“I don’t know,” Cork said, maybe too quickly.
“Do you always hunt here?” Holter asked.
“We never have before.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a risky choice,” Cork replied.
“Risky? Why?”
So Cork explained to the BCA agent about Trickster’s Point.
Long before white men came, the Ojibwe told stories about the strangenesses of the place. They believed it was full of prize bucks, because Nanaboozhoo protected them here. He caused hunters to become confused. Around Trickster’s Point, the Ojibwe couldn’t necessarily believe what their senses told them. They would get mixed up about directions and become hopelessly lost. Or worse. Ojibwe lore was rife with tales of hunters who swore they’d let an arrow fly at a huge buck only to discover that what they’d felled was one of their own, another hunter.
“The best trophy deer I’ve ever seen have come from around Lake Nanaboozhoo,” Cork said. “But within my own lifetime, it’s also been the site of several fatal hunting accidents. Without exception, the hunters involved—those who came forward and admitted their guilt—maintained that they were absolutely certain what they were shooting at was an enormous buck.”
“Those who came forward?” Holter said.
Cork held out a hand toward Larson, who explained, “On two occasions within the last decade, a worried wife has reported that a husband had gone hunting around Trickster’s Point and hadn’t returned. Both times, we instituted a search operation, and both times we found the missing man lying somewhere in the woods out here. In both cases, the men were dead from gunshot wounds. No one admitted responsibility for those deaths.”
“Compasses behave weird out here, and cell phones don’t work either,” Stephen offered.
Holter frowned. “Is that so?”
“People around here know the stories, and most of them who hunt opt to do it somewhere else,” Cork said.
“Which brings me back to my original question,” Larson said. “Why Trickster’s Point? I’m guessing Little knew this area’s reputation.”
“I don’t think he took the stories seriously,” Cork said, knowing he wasn’t really answering Larson’s question.
“A modern Indian,” Holter replied sensibly. “He didn’t believe the mumbo jumbo.”
“Mumbo jumbo?” Cork said.
“You know what I mean.”
With every minute that passed, Cork was liking this man less and less.
“One thing I still don’t understand,” Holter went on. “Why did no one discover this body until you just happened to stumble over it?” Although he’d directed the question at Cork, his eyes shifted in an accusing way toward Captain Ed Larson, whose crime scene team had been responsible for what had—and in this case, hadn’t—been found at Trickster’s Point the day before.
Cork said, “This is way beyond the range of any bow hunter. There was no real reason to look up here.”
“And yet you did,” Holter said suggestively.
“I saw the trail; Ed’s people didn’t. But they’re not trained in tracking.”
Holter flashed a smile, entirely disingenuous. “You must be pretty good.”
“I’m okay. There are others much better than me. Jubal Little, for one.”
“Do I detect a little envy?”
“I discovered a long time ago that it was useless to be envious of Jubal. He was better than everyone at everything.”
Holter studied him, and Cork wondered if the BCA agent was going to ask him a lot of questions about what had happened the day before, cover the same territory that had already been well covered by Larson and Dross. In the end, Holter simply said, “I think that’s enough here. Mr. O’Connor, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t discuss any of this with anyone. Either of you.” He gave Stephen a good, stern look.
Cork could tell that his son was disappointed at being sent away, and probably a little upset by Holter’s dismissive treatment of them. They made their way down the ridge slope to the base of Trickster’s Point, where the vehicles from the sheriff’s department were gathered, and where Stephen had parked the Land Rover.
“Mind driving us out?” Cork asked.
“Okay,” Stephen said without enthusiasm.
The trail to Trickster’s Point had been created for hikers and was narrow, so the going was slow. Bare tree branches and the branches of underbrush scraped the sides of the Land Rover with little screeches, as if protesting the presence of metal and rubber where only the passage of flesh and blood were allowed. Stephen was sullen and quiet. Cork wasn’t sure if it was the general effect of all that had happened that day or if it was something more specific.
“Still pissed at Holter?” he finally asked his son.
“Not really. He doesn’t know you. But I don’t understand why the sheriff and Mr. Larson didn’t stand up for you more. I mean, they’re your friends.”
“It’s because of our friendship, Stephen. They don’t want me to be arrested for Jubal’s death any more than you do. And if they clear me, they’ve got to make absolutely certain that there are no questions about the integrity of their work or their team’s work. Do you see?”
“I suppose,” Stephen allowed, but he seemed to do it grudgingly.
They continued the rest of the way in silence, and Cork lost himself in thinking about the question Stephen had asked on the ridgetop but to which he’d received no answer: Who would want Jubal Little dead?
To Cork, the most obvious answer was Indians.
Minnesota, like most states, was in the midst of economic chaos. The budget was a mess of red ink. No one wanted new or higher taxes, but neither was anyone willing to sacrifice their sacred programs or projects. One of Jubal Little’s proposals during his campaign was to build six state-run casinos in order to generate revenue that would be dedicated solely to public projects designed to put Minnesota’s multitude of unemployed back to work. The populace was largely in favor of the idea; the Indians, of course, were not, and it was clear that they considered Jubal Little, née Littlewolf, half Blackfeet by blood, to be a traitor. He’d received threats but had defended his proposal as one approach whose benefit was broad and egalitarian, and whose ultimate purpose—which was not just about income and employment but also about funding a desperately needed upgrade of the state’s entire crumbling infrastructure—was forward-looking. With regard to the Indian casinos, he maintained that the profits benefited only a small portion of the entire Native population and that, ultimately, state-run casinos would benefit everyone, including the Ojibwe, Lakota, and Dakota, because the income would generate thousands of public works jobs and the standard of living statewide would be raised. He’d laid it out with graphs and charts, but mostly he’d sold it with his oratory and his down-to-earth charm. Sold it to all but the Indians, who’d spent a good deal of money trying to ensure that Jubal Little wasn’t elected, and who were prepared to spend a good deal more to see that his plan was never implemented. It would be far cheaper, Cork thought, simply to eliminate Jubal Little before he had a chance to get that particular ball rolling.
There were others who probably wouldn’t mourn Jubal’s passing. He’d run as an independent, so neither side of the political aisle would shed a tear. He’d pledged to tax the very rich, so they’d probably popped a champagne cork when they heard the news of his death. He’d indicated he was in favor of opening some of the wilderness areas of northern Minnesota to additional mineral exploration, a stand that had pissed off environmentalists but had won the hearts of many people on the Iron Range who’d seen nothing but economic hardship since the great mines there began shutting down operation years earlier.
The people Jubal scared he scared a lot, but they were a decided minority. He appealed to the masses, as populist a candidate as the state had ever seen. Cork’s own feelings about his old friend had, over the years, become terribly mixed. But one thing seemed certain to him as he and his son negotiated the trail away from Trickster’s Point. If St
ephen was right and the dead hunter had been there to kill both men if the arrow failed to hit its mark, then Jubal Little, in dying, had saved Cork’s life.
CHAPTER 14
They avoided the house on Gooseberry Lane and went straight to Sam’s Place. Because it was Sunday and the weather was gray and the season was late, the parking lot was almost empty. Jenny’s Subaru was parked beside Judy Madsen’s Focus. The only other vehicle was a silver Escalade with tinted windows. A couple of kids in hooded sweatshirts were at one of the serving windows, but the coast looked clear of reporters. Stephen parked, and they got out and started toward the Quonset hut.
The door of the Escalade opened, and a tall, well-dressed black man built like a wedge of granite stepped out and moved to cut them off.
“Mr. O’Connor,” he called in a deep, melodious voice.
Even if the guy turned out to be a reporter—though Cork had never seen reporters dressed so well or so well muscled or driving such an expensive set of wheels—Cork decided that, because there was only one, he’d talk to him, if only to say “No comment.”
“Kenny Yates,” the man said as he approached.
Which was a name Cork knew.
Yates offered a hand that greatly dwarfed Cork’s. Although the grip was restrained, Cork sensed the immense power behind it.
“My son, Stephen,” Cork said.
“How do you do?” Yates shook Stephen’s hand politely, then said to Cork, “Mrs. Little would like to see you. Her brothers are with her.”
“At the lake house?”
“Yes.”
“Give me a few minutes inside.”
“Fine, I’ll wait.”
“No need. I know the way.”
“I’ve been instructed to run interference for you, if necessary.”
“The media?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Hungry?”
The tall man studied the wooden placard on the side of Sam’s Place that displayed the offerings. “Is the Sam’s Super any good?”
“The best burger in the North Country,” Stephen replied.
“I’ll take two. And a chocolate shake.”
Yates reached to the inside of his black leather jacket, probably for his wallet, and Cork said, “It’s on me.”
“Thanks.” Yates’s enormous hand dropped back to his side. “I’ll wait here.”
As they continued to the door, Stephen leaned to his father and whispered, “That guy looks like a football player.”
“Used to be,” Cork said. “Hit some hard times, I heard, and Jubal hired him for the personal security of his family a few years ago. This is the first I’ve ever met him in person.”
Inside, they found everything quiet. Judy was playing with Waaboo, rolling a big plastic ball to him, which he rolled back with great delight. Madsen was a widow in her early sixties, a retired school administrator whom Cork had hired a couple of years earlier to help manage Sam’s Place. She was smart and plain and good-natured, and did a fine job supervising the teenagers Cork employed every season. She opened Sam’s Place every day except for weekends, but she almost never closed. She didn’t like to be out late at night, so closing fell to Cork or Jenny or, in a pinch, to Stephen.
As soon as they walked in, Jenny came through the door from the serving area, and her worry was obvious on her face.
“We heard,” she said. “Another body.”
“Yeah.” Although it was his daughter to whom he replied, it was his grandson who had Cork’s eye.
“Hey, big man,” Cork said and opened his arms.
“Baa-baa,” Waaboo cried and ran to him.
Cork swept up the little body and nuzzled Waaboo’s neck so that his grandson giggled wildly.
“Who was it?” Jenny asked.
“They’re not sure yet,” Stephen replied. “But we think he was partnered up with Mr. Little’s killer.”
“Partnered up?” Cork said.
“Well, you know what I mean.”
Jenny looked at her father. “They don’t think you did it, right?”
“I’m still the only game in town,” Cork said.
“And the agent in charge of the BCA team is on the ambitious side. Before this whole thing is finished, he may end up blaming me for the Lindbergh kidnapping, too.”
“Dad, it’s not funny.”
“I know,” he said. “Don’t worry. At least for the moment.”
Jenny gave her brother a motherly look of concern. “And you’re okay?”
“It all feels pretty weird, but, yeah, I’m okay.”
“Any trouble here?” Cork asked.
“Nothing we couldn’t handle,” Judy replied. With some effort, she pulled herself up from the floor, where she’d been sitting, and tucked the plastic ball under her arm. “A couple of persistent reporters. I told them to go screw themselves.”
“And then,” Jenny said, smiling, “she convinced them to buy burger baskets before they left. They didn’t get any interviews, but they didn’t go away hungry.”
“I’ll give Leon Papakee a call,” Cork said to Jenny. “Ask him to run interference for us with the media. Any questions you get or any more persistent reporters, just direct them to Leon. If you’d like, I’ll see if he can hang out with you today.”
“No,” Jenny said. “We’ll be fine.”
“I have to leave again.” He kissed his grandson’s cheek and handed him over to his mother. “I’m going to see Camilla Little.”
“I wondered when she’d show up,” Jenny said. “So you’ll be a while?”
“Probably.”
“Have you eaten lately?” Judy asked.
“Not since breakfast.”
“How about a patty melt and some onion rings before you go?”
“Thanks. And we’ve got a customer out there needs a couple Sam’s Supers and a chocolate shake.”
“I’m on it.” She turned to head to the grill.
“I’d kill for a cheeseburger,” Stephen said. He suddenly looked stricken. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
“It’s still okay to have a sense of humor, buddy.” Cork turned toward the door. “I’m going out to keep our guest company. Don’t wait up for me.”
* * *
Although he never stayed long when he came, Jubal Little still listed Tamarack County as his official place of residence. He had a home on Iron Lake. It stood on the shore of a small cove just north of Aurora, and had once been a nice log lodge and restaurant called The Wander Inn, where his mother had been employed when Jubal was a kid. In the long economic downturn that had beset the Iron Range as the mines closed, the place had struggled and finally closed, and the structure had become a derelict. Twenty years ago, Jubal had bought it and had it completely renovated and expanded into a log mansion, gorgeous but huge beyond any sensibility. In front was a circular drive paved with crushed limestone. When Cork pulled up, the drive was nearly full of vehicles. Cork parked in back of the last in line. Yates’s Escalade drew up behind him, and Yates got out.
“Wake?” Cork asked, nodding toward the cars.
Yates shook his head. “Jubal’s media people and campaign folks. They’re all scrambling.”
“Give me a minute,” Cork said.
“Shouldn’t be a problem. The Jaegers will want to speak with you alone anyway. I’ll let them know you’re here.” Yates went ahead into the house.
Though it was not quite evening, the overcast had brought on an early, oppressive dark. Instead of going inside the huge home, Cork walked around to the back and down a long flagstone path across the lawn to the dock. The air was breathless, and the surface of the lake lay absolutely still and flat. The water was a deep gray stretching toward a dark horizon, and the effect of all this made Cork think of the lake as if it had somehow been set afire and had burned and all that was left was a great basin full of ash.
“Remembering all the times you spent with him here?”
Cork turned and watched Camilla Little cross the la
st of the flagstones and step onto the dock. She stood next to him, smelling of a subtle, expensive cologne and looking where he’d been looking. She was in her early forties, almost as tall as Jubal had been, a statuesque beauty with long blond hair, eyes the color of fresh mint leaves, and a flawless complexion. At the moment, however, her whole aspect was drawn and gray, her lovely face hollowed from grieving.
“I’m sorry about Jubal, Camilla.”
“Really? I heard it was you who killed him.”
“You don’t believe that.”
“No,” she said. “Like everyone else, you loved him too much.”
He couldn’t tell if she was offering him sincerity or sarcasm.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Cork said, trying his best for honesty.
“Loss? The truth, and we both know it, is that he was never really mine.”
“I’m sorry, Camilla.” He sounded like a pathetic, broken record, but he was sorry, sorry for the whole damn mess.
“We’d have done a lot of good,” she said.
We, Cork thought and knew this was the key to understanding the marriage of a woman whose husband was never really hers. In her way, she was as politically ambitious as Jubal. They’d met while he was still quarterbacking, met at a celebrity fund-raiser for cancer research. It was common knowledge that Camilla couldn’t have children; ovarian cancer in her twenties had ensured that. She’d become an outspoken advocate for cancer research and prevention, only two of the many causes she championed. For a couple of years, she was Jubal’s most frequent and visible escort at social affairs. Jubal was nearly forty when he ended his football career. Within a year, he went from the playing field to the marriage altar and finally to the political arena. Camilla, beautiful, intelligent, and when the occasion required, eloquent, was at his side in all his political appearances. She stated often and publicly that both her life and her marriage were dedicated to public service and to the greater good. In all this, she proved a perfect mate for him.
“A lot of good,” she reiterated. “Even for the Ojibwe. But now they’ve killed him.”
“Why do you think it was my people?”
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