“Migwech, Henry.”
Rainy went to the old stove, opened the door, and threw in a few sticks of wood to stoke the fire. The old man stood up and said to his niece, “We will be by the lake.”
Cork walked beside his old friend down a path that threaded between two great rock outcroppings. On the far side, very close to the shoreline of the lake, lay a circle of stones that contained the deep black char of many fires. Sectioned tree trunks had been placed around the circle for seating. Meloux eased his old, narrow butt onto one of these, and Cork sat next to him. Meloux’s breathing was rapid and shallow, and he seemed exhausted. Cork thought about commenting on this but figured if Henry wanted to discuss it he would.
Meloux stared at Iron Lake. There was no breeze, and the surface of the water lay flat and silver. The air near the fire circle smelled of the ritual burning that was often a part of the old Mide’s work.
It was a long time before Meloux spoke. “You visited Millie Joseph?”
“Yes,” Cork replied. “She was helpful.”
The old man nodded.
“Henry, I need to know what you did with my revolver.”
Meloux turned his face to Cork. His eyes were brown and watchful. “I put it with your rifle in a safe and sacred place.”
“Where?”
“A place I do not think even you know, Corcoran O’Connor. It is a place remembered by only the oldest of The People, a place of bimaadiziwin.”
Bimaadiziwin. Cork translated the word in his mind: a healthy way of life.
“It is a place where things that have blocked the way of our people, the path toward wholeness, have been put aside for good.”
“I want to see the revolver, Henry.”
The old man seemed puzzled. “Do you need it?”
“No, I just need to know that it’s still there.”
“Why would it move?”
“Humor me, Henry. Just tell me how to find it.”
While Meloux considered this request, Rainy appeared, carrying three white ceramic mugs, which she brought to the stone circle. She handed one to Meloux, one to Cork, and kept the other.
“Shall I stay?” she asked her uncle.
Which seemed to Cork clearly her intention, considering the cup she’d brought for herself.
“For a few minutes,” the old man said. “Then you will show our guest something.”
Cork glanced up at her. She seemed as surprised by this as he.
She sat down. Her presence felt awkward, and Cork was reluctant to continue the discussion. But perhaps as far as Meloux was concerned the discussion was finished anyway. They sat for several minutes in an ill-fitting silence. Cork was used to silence; the Ojibwe were quite comfortable with saying nothing for a long time. But the woman struck an alien chord in him. He wanted to be rid of her. Meloux seemed blithely clueless. He drank the tea, which smelled both sweet and pungent, and contemplated the silver lake. For her part, Rainy did the same.
“The home of Judge Parrant,” Meloux finally said. “It is a place of bad medicine. There are many diseased places, but there are also those places of healing, places of bimaadiziwin.”
“Bimaadiziwin,” Rainy responded. “The healthy life.”
“Do you remember where the blackberry bushes grow? I showed you.”
“Of course. East along the lakeshore about a mile. On top of a cliff.”
The old man gave a nod. “There is a cave in that cliff. The opening is small and hidden by blackberry brambles. What Corcoran O’Connor is looking for, he will find in that cave. Will you take him there?”
“Of course, Uncle.”
“I would go myself, but I am tired.”
“Would you like to walk back to the cabin?” she asked.
“No. I will stay here and finish my tea. You go with Cork. Go now. I think today he is a man in a hurry.”
She stood up, walked to where the path threaded between the outcroppings, and glanced back impatiently, as if she were the eager one and Cork the laggard. He pulled his butt off the stump and said to Meloux, “Migwech, Henry.”
At the cabin, Rainy paused only long enough to put their mugs inside, then walked briskly east. She led him through a dense stand of paper birch, then across a small marsh on a narrow spine of solid ground he would never have found on his own. He followed her up a face of rock colored and lined like a turtle shell and topped with aspens. They wove among the aspens, which were pale green with new leaves, and when they broke from the trees they stood atop a cliff with Iron Lake stretching below them. All along the edge of the cliff grew blackberry bushes. “This must be it,” Cork said. “Where is this place of health?”
“You know as much as I do. Uncle Henry asked me to bring you to the top of the cliff, and here we are.”
Cork eased his way between the thorny blackberry brambles and carefully peered over the side of the precipice. The lake lay a good hundred feet below. The water was clear, and he could see perfectly the dark contours of the rock that had broken from the cliff face and now lay jagged on the lake bottom. Just above the waterline, seeming to cling to the very rock itself, was another long line of blackberry bramble.
“I can’t see any way down,” he said.
“Maybe down isn’t the best way to approach,” Rainy suggested. “Maybe up from the water.”
“Henry didn’t offer us a canoe.”
“You can’t swim?”
He gave her a cold look and walked farther east, where the land sloped in a gentle fold. At the bottom was a small creek that fed into the lake. Cork followed the creek to its mouth, where he sat on the trunk of a cedar that had long ago toppled. He untied his laces and removed his boots. He pulled off his socks and stuffed them into the boots. He unbuttoned his blue denim shirt and shrugged it off. He tugged off his T-shirt. Finally he began to unbuckle his belt.
Rainy, who’d followed him, watched all this with deep, silent interest.
“The pants are coming off,” he warned her.
“Boxers or briefs?” she said.
He hesitated. “It’s been a long time since I took off my pants in front of a woman. I’m not real comfortable with this.”
“For heaven’s sake, I’m a public health nurse. Believe me, I’ve seen it all.”
He skinned the jeans from his hips and drew them off.
“Black boxers,” she said. “Interesting.”
He ignored her, folded his pants, and laid them atop his other things.
“Are those bullet holes?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“It’s hard to believe they didn’t kill you.”
“At the time, I was pretty sure they would.”
“Luck?”
“Henry, I think, would say destiny. You coming?”
“Are you kidding? That water’s freezing. I’ll wait here, make sure no one steals your clothes. Enjoy your swim.” She smiled with wicked delight.
She was right. Although it was mid-June, the lake water was still frigid. In the North Country, the cool nights would keep the water temperature challenging until well into July. Cork plunged in, and the icy water gripped him like a fierce, angry hand. He considered with amazement the mining engineer, Genie Kufus, who claimed to swim in the lake regularly. You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din, he thought as he swam feverishly away from shore and circled back to the cliff.
In the middle of the gray face of rock, beginning just at the waterline, he found natural steps. He quickly climbed from the lake and immediately the sun began to warm him. Barefooted, he carefully mounted the rock, working his way toward the line of blackberry bushes. Although from the lake the opening of the cave couldn’t be seen, from his current vantage, Cork could clearly make out the small black hole Meloux had mentioned. He eased behind the bramble, knelt in the mouth of the cave, crawled inside, and waited while his eyes adjusted slowly to the dim light.
It was cool and dry. The floor sloped toward the entrance, so that any water that might have found its way i
n would have quickly drained. The chamber was small, the size of a five-man tent, and edged with rock shelves. On the shelves lay many items, some looking quite ancient. Cork could see no rhyme or reason to what had been placed there: a bow made of hard maple with a deer-hide quiver full of arrow shafts whose featherings had long ago turned to dust; a colorfully beaded bandolier bag; a rag doll; a muzzle-loader with a rotted stock and beside it a powder horn, still in good condition; a woven blanket; a coil of rope. There were knives and a tomahawk and what looked to be a collection of human scalps. And there was a bearskin that belonged to Cork, in which he’d wrapped his Winchester rifle and his .38 Smith & Wesson Police Special when he’d handed them over to Henry Meloux. He pulled the bearskin from the shelf, set it on the floor, and unrolled it. The Winchester was still there. The .38 was gone.
FIFTEEN
Meloux seemed puzzled but not disturbed.
Cork strained to control his anger. “Henry, why didn’t you keep it here with you? Why put it somewhere someone might find it?”
“I do not lock my door, Corcoran O’Connor.” The old man shrugged. “Here, too, someone might find it.”
“Don’t blame my uncle,” Rainy said. “Why didn’t you disable the weapon before you gave it to him? Remove the firing pin or something? You can do that, right?”
It was late afternoon. They sat at the table in the cabin on Crow Point, Cork on one side and Meloux and his niece on the other. Rainy angled her body toward Cork in a threatening way, and, if her eyes had been fists, his face would have been bloody.
“You come here, ask my uncle for help, and when he gives it to you, all you can do is criticize. He’s told me of your good friendship. Frankly, from what I’ve seen so far, I have trouble believing it.”
“Niece,” Meloux said gently. “Your tongue is a knife. If I need a knife, I have my own.”
Cork said, “Henry, you know things you’re not telling me.”
“What I know is that you are looking for a truth I cannot give you now.”
Cork bent toward the old Mide. “A woman is dead, shot with the same gun that over forty years ago killed her mother. It’s the same kind of gun you put in the cave and is now missing. I’m hoping against hope that they’re not the same weapon. I can’t even guess how that could be possible. But I gotta tell you, Henry, I don’t like the feel of it, not one bit. I need to know everything you know.”
Meloux’s face was a blanket of compassion, but there was no hint that he was going to offer Cork anything more.
“Do you know if it was my father’s revolver that killed Monique Cavanaugh?”
Meloux’s expression changed not at all, and again he didn’t reply.
“At least tell me this,” Cork said, his voice pitched with frustration. “Who else knows about this place of bimaadiziwin?”
Meloux thought a moment. “It has always been a secret and sacred place. The Mide have always known, but most have walked the Path of Souls. I do not know who knows and has not yet walked that path.”
“So only you and the dead know? Christ, Henry, that’s not true. Someone very much alive and kicking took that gun.” Cork rose and towered over the old man. “If you know who that is, Henry, for God sake tell me.”
But it was like throwing punches at the wind. The old Mide looked up at him and said quietly, “You are a man on a journey. And all the while you stand here, your feet are idle.”
Fire flared in Cork’s brain. “God damn it,” he said and spun away and headed toward the door.
Rainy followed him outside. “When you come again, if you ever do, will you bring something with you?”
“What?” he snapped at her.
“Manners.” She turned, went back inside, and shut the door.
His only food that day had been the oatmeal he’d ordered for breakfast at the Pinewood Broiler when he talked with Cy Borkman. He was starved, and he headed to Sam’s Place. He parked in the lot, went into the old Quonset hut, and apologized to Judy Madsen for having been absent all day. She glanced at his face, and what she saw there caused her obvious concern. “You look like you swallowed a cockroach. The kids and me, we’ve got this covered. You worry about your other business.”
Judy fixed him a Sam’s Super with the works and a large basket of fries. He took his meal in the rear of the Quonset hut.
Sam’s Super was the hallmark of Sam’s Place. It had been Sam Winter Moon’s pride. Sam had believed in a quality burger. He never used frozen patties. Every day, first thing in the morning, he took twenty pounds of lean ground beef and rolled it in his hands into quarter-pound balls, which, order by order, he placed on the hot grill, pressed flat with his spatula, and seared to juicy perfection. The patty was topped with good Wisconsin cheddar, freshly sliced tomato, a large frond of leaf lettuce, a thin slice of Walla Walla sweet onion, and Sam’s own special sauce, whose recipe was a closely guarded secret. Every time Cork bit into a Sam’s Super, he tasted a heaven of memories.
He was almost finished eating when his cell phone chirped. “O’Connor,” he answered.
“It’s Marsha Dross, Cork. We have a situation here. Can you come to my office right away?”
The instant he walked into Dross’s office, he could feel the tension in the air. Dross was at her desk. Rutledge was standing at the window. Ed Larson was sitting with Lou Haddad and his wife. All eyes swung toward Cork.
“Come in,” Dross said, rising. “You know Sheri?”
“Of course. How are you?” he asked.
Haddad’s wife smiled bravely, and her hand lifted a little in a halfhearted greeting.
“Sheri got a note,” Dross said. “Same message Lou and the others received, but with a twist.”
Dross indicated a sheet of paper on her desk. Cork walked over and took a look but didn’t touch. There was a trifold, just as there’d been with the others. The note had been printed on paper that Cork was pretty sure had no identifying watermark, and the same blood-dripping font—From Hell—had been used. The message was almost the same as before, but, as Dross had indicated, it was different and in a terrifying way: We die, U die. Just like her.
“Just like her?” Cork said.
“We’re assuming it refers to Lauren Cavanaugh,” Ed Larson said. “Which is interesting. As far as we know, only those of us associated with the investigation knew that Lauren Cavanaugh was one of the victims in the mine.”
“Not true,” Cork said. “The person who put her there knew.”
“Exactly,” Larson said. “We’re taking this very seriously.”
“Where did you get this, Sheri?”
“It was under the windshield wiper of my car.”
“Have Max Cavanaugh or Genie Kufus received anything more?” Cork asked Dross.
“We contacted Cavanaugh at his house this afternoon. He’s got nothing more.”
“And Kufus?”
For a moment, they all appeared to be frozen, a tableau of awkward concern. Then Dross said, “She seems to be missing.”
SIXTEEN
Genie Kufus wasn’t at her hotel, nor was she answering her cell phone. Her car was gone. None of her team from the DOE knew where she was.
“When was the last time anyone saw her?” Cork asked.
“She met with her team over lunch, then she returned to her room to work. None of them have heard from her since, and none of them saw her leave the hotel.”
“Have you checked her room?”
“Of course,” Dross said. “She’s not there.”
“You went in?”
“Yes. With the manager.”
“Any sign of a struggle?”
“No.”
“Anything appear to be missing?”
“That’s hard to say without knowing what should be there.”
“You put out a BOLO?” Which was shorthand for Be on the Lookout.
Dross nodded. “She’s driving a rented cherry red Explorer. Not easy to miss.”
“You mind if I have a look at her hote
l room?”
Dross shot glances toward Larson and Rutledge. They both gave nods. “Under the circumstances, I’m going to say okay. But I’d like to be there with you.”
“Of course.” Cork stood up and smiled at Haddad and his wife. “I think you should go somewhere safe. When was the last time you two took a vacation together?”
The room Genie Kufus occupied at the Four Seasons overlooked Iron Lake and the marina. It was a lovely view of white-masted sloops and powerboats set against dark blue water.
Dross said, “My guys have already been here, Cork. What are you looking for that they didn’t see?”
“I hope I’ll know it when I see it.”
He turned from the windows and scanned the room. Kufus was neat, well organized. Either she traveled a great deal and had the process down or this was who she was all the time. Nothing looked out of place, and that was helpful to Cork. He walked to the desk. Her laptop was closed. He opened it.
“Don’t turn that on,” Dross warned. “Until I’ve determined that she’s officially missing, we’re on thin ice just being here.”
She was right. Cork glanced through the documents that lay stacked next to the computer. They all appeared to be technical papers dealing with the mine and mining in general. He went to the closet. Dresses and slacks were hung with care; shoes had been set on the floor like soldiers in formation. He went to the dresser and opened the top drawer. Lingerie, scented with lilac from a little pouch of sachet. Which seemed odd for a woman in town on business. The rest of the drawers held other, less interesting, clothing: folded tops, sweaters, shorts.
He entered the bathroom, where he found the towels racked with measured precision. Not even an errant hair on the sink.
“Interesting,” he said.
“What?”
“Kufus is a swimmer, but I don’t see a bathing suit anywhere. Why don’t you call the front desk, make sure none of the staff saw her go out for a swim this afternoon.”
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