Grandma Dilsey parked the truck at the edge of a bog. She grabbed the two metal pails that sat on the seat between her and Cork and got out. In the tall grass that rimmed the bog, she stood waiting for Cork, her face shaded by a broad-brimmed straw hat. When he joined her, she handed him a pail and without a word began circling the reedy marsh. Over the years, Cork had come with her many times in late July in search of the ripe berries. Usually his mother came, too, and it was a multigenerational celebration of a tradition that stretched back even into his grandmother’s own childhood. And here again, Cork thought, was a thing that didn’t change. Except that this time, his mother hadn’t come.
The blueberry bushes grew in a large patch on the far side of the bog. The branches were splashed with berries that looked frosted in the morning sunlight. Wordlessly, Grandma Dilsey began picking, and Cork followed her lead. He had his pail three-quarters full when his grandmother said, “That’s enough for now. We need to leave some for the birds and bears.”
Grandma Dilsey set the pails in the truck bed and climbed back into the cab. But she didn’t start the engine. She sat for a minute, the sunlight warm through the windshield, the rattle of a woodpecker coming from the trees, the fetid smell of the bog adrift in the air.
“Grandma,” Cork said.
“Yes?”
“He’s doing his best.”
Grandma Dilsey took a long time to respond. “It’s not your father,” she finally said and turned her dark eyes to Cork. “But he’s a part of the problem.”
Cork gave a nod but not in agreement. It was more because, under her steady gaze, he felt mute and uncomfortable.
“When I was a girl, Corkie, the sheriff or one of his deputies would come to the reservation and take the children away. I remember the day they came for me. I cried but there was nothing my father and mother could do. It was the same for every family. They took me to a boarding school in Wisconsin. It was hard there. The nuns who oversaw us were not kind. I didn’t have the courage that Big John had. I never ran away as he did. But I learned something very important. Education is the key to empowerment. That’s what I’ve spent my life trying to do, to educate our children so that they have a sense of what they can do, who they can be.”
She put her hands on the steering wheel, old hands, the skin spotted and brittle looking.
“What about my dad?” Cork said.
“In a way, he’s what we fight against. On the reservation, we see zhaagnaashag bend the laws all the time. We see that enforcement is often arbitrary and unfair. I know your father’s heart is in the right place, but in the end, he’s still the arm of a system that has oppressed The People for generations.”
“He tries,” Cork said. “He really tries.”
Grandma Dilsey took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh. “I suppose. So do we all.” She turned the key and the old engine coughed to life. “Let’s get those berries home.”
They returned the way they’d come, and as they passed through Allouette, Grandma Dilsey pulled the pickup to a stop in front of LeDuc’s General Store, a small, ramshackle building. On the wooden porch in front of LeDuc’s sat a long, low cooler filled, Cork knew, with ice water in which were nestled all kinds of cold drinks.
“How about a grape Nehi?” his grandmother asked. “I’m dying of thirst.”
Pulled fresh from the cooler, the bottles were ice cold, and the grape soda as it went down Cork’s dry throat tasted like heaven. They stood in the shade under the porch. The town was quiet, the street nearly empty.
“So many gone now,” Grandma Dilsey said.
“Some come back,” Cork said. “Billy Downwind and his mother.”
“Death brought them back. And who knows if they’ll stay.”
Across the unpaved main street of Allouette, a Chevy pickup sat on blocks, all four wheels removed. Like so many rez vehicles, it was old, rusted, and looked beat to hell. At the moment, Oscar Manydeeds was putting brake pads on the right front wheel, aided by Mickey Broom, the grandnephew of old Broomstraw. Although Billy Downwind’s uncle was employed at the tribal-owned lumber mill in the nearby town of Brandywine, he often repaired vehicles on the rez in exchange for whatever was offered—blueberries, maple syrup, deer jerky, a hand-sewn shirt. He caught sight of Cork and Grandma Dilsey and stood. Wiping his greasy hands on a rag, he came toward them across the street. Mickey Broom, who was also called Boom-Boom Broom because of his explosive laugh, followed him.
“Boozhoo, Auntie,” he said in greeting to Grandma Dilsey.
“Boozhoo,” she replied.
Boom-Boom wore a ball cap, which he lifted from his head in deference to Grandma Dilsey, an elder.
Manydeeds eyed Cork and the grape Nehi in his hand, then caught sight of the buckets in the bed of the pickup. “Been blueberry picking,” he said. “Nice haul, looks like.”
Cork figured he was interested in the location of the blueberry patch but knew he wouldn’t ask.
“I’m thinking blueberry cobbler for dessert tonight,” Grandma Dilsey said.
“I had your blueberry cobbler at the wake,” Manydeeds said. “Best I ever tasted.” His tone was friendly, but his eyes, when they settled on Cork, held a threatening look. “When’s your father going to arrest the man who murdered my brother?”
“He wants to,” Cork said, “but he can’t.”
At this, Grandma Dilsey said, “What do you mean, Corkie?”
He hadn’t meant to say it. It had just come out, a defense of his father, but it was information he knew his father didn’t want made public, information he’d promised his mother he would keep to himself.
“Corkie?” his grandmother said, speaking sternly now. “I want to know. We have a right to know these things.”
Three faces were turned to him, faces of people who, as Grandma Dilsey asserted, maybe did have a right to know all the facts concerning the death of a man they and their whole community cared about deeply. What was the point of secrecy if it helped to keep the truth in the dark? Was it just another way to twist the law? His mother had asked for his silence, but what was one small broken promise compared to the greater promise of justice for all?
CHAPTER 33
When Cork returned from blueberry picking, his father was gone. Grandma Dilsey brought one of the blueberry buckets into the kitchen and proceeded to explain to her daughter what she now knew about the obstacles to justice erected by those who wielded the power of the law.
Cork’s mother eyed him and said, “I thought I asked you to keep that to yourself.”
“This isn’t his fault,” his grandmother said. “I demanded the truth, and Cork’s the only one in this house with enough respect and courage to give it to me. And now I’ll tell you a truth, Colleen. Unless that man is arrested, there’s going to be trouble coming from the rez, trouble like you’ve never seen before.”
“Which is exactly the reason Liam didn’t want any of this made public. There’s still so much he has to do. At the moment, his hands are tied, legally.”
“Legally. Do you know what that word is? An insult to The People. Legally our land was stripped from us. Legally we were marched off to boarding schools. Legally the reservations have been emptied and our people dispersed to the four winds. Where is Liam? I want to say this to his face.”
“He’s out doing his job.”
“Not very well, if you ask me.”
“If he does anything in a way that skirts the law, Mom, he risks ruining any case he might be able to construct against Duncan MacDermid. And there goes your hope for justice right out the window. You know Liam. You know he’s not going to protect a man just because he’s rich or because he’s white.”
“I’ll believe that when I see Duncan MacDermid in handcuffs.”
The two women stared at each other, as if there were no words left to say. Or maybe because they both understood the uselessness of words.
Cork had to get out of the house. “Okay if I go over to Jorge’s?”
&nb
sp; “I told you this morning that I’ve made an appointment for Jackson’s distemper shot. I have work to do, so you’ll need to take him.”
“And I have to get back to the rez. I’ve got blueberry cobbler to make.” Grandma Dilsey left without a word of goodbye to her daughter.
Cork said, “Come on, Jackson.”
He walked to the North Star Veterinary Clinic, on the corner of Oak and Fourth Streets. The practice was owned by Dr. David Svenson, who had a weekly radio show about animal care called Ask Doctor Dave, which was how most folks addressed him—Doctor Dave. Inside, the air smelled unpleasantly of medicine and disinfectant. Cork had brought along Jackson’s leash and had snapped it onto the dog’s collar before entering the clinic. Now he sat in a chair in the waiting area while Jackson sat on his haunches, blinking and unfazed. On the other side of the waiting room sat a woman Cork didn’t know with a cat in a cage on the seat next to her. The cat meowed and yowled as if it were in pain. The woman cooed to the cat, “It’s all right, Nightingale.” And Cork thought it funny that the cat was named for something that could easily be its meal.
A man with a bulldog on a leash came from one of the back rooms, escorted by Sharon Crane, the vet’s assistant. She took care of the payment, and when the man left, she said to the woman with the cat, “You’re next, Mrs. Bailey.” Then to Cork she said, “We’re running a little behind. Doctor Dave had an emergency call this morning.”
She took Nightingale and Mrs. Bailey to another exam room. When she returned, Cork asked, “What kind of emergency?”
“Distemper in one of the animals at the Wolf Center. Excuse me,” she said and went to the reception desk to answer the ringing phone.
In a little while, Doctor Dave came out with Nightingale and Mrs. Bailey. He offered a few more instructions on the cat’s care, then turned to Cork.
“Well, hey there, kiddo. Didn’t figure to see you with Jackson.”
“Mom’s got other things to do today.”
“I thought teachers did nothing but relax during the summer.”
“Not my mom.”
“Well, let’s have a look at your dog.” The veterinarian escorted them to one of the exam rooms and proceeded to check Jackson’s coat, teeth, eyes, and ears, all the while carrying on a quiet patter.
“I heard you had an emergency this morning,” Cork said.
“Mmm,” the vet said, moving his hands in a probing way across Jackson’s body. “Got called to the Wolf Center. Had to sedate one of their she-wolves. I suspect she had distemper.”
“How do you sedate a wolf, Doctor Dave?”
“Very carefully,” the vet said, then gave a laugh. “A couple of options, Cork. Lace some meat with a sedative and wait for it to take effect. Or, in the case today, where we needed to get her down quickly, I shot her with a tranquilizer dart.”
“Does she have distemper?”
“It’s a tough disease to diagnose. But it’s a definite threat to the other wolves. And there’s no real cure. To be on the safe side, I advised them to let me put the wolf down and to inoculate the others.”
“Did you have to sedate all of them, too?”
The vet nodded and let out a tired sigh. “It’s been a busy day.”
When Doctor Dave had finished checking Jackson, he said, “He looks fine, but a good thing you brought him in for a booster. He’s due for a rabies booster as well, so we’ll get that taken care of, too. Tell your mom I’ll send her the bill.”
Cork left the clinic, happy that his dog was healthy but feeling bad for the wolf that had to be put down. Did she have pups? Did she have a mate? He’d heard wolves mated for life, and if that was true, did a wolf grieve when it lost its mate?
It was well past lunchtime and he could have gone home, but the atmosphere in the O’Connor house wasn’t inviting at the moment, so Cork opted for Sam’s Place.
He arrived during the lunch rush, and he and Jackson contented themselves sitting in the shade of an aspen on the shore of Iron Lake, waiting for the lines at the two serving windows to thin. Finally, Cork headed up and ordered a Sam’s Special from Daisy. He was surprised when Sam Winter Moon himself delivered the big burger and said through the window, “Got a few minutes to talk?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll meet you at the picnic table. The burger’s on me.”
They sat in the hot sun while Cork ate his burger and Sam talked to him.
“I heard about what you and Jorge and Billy found on Spider Creek. Good work, by the way. But I also heard nothing’s being done about it. I’ve been trying to reach your dad at the sheriff’s office all morning. They keep telling me he’s out. Do you have any idea where he’s gone?”
Between big bites of his burger, Cork told him he didn’t.
“I’m going to tell your father this, and I’ll tell you now because you’re here. Folks on the rez are pretty upset. Tempers are running high. I think it’s best if you and your father and mother stay away for a while.”
“You think somebody might do something to us?”
“I’m just saying, and I’ll tell your father this when I see him, stay off the rez, at least for now.”
“He’s your friend. Can’t you do something?”
“Indawa Anishinaabe,” he said.
I am Anishinaabe. Cork understood. The blood of The People came first.
CHAPTER 34
In the heat of the afternoon, Liam parked his cruiser at Big John’s cabin, got out, and walked to the dock on the water where the empty canoe rack stood. He looked across Iron Lake. The far shore was only a thin line of green in the late afternoon light, but he knew exactly where the great estate of Glengarrow lay. He imagined Big John Manydeeds standing alone on this little dock, staring across the water as if staring across a span of universe he could never traverse. He tried to imagine how he might feel if he lost Colleen forever, tried to put himself inside the head of a man who’d lost his heart. And then, as if Big John could hear him, he said, “I’m sorry.”
Sorry for the lost love. Sorry for the great divide that separated the worlds on either side of the lake. And maybe sorry most of all for having seen Big John’s death from the beginning through a white man’s eyes.
He looked for what had brought him there but didn’t find it at the dock. He walked back to the cabin, searched the single room but didn’t find it there. He went to a small woodshed ten yards into the trees and that’s where it lay, a coil of hemp rope.
* * *
When he rang the doorbell of the big house at Glengarrow, Mary Margaret answered.
“Is Duncan home?” Liam asked.
“He’s at the mine office today,” she said. “I don’t expect him until dinnertime.”
“I’d like your permission, Mary Margaret, to search the boathouse and guest cottage.”
“What for?”
“Evidence that your husband killed Big John.”
She seemed to wilt before him but he saw no real surprise. “In my darkest moments, I’ve wondered. I just… just didn’t want to believe that of him.”
“May I search?”
“Yes.”
“And will you come with me?”
She drew herself up, as if steeling for an ordeal, and gave him a nod. “But I need to get Carla to watch my mother-in-law. Can you wait a minute?”
She went to the carriage house and returned with Jorge’s mother, who said, “Hello, Sheriff.”
“Where’s Jorge?”
“Delivering his papers with Cork. They’re such good friends. Jorge is lucky.”
“No luckier than Cork.”
“We’ll be back soon, Carla,” Mary Margaret said and led the way.
They began in the boathouse below the cottage. It was, as Cy Borkman had observed a few days earlier, large enough that a semi could park inside. Almost immediately, Liam found what he was hoping for.
“May I take this?”
Mary Margaret studied the coil of rope in his hand. “Why?”
&
nbsp; “Do you know what a boom hitch is?”
She shook her head.
“That’s all right. Neither did I until I visited the library this afternoon.” He’d brought a small canvas bag with him. He put the rope coil down on a bench top, zipped open the bag, and took out a manila envelope. From the envelope, he drew out a photograph, which he offered to Mary Margaret. “That’s a boom hitch.”
The photo showed a rope that had been knotted around the branch of a tree. Mary Margaret looked at the photo, then at Liam, clearly at a loss.
“That’s an enlargement of a photograph one of my deputies took at Lightning Strike when we first went out there, after my son reported what he and Jorge had found. It’s one of the two knots on the rope that was used to hang Big John.”
“I’m not sure what you’re telling me.”
“The knot that was used to secure the rope around Big John’s neck was a simple slipknot, one anyone might tie. But that knot, the boom hitch, which was used to secure the rope to the maple limb, is a pretty complicated affair and isn’t widely used except by sailors. Mary Margaret, your husband spent five years in the navy and four years at Annapolis before that.”
Liam could see that what was clear to him was becoming clear to her as well. He picked up the coil of rope he’d set down on the bench top. “This is marine rope, a special kind. I believe it’s going to match the rope that was used to hang Big John. I went to his cabin today, looking for just this kind of rope. All I found was a coil of hemp. See where this marine rope’s been cut? I’m hoping that when we get it analyzed, it will match the cut section that was used to hang Big John.”
He saw the change come over her, a frightening transformation. A harsh whisper escaped her lips, surprising from so delicate looking a woman. “That son of a bitch. That goddamn son of a bitch.”
“I’d like to search the cottage upstairs. Is that all right?”
Lightning Strike Page 18