Mercy Falls co-5

by William Kent Krueger

  In Morgan’s face, the concern was obvious. Had they put their faith in a man too old? He said nothing. Fineday, too, held his tongue, but Cork could imagine his worry. Were they losing his daughter?

  Still, none of them had been able to say that Meloux was wrong, that Stone had gone a different way. But were they, Cork wondered, the blind following the blind?

  Beyond Lamb Lake, their way would lie to the east, along a narrow flow called Carson Creek that fed out of the far shoreline. It would take them to Hornby, a huge lake with dozens of inlets. The most direct route across Lamb was through a channel between two small islands. Although it was difficult from a distance to judge their size, Cork recalled from the map that both islands were shaped roughly like bread loaves, the larger approximately one hundred yards long, the other half that size. It appeared that at one time they’d been connected, but the natural bridge had collapsed, its ruin apparent in the great stone slabs that broke the surface in the channel. On the larger island, a few jack pines had managed to put down roots, but they were ragged-looking trees, like beggars huddled against a cold night. The southern end of the island was dominated by a sharp rise thick with blood-red sumac.

  “Do we go on?” Morgan asked.

  “Hell yes, we go on,” Fineday said. “We haven’t found Lizzie yet.”

  “Henry?” Cork turned to Meloux.

  “I would like to sit and smoke,” the old man said.

  Fineday spoke urgently, but not without respect. “We don’t have time. She’s still with him out there somewhere.”

  “Stone knows we’re coming,” Meloux said. “He will be patient now. We should be patient, too.”

  “I’ll go on alone if I have to.”

  “If you have to. But consider how much more eight eyes can see than two. And there’s one more thing.” Meloux settled his bony rump on the trunk of a fallen tamarack. “I am tired.”

  “We’ll break for a while,” Cork said. “Then decide.”

  Not far off the trail, in a stand of quaking aspen, was an official Boundary Waters campsite. While Meloux smoked and ruminated, Cork checked the camp. When he came back, he sat beside Meloux on the fallen tamarack, rolled a cigarette, and smoked with the old man in silence. Morgan lay with his back propped against an overturned canoe, his eyes closed. Fineday paced the shoreline.

  “How’re you doing, Henry?” Cork asked.

  “When I was a young man, I could read a trail across a face of rock. Now…” He took a deep, ragged breath.

  Cork was concerned. It was obvious the day had taken a heavy toll on Meloux. He looked ready to buckle.

  What had he been thinking, bringing an old man, a man of parchment skin and matchstick bones, on such a difficult journey, such a dangerous mission? Had he put the others at risk, and Lizzie Fineday as well? Should he have mounted an army of deputies and volunteers, swept into the woods hoping to catch Stone in a huge net? Would anything he tried have worked?

  Meloux finally said, “We are near the end, I think.”

  “How do you know, Henry?”

  “He knows he has gone beyond the dogs. The next lake is Asabikeshiinh.”

  Spider. The Anishinaabe name for the lake. Because of all the inlets like legs, Cork knew.

  “It is a big lake, easy to lose someone who follows him,” Meloux said. “But he does not want to lose us.”

  “What do you think he’ll do?”

  “He will set a trap. Or he will circle.”

  “Come up on us from behind?” Morgan’s eyes were open now.

  “It is a trick of bears, a good trick. So maybe that is what he will do.” He spoke to Fineday. “Put your restless walking to use. Look carefully along the shoreline, in the soft dirt, for boot prints. Go that way.” He pointed to his right. “You, Corcoran, go the other way.”

  “What about me?” Morgan asked.

  “Go back down the trail and look for signs of his turning there.”

  Fifteen minutes later, they regrouped at the overturned canoes. None of them had found any indication that Stone had ever been that way. Another disappointment.

  “It’s getting dark,” Fineday said. “We should keep moving. We can make Lake Hornby before nightfall.”

  “If he is behind us,” Meloux said, “moving ahead will take us away from him. If he is ahead, he is waiting, and dark is not a good time to walk into his trap.”

  “We should stay here?” Cork said.

  The old man said, “Yes.”

  There was no way to know for sure what Stone had up his sleeve. Ahead, behind, watching them from somewhere even now, perhaps. When Fineday didn’t argue, Cork figured that he’d accepted Meloux’s advice. It sounded good to Cork, too.

  “Maybe I should park myself out of sight near the last landing, see if anybody’s following,” Morgan said.

  “Not a bad idea, Howard.”

  “It’s almost time for a radio check,” Morgan reminded him.

  “I’ll do it,” Cork said.

  When he raised Larson on the radio, Ed’s first question was “What’s your twenty?”

  “Lamb Lake.”

  “Any sign of Stone or the Fineday girl?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Have you seen anything, anything at all, that would confirm you’re on the right track?”

  “That’s a negative.”

  “Cork, you could be on a wild-goose chase. Or, worse, walking right into Stone’s gun sight.”

  “I’m still open to suggestions.” Cork waited for a reply, then said, “In the meantime, have the DeHavilland make one more pass over the area before it’s too dark.”

  There was a grill at the campsite, but it was too risky to build a fire. Morgan returned having seen nothing, and they sat down to a meal of peanut butter sandwiches, dried apricots, and Hershey bars with almonds. Once the sun had set fully, the chill of the autumn night rolled in quickly. Although it had taken precious space in the Duluth pack, Morgan had brought a one-burner Coleman stove and a small propane tank. He boiled lake water and made instant coffee, which the men drank eagerly.

  The sky was amethyst and still without stars. “You said he would circle or he would set a trap.” Fineday spoke out of the growing dark under the aspens. His form was clear, but his face was almost lost. “What kind of trap?”

  “Why does he have your daughter?” Meloux said.

  “Because he’s a son of a bitch.”

  “That,” the old man agreed. “But if our sheriff is right, Stone has her for the same reason a hunter puts fish and honey in a bear trap. Have you ever built a bear trap in the old way?”

  Fineday said no.

  “You build it of brush. It does not need to be sturdy, so long as there is only one way for the bear to get in. Even a hungry bear will look for the easiest way. The hunter puts the fish and honey far back in the trap, and he sets a heavy log over the opening. When makwa walks in,” Meloux said, using the Ojibwe word for bear, “the hunter springs the trap, the log falls, makwa ’s back is broken. It is the fish and honey that are his undoing.”

  “Stone is counting on us wanting the girl,” Morgan said.

  Meloux sipped his coffee. “Would we be here if he did not have her?”

  They heard the drone of the DeHavilland as it approached and flew low overhead. It circled Lamb Lake, then headed north into the darkening sky.

  A few minutes later, Larson radioed from base. The floatplane had nothing to report.

  Cork stood up and said, “Going to see a man about a horse.”

  He started in the direction of the pit toilet. Although he took a flashlight, he didn’t turn it on. He’d gone less than a dozen steps when he froze and listened. From the portage came the snap of twigs and the crack of dry leaves underfoot. Quickly he riffled through the possibilities. An innocent canoeist? But the floatplane had spotted no one on the lake behind them. An animal? A moose might make that kind of noise, so maybe. Stone? No, Stone would never give himself away so easily. Unless he was up to som
ething.

  Cork was too far from his weapon, but in the thin light he saw Morgan in a kneeling position with his rifle stock snugged against his shoulder. Fineday quickly brought his own rifle to the ready. Meloux was invisible, already part of the woods somehow. Cork dropped to the ground and kept his eyes on the portage, visible through the trees twenty yards away. The ground was littered with golden aspen leaves, and the scent of their desiccation should have been strong, but all he could smell was the coffee Morgan had made. He wondered how far that good smell had traveled. Had Stone picked it up?

  From the lake came the cry of a loon and, nearer to Cork, the buzzing of a night insect the cold had not yet killed. He heard the approaching footfalls, the scrape of something huge pushing against the brush at the side of the trail, something that seemed to let out a small growl now and then as it came. Both Morgan and Fineday had their cheeks laid against the rifle stocks, sighting.

  The black shape that appeared, rattling the underbrush, was like nothing Cork had ever seen. Nearly as tall and long as a moose, it lumbered along the portage toward Lamb Lake. Cork couldn’t help thinking of the cannibal ogre, the Windigo.

  The creature stumbled and let out a cry. Then it spoke.

  “Shit.”

  Cork recognized the voice.

  “Dina?”

  He realized the truth of what he was seeing. No creature, but Dina Willner, portaging what looked to be an inflatable kayak, which was sometimes called a duckie.

  She set the kayak on the ground, and as she did so, the heavy rubber siding scraped the underbrush, resulting in what sounded like a growl.

  “I was surprised you stopped,” she said, a little breathless. “There was still daylight.”

  Morgan and Fineday lowered their rifles. Cork made his way across the campsite.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he said.

  “What I’m paid to do. Consulting.”

  On her back she carried a pack, and slung over her right shoulder was a scoped rifle.

  “Jesus Christ, we almost shot you.”

  “With all that noise? You might not have known it was me, but I know you didn’t think it was Stone.”

  “A visitor?” Meloux asked. He’d materialized from nowhere.

  “Not for long, Henry. She’s going back,” Cork said.

  Meloux shook his head. “Not tonight. Not with Stone in these woods.”

  Dina walked to him and gave her hand. “I’m Dina Willner.”

  “Henry Meloux.” The old man appraised her, top to bottom, and nodded appreciatively. “You are small but you have the look of a hunter. Are you hungry?”

  “Henry,” Dina replied with a huge smile, “I’m absolutely famished.”

  “It was the last inflatable the sporting goods store had. Not the best, but I figured that for a couple of days, it would do.” She’d eaten a sandwich and a handful of the apricots, and now she was sipping coffee Morgan had offered. “I stashed it on the other side of Bruno Lake before you all got started.”

  “You haven’t answered my question,” Cork said.

  “You mean, why am I here?”

  “That would be the one.”

  “Because I’m not one of your people and have to stay back. Because you wouldn’t have let me come if I’d asked. Because this is the kind of thing I’m good at.”

  “How did you find us?” Fineday said.

  “I’m an excellent tracker,” she said. “Also, I bugged Sheriff O’Connor.”

  Cork thought a moment, then dug in his pants and pulled out the medallion she had passed to him through Simon Rutledge.

  “Good old Saint Christopher,” Dina said. “He never lets me down.”

  “The DeHavilland didn’t spot you,” Cork said.

  “I have a radio tuned to your frequency. I made sure I was under cover whenever the plane was due to fly over.”

  “We need to let base know the situation.” Cork turned to the radio.

  He explained everything to Larson, said that Dina would stay until morning, then would be sent back. To which she shook her head with a definite no. Larson gave him the latest weather forecast-clear skies, cold temperatures-and then gave him the difficult news.

  “Faith Gray says you have one more chance to keep your appointment with her before she orders your suspension.”

  “Christ, doesn’t she understand the circumstances?”

  “The circumstances don’t matter, Cork. The language of the rule is clear. You ought to know. Your rule.”

  Cork signed off feeling tired, feeling as if there was too much on his shoulders at the moment.

  With hard dark, the stars came out by the millions and the sky through the branches above the campsite looked as if it were full of a thin frost.

  “At least the weather’s holding,” Morgan noted.

  “A little snow would be good,” Meloux said.

  “Snow?” Dina sounded surprised.

  “Just enough,” Meloux said.

  “We call it a hunter’s snow,” Cork explained.

  “I get it. The tracks.”

  Fineday had been quiet. Meloux said, “Worry will not save her.”

  For the first time, Fineday spoke to Meloux harshly. “Sitting here won’t either. We haven’t seen a single sign of them. How do we know they came this way? They could be miles from here.”

  Meloux replied calmly, “If they are, what can we do? Better to believe that we have been guided well.”

  “By an old man with failing eyes?”

  “By the spirits of these woods.”

  “That’s what’s been leading us? Spirits?”

  “We have not failed yet,” Meloux said. “There’s no reason to distrust or despair.”

  Despite the old Mide’s encouraging words, Cork wondered if he saw uncertainty in Meloux’s dark eyes.

  “So in the morning the plan is that we cut between those two islands, hit Carson Creek, and see what happens from there?” Morgan said. “Sounds a lot like the plan we followed today.”

  His tone was not accusatory, but his point was clear. All the evidence so far seemed to indicate that they’d spent their time in a fruitless hunt that had netted them nothing except tired muscles and the prospect of a long night on cold ground. Cork understood that as a working plan for the next day it lacked appeal.

  “Until Henry says different, we stay on the trail,” he said.

  “You’re the boss. Anybody want more coffee?” Morgan got up from where he sat on his sleeping bag and took the pan to the lake to fill it with water. It was dark and he carried a flashlight. A minute later he hollered, “Hey, look at this.”

  Cork and the others hurried to Morgan, who stood on the lakeshore near the overturned canoes. He pointed the beam of his flashlight at the water a few feet out. Something gold glinted in the light.

  “It looks like a watch,” Dina said.

  Cork used his own flashlight to locate a stick, then he fished the watch from the lake bottom.

  Fineday grabbed it from him. “It’s Lizzie’s. I gave it to her when she turned sixteen.”

  “Do you think she dropped it on purpose, to let us know?”

  Meloux said, “She would drop nothing that Stone did not know about.”

  “Stone left it?” Morgan asked.

  Meloux looked across the dark water of the lake. “Fish and honey,” he said.

  40

  It was soft twilight when Jo pulled off Sheridan Road onto a long drive that cut through a hundred yards of dark lawn. The tires growled over dun-colored bricks that had been used for paving. She pulled up to a house big as a convent, with a red tile roof and stucco walls. In every way, it rivaled the home of Lou Jacoby.

  Ben met her at the door. “Come in. I just got home.” He was still dressed in his three-piece pinstriped suit, looking handsome, distinguished.

  She stepped inside.

  “It’s a little dark,” Ben said. “I can turn on some lights if you prefer.”

  “No, I’
m fine.”

  They were in a large entryway that opened left and right onto huge rooms.

  “Where would you like to talk? In the parlor?”

  “You have a parlor?”

  “And a billiard room, a library, a study. With a candlestick and a lead pipe we could be a game of Clue. It’s way too big, but it’s what Miriam wanted. How about we sit in the kitchen? It’s really the coziest room in the house.”

  He led the way through a large dining room with French doors that opened onto a wide veranda. Jo could see a long stretch of lawn, green and tidy as an ironed tablecloth, with a turquoise swimming pool as a centerpiece. A tall hedge marked the rear boundary, and beyond that lay Lake Michigan, dark silver in the evening light.

  The kitchen, which Ben had called cozy, was larger than any room in Jo’s house on Gooseberry Lane. The floor was black-and-white tile. There were long counters, a dozen cupboards, and a butcher-block island. A round table with chairs was set near a sliding door that, like the dining room French doors, opened onto the veranda.

  “You must eat well,” Jo said.

  “Miriam hired fine cooks.” Ben indicated the table. “Have a chair. Would you like a glass of wine?”

  “Thank you.”

  “Red? You used to love a good red.”

  “I don’t drink red anymore. It gives me a headache.”

  “Things change, don’t they? How about a chardonnay?”

  He took a bottle from the refrigerator and opened it. From a rack above one of the counters, he took two glasses that hung upside down by their stems.

  Several books lay stacked on one of the chairs at the table. They appeared to be college textbooks.

  “What are these?” Jo asked.

  Jacoby carried the wineglasses to the table and sat down. “They’re Phillip’s. He’s around the house somewhere. He got expelled from his fraternity, and he’s staying here for a while until he can arrange for other housing.”

  Jo had no idea what transgression might result in expulsion from a fraternity, but her sense, given the Animal House image she held, was that it had to be significant.

  “All right,” Ben said. “Let’s talk. What do you want to know?”