Iron Lake co-1

by William Kent Krueger

  There were several photographs inside. Shots like those he’d seen before. Of trysting around Parrant’s hot tub. Although several different women were involved, none of them was Jo. Cork recognized a couple. Parrant’s secretary, Helen Barnes. Sue Jacobson, the chancellor of Aurora Community College. Unlike Jo, they were not married. Cork noted quickly the time date at the bottom of each photo. They’d all been taken before Parrant began his affair with Jo. From the looks of it, the man had been faithful. In his way. That there were no pictures of Jo surprised Cork. But he was also relieved since Schanno had undoubtedly already looked at the folder.

  Schanno grabbed the folder angrily from Cork’s hands. His face was contorted with outrage and pain.

  “That was uncalled for, damn you, Cork! I ought to have your sorry carcass thrown in jail.”

  Schanno shoved the pictures back into Parrant’s folder and sat on the file cabinet. He squeezed his eyes shut a moment and held his leg. He breathed deeply, easing out the pain. When he opened his eyes again and looked at Cork, all the euphoria was gone. “Get outta here before I have you arrested.”

  Cork took his leather jacket from the coat tree and reached for the doorknob.

  “Cork?” Schanno’s voice was ragged with irritation and pain. He’d moved himself onto his crutches and was leaning on them heavily. “What would you do if you were me?”

  “I’d be tempted to burn them,” Cork answered honestly. “Save myself the worry over whose lives are ruined by what might come to light. But then, I’m not the sheriff, Wally, so I’m not even going to think about that.”

  He left Schanno’s office and checked with the desk officer on his way out. No one had found his revolver.

  28

  Maiden Cove was on reservation land just west of the state forest. Formed by a rugged arm of dark gray rock that nearly cut off the small inlet from the rest of the lake, accessible only by water and an unmarked inland trail, the cove was nearly invisible to those who did not know where to look. It had always been a special place in Cork’s thinking. Before his father was killed, they had often canoed in with Sam Winter Moon and camped there. Cork loved to jump off the gray rock that jutted up a dozen feet above the water. The cove was surprisingly deep. He had wonderful memories of the cool, still water in summer and of swimming deep among the big rocks on the bottom, where the refracted sunlight turned everything a rich greengold. Life seemed simple then-the quiet of the woods and lake, a welcoming campfire, and the two men he loved most still alive.

  That’s what Cork wanted. Everything simple again.

  With an ice spud he chipped a hole eight inches wide through ice that was more than half a foot thick. He cleared the ice chunks from the water with a plastic skimmer, then dropped a little vegetable oil onto the surface to keep the water from refreezing quickly. On a small Russian spoon, he put a grub, then sank it with a two-pound test line. He settled himself on a folding canvas chair. Holding his jigging rod in one hand, he reached into the deep pocket of his coat and brought out a bottle of peppermint schnapps.

  He opened the bottle, but before he had a chance to take a drink, the grind of a snowmobile engine came from a long way off. He hoped it would move on, pass the cove by. In a few minutes, all the rocks and trees rattled with the incessant whine of the little engine. Cork watched the snowmobile shoot through the narrow opening, swing toward him, and come to a stop a few yards away. It was an old machine. The oldest Cork knew of in Tamarack County. St. Kawasaki dismounted, lifted his goggles, and walked toward Cork.

  “What are you doing here?” Cork asked, not in a friendly way.

  “I thought you might need someone to talk to.” He adjusted the black patch over his eye.

  “How’d you find me?”

  “Jo told me this was your favorite spot. I took a chance.”

  Cork glanced behind him at the old Kawasaki. “I thought that machine was dead.”

  The priest smiled and shrugged. “That’s why I call it Lazarus.” He saw the bottle in Cork’s hand. “Mind if I take a shot of that? It’s a long, cold way out here.”

  Cork handed him the schnapps. The priest took a swallow and gave the bottle back.

  “Nice place,” Tom Griffin said, surveying the cove. “I wasn’t sure if I could find it. Are they biting?”

  “Not yet.” Cork jigged the line, drawing the baited spoon upward several times, then he let it settle back.

  “What are you fishing for?” the priest asked.

  “What are you?” Cork replied.

  St. Kawasaki smiled. “I thought you might need to talk.”

  “Nothing to talk about. It’s all settled. Bullets and lawyers, between them they’ve got a monopoly on the resolution of conflict.” Cork took a long drink of schnapps, then handed the bottle back to the priest.

  “If everything’s settled, what harm can a little talking do?”

  “What good can it do?” Cork pulled out his Lucky Strikes, took off his gloves, and lit a cigarette. “Let me ask you a question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Do you believe in God?”

  St. Kawasaki looked amused. “Hell of a question to ask a priest.”

  Cork carefully watched the end of his rod, a spring device that acted as a bobber. It hadn’t moved at all in the time he’d been there. “I’m asking because I’ve been a cop most of my life, but I don’t believe in justice anymore. I just wondered if the same was true in your work.”

  “Why wouldn’t it be? Priests are only human. We question, doubt, even grow a little despondent at times because what the world shoves at us doesn’t seem to bear much mark of the divine.” The priest held the bottle toward the gray sky and squinted his one eye, as if making some kind of judgment about the schnapps. “But in the end I always come back to believing.”

  “Why? Why believe in something that continues to let you down?”

  “Like justice, eh?” The priest drank and made a satisfied sound. “Sure hits the spot, Cork.” He looked down where Cork sat on the folding canvas chair. “Everything disappoints us sometimes. Everybody disappoints us. Men let women down, women let men down, ideals don’t hold water. And God doesn’t seem to give a damn. I can’t speak for God, Cork, but I’ll tell you what I think. I think we expect too much. Simple as that. And the only thing that lets us down is our own expectation. I used to pray to God for an easy life. Now I pray to be a strong person.”

  “I’m glad you found a prayer that works,” Cork said. “Think you can find your way back to town?”

  “Cork,” the priest went on in a frank tone, “I don’t know if anybody’s told you this, but you look like hell.”

  “I don’t care, okay? Look, why don’t you just jump back on Lazarus there and leave me the hell alone.”

  “In my experience, only dead men don’t care.”

  “Then shake the hand of a ghost, Father.”

  Cork shoved his hand up at the priest, who merely put the bottle of schnapps in it.

  “I won’t try to argue you out of this pit you’ve climbed into, Cork. But if you want to talk to someone-when you need to talk to someone-I’m willing to listen.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.” Cork turned back toward the hole in the ice.

  The priest returned to Lazarus, kicked the old machine over, and guided it out of the cove. Cork listened until the sound of it was finally lost in the direction of Aurora.

  He finished his cigarette and threw the butt in the snow. He considered finishing the schnapps. Instead, he heaved the bottle as far as he could.

  Think, he told himself. Think like you’ve trained yourself to think. Think like a goddamn cop.

  Wally Schanno was satisfied. Russell Blackwater had done it all. Embezzled. Killed Lytton. Then tried to kill him and Cork, too. It worked. It was a safe assumption. But Cork felt it was wrong. It was too easy an answer, had come right out of the blue, handed over by Sigurd Nelson in the form of a small, silver key that had been conveniently overlooked the night Lytton died.<
br />
  He hauled up his line. Not even a nibble. Well, some days were like that. He threw his gear into the back of the Bronco. As he came around to the driver’s side, he saw a huge black oil stain in the snow where the priest had parked the snowmobile.

  Lazarus was running again, but as always, running on borrowed time.

  29

  Cork called the casino from Sam’s Place.

  “Give me Darla LeBeau,” he said.

  After half a minute, Darla’s voice, with a forced cheerleader sweetness, floated over the line. “This is Darla. How may I help you?”

  “Corcoran O’Connor, Darla. How are you?”

  There was a pause that Cork interpreted as a wary silence. Then Darla replied, “I’m fine.”

  “I called to find out how Paul’s doing.”

  “I haven’t seen Paul since he disappeared last Thursday.”

  Cork thought about the groceries he’d seen her buy and was certain she was lying.

  “What about Joe John? Hear anything from him?”

  “No.”

  Simple answer. Nothing more offered than what he’d asked. How much was she hiding? Cork wondered, and why? Why now?

  “How are things there at the casino? I mean, considering Russell and all.”

  “Confusing,” Darla said. “I have to go.”

  “Sure. I understand. I was just concerned.”

  Darla hung up without thanking him for his concern. Although he couldn’t see her, he’d have been willing to bet she dropped that phone as if it were a scorpion about to sting.

  “Cork?”

  Wally Schanno looked surprised. He tried to get up from his desk chair, but Cork waved him back down.

  “Answer me a question, Wally. Those files, did you dust them for prints?”

  “Why?”

  “To see if anyone besides Lytton might have handled them.”

  “What difference would it make? I have what I need.”

  Cork glanced around the office. The white filing cabinet was no longer there.

  “You didn’t do it, Wally. You didn’t really burn them.”

  “There’s nothing left but ashes in the incinerator out back.” Schanno sat back, looking satisfied with himself.

  “Jesus Christ. I don’t believe it.”

  “It was your idea,” he reminded Cork. “Like you said, a Pandora’s box. The things in there could have hurt a lot of good people if they ever came to light.” He lifted a manila folder from his desk and waved it at Cork. “I have everything I need right here. Blackwater’s file. Why hold onto anything else? Burn it. You said so yourself.”

  “Christ, Wally, I can say anything I goddamn well please. I’m not the sheriff. Great police work.”

  “I suppose you’d have done it differently,” Schanno said angrily.

  “Goddamn right I would.”

  “If you’re so goddamn good at it,” Schanno shouted, “why am I the one doing the job?”

  Cork planted his hands on Schanno’s desk and leaned close to Schanno’s red face. “Did you have a file in there, Wally? Is that the real reason you were so quick to torch everything?”

  Schanno started to reply, but the words died on his lips and he looked down.

  “I guess I have my answer,” Cork said, and turned away.

  Ellie Gruber escorted Cork back to the office of Father Tom Griffin. The office door was closed and she knocked lightly. A moment later, the priest opened the door.

  “Cork.” He smiled. “Come in, come in. Thank you, Mrs. Gruber.” He ushered Cork in and cleared a chair. “Have a seat.” The priest sat on the edge of his cluttered desk. “So, change your mind about wanting to talk?”

  “Not about what you think. But I do want to talk.”

  “Fire away.”

  “You’re a priest.”

  “Glad you noticed.” Tom Griffin grinned.

  “People-a lot of people-would trust you with something they couldn’t confide to anyone else.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Have you talked with Darla LeBeau lately?”

  “Sure.”

  “And she’s concerned about her son?”

  The priest gave Cork a slightly bewildered look. “Of course. Wouldn’t you be?”

  “But Paul’s with Joe John, isn’t he? And Joe John loves him.”

  “I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

  Cork pulled out his cigarettes. “Want one?”

  The priest declined with a shake of his head. He glanced at his desk and offered Cork a heavy ceramic mug as an ashtray. Cork lit up. He inhaled deeply and felt a stab of pain from his bruised ribs.

  “You okay?” Tom Griffin asked.

  “Got any aspirin?”

  “Sure.”

  The priest opened his desk drawer and took out a half-full bottle of aspirin. He tossed the bottle to Cork. “Let me get some water.”

  “Don’t bother.” Cork tapped out a couple tablets and swallowed them.

  “What about Paul LeBeau?” the priest pressed him.

  “Darla knows where he is,” Cork said.

  “That seems like a huge assumption.”

  “Is it? You talk with her every day. You tell me. Is she afraid?”

  “Yes,” the priest admitted.

  “Do you know why?”

  “Her son.” The priest shrugged as if it were obvious.

  “Let me ask you something else. Have you seen Joe John?”

  The priest gave a definite shake of his head. “No.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “If I knew that, wouldn’t I know where Paul is? Look, Cork, playing twenty questions won’t get you far. What is it you really want from me?”

  “I want you to do me a favor. I want you to tell Darla I’m interested in what she’s afraid of, what the boy’s afraid of. Hell, what Joe John and everybody else is afraid of, too, for that matter. I’m not a cop anymore, so nothing I’m told is official.”

  There was a knock at the door, soft, the light tap of Mrs. Gruber.

  “Just a moment!” the priest called. His good eye bored into Cork. “Why should they trust you?”

  “Because that boy can’t hide forever. And sooner or later they’re going to have to trust somebody who knows how to protect him.”

  “From what?”

  “You tell me.” Cork ground his cigarette out in the bottom of the mug. He stood up to leave and handed the mug back to the priest. “Talk to them, then let me know. I can help, believe me.”

  The priest walked him to the door and opened it. Ellie Gruber stood in the hallway with Wanda Manydeeds.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Father,” Mrs. Gruber said, “but she said it was urgent.”

  Wanda Manydeed’s dark eyes shot past the priest to where Cork stood at his back. “What’s he doing here?”

  “It’s all right,” Father Tom Griffin assured her. “We were just finishing.”

  In all the years Cork had known Wanda Manydeeds, he’d seldom seen those hard chestnut eyes clear of suspicion. Wanda looked at the world with chronic distrust. It was as if she’d been born without innocence, and although she had suffered much in her life, she’d never suffered from a mistake caused by naпvetй.

  “Going to discuss a joint service for Russell Blackwater?”

  “That’s right.” The priest spoke for them both.

  “Too bad Russell didn’t have the forewarning his father did. You both could have been there to expedite his passage over. But come to think of it, he did. He knew the Windigo had called his name. He just didn’t believe it.”

  Wanda Manydeeds finally addressed Cork. “Word is you heard the Windigo, too.”

  “I did.” He smiled coldly. “The difference is I’m ready for the son of a bitch.” He nodded to them both in parting. “ ’Night.”

  30

  The geese weren’t there. Cork looked across the dark, empty water and listened in vain. The grain lay in the snow by the bucket, untouched. He figu
red they were gone for good.

  In the cabin, there was a message on his answering machine. Molly. “Call me,” she said.

  He kicked the heat up and reminded himself that tomorrow he’d get the window fixed. His ribs felt like hell, but his stitched hand seemed okay. He opened a can of Hormel chili, heated it up, grated a little cheese over it, ate the chili with saltines. After he’d cleared the dishes, he made a pot of coffee and sat down at the old table Sam Winter Moon had made from birch. He set Jo’s folder in front of him. For a long time he simply sipped his coffee and stared at the blood-crusted, unopened folder. He wanted to believe that what the photographs captured didn’t matter now. Old infidelity. But it did. The pictures chronicled more than Jo’s unfaithfulness. They were a testament to the ridiculous nature of the trust people placed in one another. Marriage was only one example. There were others. Elections. The ministry. Medicine. The bottom line was that people who leaned too heavily on someone else were setting themselves up for a terrible fall, and they had no one to blame in the end but themselves for the hurt they suffered. Cork had learned the hard way. And he vowed it would not happen again.

  He considered the closed folder. He wasn’t sure that studying what it contained would do any good. But he didn’t have any other ideas.

  The first photograph wasn’t so hard. A distance shot. It framed the bow of Parrant’s sailboat tied up to the dock. The name “Thor’s Hammer” was clear on the side. Beyond the dock was the long dark of the backyard. And beyond that the whole rear of Parrant’s house rising up and filling the photo. There was firelight in the living room, the soft glow visible through the sliding doors of the upper deck, and two slivers of light lower down where the hot tub was, illuminating what appeared to be a single large white shape. Cork put the photograph on the table to his left.

  The next photo was an enlargement of the first, centered on the hot tub. Two candles burned on the rim of the tub, and in their soft light the large white shape clearly defined itself as two naked bodies pressed together. The faces weren’t yet clear. The dark-haired male arching from behind could have been almost anybody. But to someone who knew what to look for, the woman bent forward was plainly Jo. She’d worn her hair longer then and crimped.