clear. Squares, circles, scribbles. A word here and there. Idle scrawl. But there was something about that scrawl. It was different from the writing on the label that said “Jo O’Connor.”

  He crushed out his cigarette in the ashtray and stepped from the Bronco. Folder in hand and moving gingerly because of his ribs, he hurried back into the building. He ignored Joyce Sandoval’s questioning glance and went straight to the aerial photo hanging on the wall. He studied the handwritten inscription on the matting. “Happy Birthday, Sandy. The Judge.” The late Judge Robert Parrant had written with a peculiarly grand flourish.

  Cork looked at the folder. The doodled words on the bloody cover were in the same hand.

  The folder hadn’t originally belonged to Harlan Lytton. It had belonged to another dead man first.

  24

  He’d always loved winter in the North Woods. The clean feel of a new snow. The icy air almost brittle in his nostrils. The way sound carried forever. He could hear Walleye barking a long way off as he parked his Bronco on the frozen lake, climbed the rocky slope of Crow’s Point, and made for Henry Meloux’s cabin. The world felt empty of everything except that sound.

  Meloux stepped out as Cork approached. He was wiping his hands on a rag. Big snowflakes caught in his white hair as he stood waiting.