“I did not say that. Sit.” Meloux indicated the ground near the fire.
The two boys sat and Meloux joined them. He stared a long time into the flames. It was a warm night with no breeze, and the smoke from the fire rose straight up toward the arc of the heavens, which was sugared with stars.
“I have read in the Bible how people have been brought back from the dead,” Meloux finally said. “But I have never known a man or woman who has made the journey over and then returned to tell us what is true and what is not. What we believe about the spirit of a human being or the spirit of anything shaped by the Creator’s hand is only what we believe. So, I will not say that what you felt at Lightning Strike was not a true thing.”
Meloux lapsed into another long silence, and Cork and Billy waited, and the fire crackled as it burned, and the smoke followed its own path upward, and beyond the firelight the night was becoming as dark as a blind man’s sight.
“To this world, we listen with our ears,” Meloux said at last. “To the world beyond, we listen with our hearts. What your heart has heard and told you, Billy Downwind, is true for you, and so I believe you must do your best to understand what has been spoken. I do not know what that is. But I will say this: Your own spirit will not rest until you have your answer.”
“How do I get there?” Billy asked.
“Do you know the story of Hansel and Gretel?”
“Sure.”
“Follow the crumbs and see where they lead,” the old man said.
“What?”
But Meloux didn’t explain. To Cork, he said, “What did your heart tell you at Lightning Strike?”
Cork wasn’t sure that his heart had told him anything at Lightning Strike, but his eyes had picked up something. “I saw…” He hesitated, trying to find the right words so that he wouldn’t sound childish or crazy. “A shadow thing. A big shadow thing.”
“Big John?” Billy asked eagerly.
“Bigger. Gigantic.”
“Where?”
“In the trees on the far side of the clearing. It was there for a second, then gone.” He looked to Meloux for confirmation and, he hoped, for explanation.
Meloux said, “The eyes are different from the heart.”
“Different how?” Cork asked.
“They can be tricksters.”
“My eyes fooled me?”
“You saw what you saw. But maybe you should ask yourself why did you see it.”
“Isn’t that the same question you put to Billy? Why did his heart speak to him?”
“Follow the crumbs. The trail will take each of you to the answer you are looking for.”
“What crumbs?” Cork asked.
Meloux stood, looked down at the boys, and gave them what seemed to Cork a careless shrug. “Your trail. You figure it out.”
Meloux turned and walked away, blending into the night.
“What the hell?” Billy said. “That didn’t help at all.”
Cork had to agree. They’d got no real answers from Meloux. But at least he hadn’t called them crazy.
“What do you think we should do?” Billy asked.
“Let’s meet tomorrow morning and figure things out,” Cork suggested.
“Where?”
“Can you get into Aurora?”
“I’ll borrow my cousin’s bike,”
“Sam’s Place. Ten o’clock.”
They were still at the fire when Cork heard the raised voices.
“Like hell! What do you care? You’re just another damn chimook.”
“Oh, geez,” Billy said. “That’s Uncle Oscar.”
CHAPTER 9
On the job, Liam O’Connor usually drove a cruiser from the Tamarack County Sheriff’s Department. Because he wanted to do his best to keep his personal relationship with folks on the Iron Lake Reservation separate from his duty as an officer of the law, whenever he visited the rez in a nonofficial capacity, he used the family automobile, a red Ford Falcon station wagon. Most of those who’d attended the wake had scattered, but Liam had been stopped as he walked toward the car, and he stood now in the soft blue light of evening, facing an irate Shinnob.
“What do you want me to do that I haven’t done, Oscar?” Liam tried to keep his voice even.
Oscar Manydeeds leaned threateningly across the few feet that separated them. Manydeeds could very well have carried the same epithet as his brother because he was every bit as huge as Big John had been. The difference was in their natures. Big John wasn’t just enormous in body; the name had applied to his spirit as well.
“Ask questions, goddamn it.”
“I’ve asked, Oscar, believe me. No one out here admits to knowing anything.”
“Maybe you’re asking the wrong questions.”
“What should I ask, Oscar? You tell me.”
Manydeeds simply glared a moment, his face a mask of anger, then he shouted, “My brother didn’t go to Lightning Strike to kill himself!”
“And why is that?”
“Because it wouldn’t be right and he knew it.”
“Is there a right place for a man to kill himself, Oscar? If so, I’d love to hear it.”
“Lightning Strike is a spiritual place. Every Shinnob knows that.”
“A man who’s thinking of killing himself probably isn’t thinking straight. Especially a man who’s been drinking.”
“Big John didn’t drink. Not no more.”
“I think he did.”
“Then the hell with you. You don’t know nuthin.” Manydeeds took a menacing step, closing even more the narrow gap between them. Liam braced as if for a blow. But it never came.
Sam Winter Moon stepped between them.
“A wake is meant to offer comfort and the hope of a peaceful journey along the Path of Souls,” he said. “It’s not a place for anger. You should go home and cool off, Oscar. And, Liam, you should leave.”
Colleen and Dilsey had come from the community center. Cork joined them, and they walked to the station wagon through what remained of the gathering.
Before he left, Liam faced Billy Downwind’s mother, who’d stood by wordlessly watching the exchange between the two men. “I’m truly sorry for your loss, Jeanette.”
He thought she might thank him for his condolences, but she just stared at him until he turned away and walked to the car.
* * *
Colleen had made coffee, and now Liam and his wife and his mother-in-law sat at the kitchen table. Cork was upstairs in bed, but there was a heat grate in the kitchen ceiling that opened onto their son’s bedroom, so they kept their voices low.
“Oscar Manydeeds was upset, Liam,” Colleen said.
“Oscar Manydeeds had been drinking,” Liam said. “He reeked of whiskey. Even so, he wasn’t alone in his thinking. I could see it in a lot of the faces there tonight. They believe I haven’t done enough.”
“Only some,” Dilsey said. Then she said, “Do you think you’ve done all you can? And do you really think he killed himself?”
“I go by facts, Dilsey. Here are the facts. He was called Big John for good reason. If he didn’t want that noose around his neck, it would have taken a small army to put it there. But I found no signs of a struggle, no sign that anyone had been there with him. He had a history of alcoholism, and two empty whiskey bottles were lying at his feet. I know that Lightning Strike was a special place for him. When I was a cop in Chicago, I responded to a lot of suicide calls, and it wasn’t uncommon for someone to end their life in a place that had some special meaning for them.”
“You talked with his family and his friends?” Dilsey asked.
“You know I did.”
“And they told you they didn’t believe he killed himself?”
“It’s a hard thing for anyone to accept.”
“We’ve seen a lot of our people take their own lives, Liam, and we can accept that it’s a reality in our community. But when someone like Big John kills himself, that’s different.”
Liam
was worn out, but not just from that day and the long ceremony that evening and his confrontation with Manydeeds. He was tired of asking questions on the rez and getting nowhere, tired of people saying the same things but not giving him any useful information.
“Different how, Dilsey?” he said, unable to keep his voice from betraying his frustration.
“Big John had been sober for years. He was respected on the rez and respected even among zhaagnaashag,” she said, using the Ojibwe word for white people, which she almost never did unless she was angry. “We’d have known if he was drinking again or thinking of suicide.”
“People can be pretty good at blinding themselves when they’d rather not see something.”
“You knew Big John. You liked him. What do you think?”
“I think I let the facts, not my feelings, guide me.”
Although her voice was calm, Dilsey’s tone was all frost now. “You’re the sheriff. I guess that has to be good enough.”
“All right, Dilsey, here it is.” Liam heard the iron in his voice, but he had no intention of softening what he was about to say. “After we brought his body in, I went to Big John’s cabin. Out back, I found a box full of empty whiskey bottles. It was clear he had a fondness for Four Roses.”
“I can’t believe that.”
“When he died, his blood alcohol level was through the roof. I have the report from the BCA.”
“I never saw one indication of his drinking.”
“My guess is that he did it in solitude, at his cabin. Maybe because of the trouble it got him into in the past, he’d learned to stay home when he was drunk. I wish everyone who drank did that.” It was quiet in the kitchen for an uncomfortably long time. Then Liam said more gently, “Even good people, if they’re alcoholics, can fall off the wagon. And Big John had demons. We all knew that.”
“It’s been a long, difficult day,” Colleen said. “I think it’s time we all got some rest.”
CHAPTER 10
“Four-thirty, Cork. Time to rise and shine.”
He’d set his alarm clock and it had gone off, but he knew, as he lay there drifting back into dreamland, that his father would make certain he didn’t oversleep. His father always rose before first light, a lifetime habit. When Cork had taken on the additional responsibility of delivering a morning paper route, his father had assured him that he’d get used to the early hours, and even more than that, come to appreciate the quiet world that he would have to himself before the rest of Aurora awoke.
Jackson jumped on the bed and licked Cork’s face.
“I’m up,” Cork said. “I’m up.”
His father had recommended that before Cork went to bed every night, he lay out his clothing for the next morning. It would make getting dressed that much easier. While Jackson sat watching patiently, Cork slipped into his jeans and T-shirt and socks and sneakers.
“Okay, boy, let’s go.”
His father was dressed in his khaki uniform and already had coffee percolating on the stove.
“I’m going to have a cup of joe, then, if you’d like, I’ll drive you to your drop box,” his father said.
“Okay.” Cork sat at the kitchen table, idly petting Jackson’s head. “Something I want to ask you, Dad.”
His father had opened a cupboard and was reaching for a coffee mug. “Ask away.”
“You know I went with Billy Downwind out to Lightning Strike yesterday.”
His father leaned against the kitchen counter, cradling the coffee mug in his hands. “Yes. And?”
“Billy swore he could feel the spirit of Big John out there. He believes Big John isn’t on the Path of Souls. His spirit’s hanging around because he wants something.”
“Does Billy have a sense of what that is?”
“I don’t think so. But Henry Meloux said we should follow a trail of crumbs to the answer.”
“You talked to Henry?”
“Last night.”
“All right.” His father moved to the stove and filled his mug. “What is it you want to ask me?”
“You do a lot of investigating.”
“Goes with the job.”
“How do you do it?”
“I begin by gathering all the facts I can. Physical evidence. What witnesses, if there are any, have to say. I try to look at the context of a situation so that it’s not isolated from other events that might have some bearing. I try not to make assumptions but let the facts lead me.” He sipped his coffee. “What does Billy think about his uncle’s death?”
“That Big John didn’t kill himself.”
“What about you?”
Cork shrugged. “Mr. Meloux said Billy and I should follow the trail of crumbs, like Hansel and Gretel. He said it could lead us to the answers we’re looking for.”
“Do you have any crumbs for that trail?”
“Maybe.”
His father seemed to look at him with deep interest now. “Care to share them?”
“They’re nothing really. Not yet.”
His father let some time pass before he spoke next. “When someone dies like Big John died, the result is usually a lot of hurt for those left behind. You have to be careful not to make that hurt greater for them than it already is.”
“I know.”
“And you have to be careful not to get in the way of the anger that also comes from being left behind and being left in the dark.” Cork wasn’t sure what this meant, but his father continued to explain. “When someone you love leaves you suddenly, the hurt can run deep, so deep that it makes you act out in destructive ways. I’ve seen it happen.”
“You mean like Oscar Manydeeds?”
“Him in particular. But there’s a lot of grief on the reservation right now. So, if you follow your trail of crumbs, and I suspect nothing I can say will keep you from it, I want you to be careful. I want you to check in with me every day. Okay?”
This did two things. It made Cork feel as if his father had allowed him into the investigation, and that gave him a profound sense of pride. But it also made him feel a tremendous sense of responsibility for finding the truth, and from the moment the weight of that duty settled on his shoulders, he was never quite the same again.
* * *
When Cork began his route, it still felt like night. The new day was just a vague suggestion of a lesser dark along the eastern horizon. He’d folded all the papers and stuffed them, front and back, into the canvas bag that Mr. McCreary, the distribution manager, had given him. His paper route was essentially a square of more than a dozen blocks that included the downtown of Aurora. He always delivered to the residences first, so that the papers would be waiting on the porches of the early risers, then strolled through downtown, where the businesses would open much later.
Cork had taken on the morning route months before, when he was still trying to earn money for his Schwinn. He was already doing three afternoon routes with Jorge, and he’d invited his friend to join him. Jorge had reacted as if he thought Cork was crazy. “Only thieves, geeks, and freaks are up at that hour,” he’d said. So when Cork walked his morning route—it was way too dark to ride his Schwinn—he usually walked alone, except for Jackson, who sometimes trotted along.
He was thinking about what his father had said, how the quiet of the morning was something he had almost entirely to himself, something he would come to appreciate. It was true. On the streets of Aurora in that early hour, he was almost always alone. Sometimes lights were on in a room, usually a kitchen, or on rare occasions, a car might drift past, but he and Jackson owned the sidewalks and the morning was his.
He was consumed with thoughts about Big John’s death. Maybe it was exactly what it seemed, what his father believed it to be, the suicide of a drunken, troubled man. In the dark of that morning, Cork imagined what it must have been like for Big John to be alone at Lightning Strike. He imagined Big John slipping the noose over his head, snugging it around his neck. Did he hesitate before he stepped off the log he’d hauled th
ere to stand on? Was there a moment when his muscles wouldn’t move, wouldn’t yield to his intent? Or was that what the empty whiskey bottles were all about, to help in breaking down every barrier between this world and the next?
Cork was deep in thoughts so terrible that he didn’t notice at first the sound in the trees. Or rather, the lack of sound. Usually in the mornings, at the first hint of light, the birds began their chatter. Only a few at first, but by the time Cork was halfway through his route, it usually seemed as if the whole of avian existence had been aroused. As he walked now, he suddenly became aware that the soft click of Jackson’s paw nails on the pavement and his rhythmic panting were the only sounds. He stopped and listened more carefully. Not a single bird.
He was on Beech Street, still two blocks from the businesses of Aurora. There were streetlights at intersections, but no lights between. Cork stood in near darkness, the town of Aurora—houses and trees and the distant courthouse tower—nothing but black silhouettes against the promise of dawn, the thinnest hope of a new day.
Then he saw it. For the second time. Among all those predawn silhouettes. The towering shadowy shape from Lightning Strike. Bending as if preparing to leap at Cork.
Jackson must have seen it, too, or sensed it, because he let out a low, threatening growl, then commenced to barking up a storm. Part English setter and part bulldog, Jackson was a canine with a fighter’s heart. Cork knelt and threw his arms around his dog, seeking both to be protected and to protect.
Nothing came at him, and when he looked up, the shape was gone. Just as it had been gone in an instant at Lightning Strike. In its place was the silhouette of a tall spruce swaying in the wind that had risen. From far to the west came the low rumble of thunder, a summer storm moving in.
Jackson ceased his barking but, like Cork, continued to stare at the swaying evergreen.
“Come on, boy. We still have papers to deliver.”
Cork went on, his eyes darting toward every shadow. He peered long into darkened alleyways, and he glanced over his shoulder constantly.
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