“I’m thinking it might not have been him.”
“Still trying to clear the rich man’s name?”
“Here’s the situation, Oscar. I figured someone had to drug Big John to set up that phony suicide. One of the reasons I thought it was MacDermid was because we found barbiturates in his cabin. But those barbiturates weren’t what the lab test found in your brother’s blood.”
“He was a rich man. He coulda got pentobarbital any time he wanted.”
“Probably. But why use that when it would have been easier for him just to slip Big John something he already had on hand? Look, MacDermid may have been responsible for your brother’s death. But what if he wasn’t? I want to find out the truth of who killed Big John and bring that person to justice. Isn’t that what you want, too?”
For a long time from the far side of the fire, Manydeeds studied Liam. Finally he said, “Sit.”
Liam brought out a pouch of tobacco from his shirt pocket and a small pipe carved of cherrywood which had been given to him long ago by Sam Winter Moon. At Sam’s suggestion, Liam always kept tobacco and the pipe in his glove box for his trips to the rez. He sprinkled a bit of the tobacco onto the fire as an offering, as he’d seen Henry Meloux do so many times, then filled the pipe. He thrust a stick into the fire and used the flame at the end to light the tobacco. He and Manydeeds smoked together, passing the pipe between them.
After a time of silence, Liam said, “I admired your brother. Big John was a good man, a strong man. What happened to him was the work of a coward.”
“What do you know about the man who killed my brother?” Manydeeds asked.
“Not enough, not yet. A couple of things though. It seems to me he must’ve been waiting for Big John at the take-out point on Spider Creek, where we found your brother’s canoe.” He glanced at his son and Billy Downwind and corrected himself. “Where Cork and your nephew found the canoe. Whoever it was knew that your brother had gone into Moose Lake and would be coming out that way. Somehow he drugged Big John—I haven’t figured that part out yet—then got him here to Lightning Strike. Whoever it was, they planned it carefully. I think they stole the rope from MacDermid’s boathouse to implicate him. So maybe it was someone who had something against him as well.”
“Half the county,” Cork said.
Liam smiled and acknowledged this truth with a nod.
Manydeeds considered this for a while then said, “Maybe it wasn’t kids broke into the stables. Maybe somebody had something against my brother. Big John wouldn’t go down easy. They’d need something like pentobarbital.”
Liam O’Connor said, “How long ago was the break-in?”
“Maybe a month now.” Manydeeds scowled as the realization hit him. “Not long before my brother was killed.”
“Like I said, MacDermid may have been responsible. He certainly had reason to hate your brother. But I can’t help thinking that it might have had something to do with the death of Louise LaRose, the girl from Leech Lake.”
Manydeeds thought that over. “I heard somebody bashed her head in, then tried to sink her body.”
“Yes.”
“They rape her, too?”
“She’d been in the water a long time, so we couldn’t tell.”
Manydeeds stared into the fire. “Everybody on the rez knows that when my brother went into the Boundary Waters, he always went up Spider Creek to Naabe-Mooz. Who else knew?”
Even though Manydeeds seemed to be asking himself this question, Cork replied, “The Borealis sisters.”
“Maybe they told somebody,” Manydeeds said.
“I know they told Duncan MacDermid,” Liam said.
Billy Downwind, who’d been silent for a long time, said, “Maybe he told somebody.”
“Maybe,” Liam said. “I’ll talk to MacDermid’s widow. And I’ll talk to the Borealis sisters again. And I’ll see if I can’t track down where that pentobarbital might have come from. To that end, Oscar, I’d like to ask you to open yourself to the possibility that someone on the rez might know more than they’ve said. Maybe those kids who broke into the stables, if it was kids. Will you do that?”
“No Shinnob killed my brother.”
“But maybe a Shinnob knows something that will lead us to the white man who did,” Liam offered.
Manydeeds said nothing in reply, but he finally gave a single nod.
And that’s when the wind came out of nowhere, kicking embers up from the flames, embers that spread into the night sky like a thousand fireflies. Liam followed them with his eyes, and what he saw there, he couldn’t quite believe.
“Brother,” Manydeeds whispered, staring upward in amazement.
CHAPTER 48
“Embers,” Liam said. “They were just scattered embers.”
His son sat on the kitchen floor, ruffing Jackson’s fur while the dog blinked lazily. Dilsey had come that morning, bringing the last of the blueberries that she and Cork had picked together, and she stood at the kitchen counter busily making blueberry muffins. Colleen was slicing tomatoes for the BLT sandwiches that would be lunch.
“I saw his face in the embers,” Cork insisted.
“I know what you think you saw,” Liam said. “But the mind can play tricks, Son. We often see what we want to see.”
“Henry told me to find a place where my head and my heart could talk. Last night at Lightning Strike my head told me my heart was right. Big John’s spirit was with us. It was a sign, Dad. We’re on the right track.”
“I didn’t need Big John’s spirit to tell me that.”
“What are you going to do, Liam?” Colleen asked.
“See if I can track down the source of the pentobarbital in Big John’s blood. If it came from that break-in at the stables, we need to find out who was responsible.”
“Oscar apparently had no luck with that,” Dilsey said. “What are you going to do that he couldn’t?”
“Oscar’s trying again on the rez. Now that we know what was used to drug Big John, he might get answers he didn’t before. And Billy Downwind’s going to talk to the kids he knows. I sent Cy Borkman to get a list from Dave Svenson—”
“That’s Doctor Dave, right?” Cork asked.
“Yes, Doctor Dave,” Liam said. “I sent Cy to get a list of all the people in Tamarack County he can think of whose work requires that they keep pentobarbital on hand. He’s out with that list right now, doing interviews. Between us, maybe we can come up with a solid lead.”
Dilsey stopped beating the muffin batter and turned a cold eye on him. “Do you still believe someone on the rez is responsible?”
“I can’t ignore the possibility.” He hesitated, reluctant to say what was on his mind, knowing how Dilsey would react. “Someone familiar with Spider Creek took that girl in.”
“There are white people who know the way in. Your priest at St. Agnes, for example. Are you going to question him?”
“Mom,” Colleen said.
“No, I’m serious. You think just because he’s a priest, he couldn’t do horrible things? At the boarding school, we heard the stories of what priests and nuns did to children. He’s gone to Moose Lake with Cork’s Scout troop, so he knows the way up Spider Creek. And didn’t you tell me, Liam, that he knew the girl?”
“I don’t want to hear this, Mom.”
“No more than I want hear talk of someone on the rez killing Louise LaRose.”
Liam said, “She’s right, Colleen. If I’m going to be fair, I need to talk to anyone who had contact with Louise. And it’s true that Father Cam knows the way up Spider Creek.”
“You two,” Colleen said fiercely, then swallowed whatever angry words she was about to say. Instead, she announced, “Lunch is ready. No more talk about killing.”
* * *
That afternoon Liam stopped by St. Agnes to speak with Father Cam. In the office, Elaine Christiansen, the church secretary, said she hadn’t seen him at all that day and didn’t know where he was. She suggested his housekeeper mig
ht have an idea.
The rectory, a neat, single-story house of red brick, stood next to the church, and when Liam knocked, Nelda Griffin answered the door. The priest’s housekeeper was a stern old woman who was clearly surprised to see Liam. He could hear the television blaring in the living room. A soap opera, he guessed from the heavy organ soundtrack. Nelda Griffin didn’t appear happy at being pulled away from her program. But Liam couldn’t recall ever having seen her look happy.
“I’d like to talk to Father Cam,” Liam said.
“Father Ferguson isn’t here.” She was of the old school, and never referred to him as Father Cam. She thought it was disrespectful.
“Do you know where he is?”
“Canoeing. And working on his Sunday homily. He says the one helps him with the other.”
“Canoeing where?”
“Iron Lake, would be my guess. Though he’s never told me exactly where.”
“When will he be back?”
“Sometimes he stays out all night. I never know. Always takes a bedroll and a knapsack with him.”
A large crucifix carved in wood was affixed to the foyer wall, and the tortured figure that hung there seemed to stare at Liam with accusing eyes. Liam turned his face away before he asked the next question. “Father Ferguson, does he drink whiskey, Mrs. Griffin?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“When Father Newton was the priest here, he always said he was proud to drink whiskey from his homeland in the Emerald Isle.”
“Father Ferguson’s not like Father Newton was. But I never knew a priest didn’t enjoy a nip now and then.”
“When he drinks, do you know the brand he prefers?”
“What difference does it make?” She looked at him now with a good deal of suspicion.
“In case I wanted to give him a birthday gift, say.”
“His birthday’s not till October. Ask me then.”
“Four Roses?” Liam said.
She finally smiled. “I’m sure he’d prefer whiskey to flowers. Is that all?”
* * *
Once again, his father wasn’t home for supper. Cork ate with his mother and Grandma Dilsey, then grabbed his receipt book and canvas change bag and left the house to try to collect from the deadbeats on his morning paper route. He’d successfully closed the accounts of two customers and was feeling pretty hopeful when he got to the Crooked Pine. He could tell from the cars in the lot that business was brisk inside. He usually collected in the afternoon, when the bar wasn’t so busy. He considered leaving, but he was already there, and he finally decided that he might as well give it a shot. He started around to the back of the building, where he always knocked and waited for Mr. Svenson to open up and give him the usual song and dance about not being able to pay at the moment. “Busy right now, kid. Come back later.” Or “I got nothing but fifties and hundreds. Can you make change?” A woman stumbled out the front door of the bar, caught herself, and stood upright. She wore a black, sequined dress and black high heels. Her hair was blond and hung over her forehead in random strands. An unlit cigarette dangled from her lips, which were so reddened with lipstick that even to Cork she appeared a little clownish. Still, she was a pretty woman, and when she looked at him, he saw that her eyes were a little unfocused.
“Hey,” she said in a too friendly way. “Got a match?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Not to worry,” she said digging into her purse. “Got a lighter here somewhere.” She glanced at the receipt book he held in one hand and the canvas change bag he held in the other. “Let me guess. You’re collecting the rent on this dump.” Then she laughed loud as if she’d made a great joke.
“Collecting for the newspaper,” he said.
“Oh, good luck with that, kid. Ben Svenson? I never knew a bigger deadbeat.” When she spoke, the cigarette in her lips bounced up and down like a bandleader’s baton.
“He hardly ever pays me,” Cork said.
“That so?” She seemed to have forgotten about the lighter. She took the unlit cigarette from her mouth and threw it to the ground. “Let’s just see about that. Come on, sonny.”
She turned and started back into the bar. When she opened the door, the sound of the jukebox and the cacophony of voices spilled out.
“I can’t go in there, ma’am,” Cork said.
“The hell you can’t.”
She took him by the arm and pulled him in with her.
Mostly there were men inside. A young barmaid Cork didn’t know moved among the tables, delivering drinks. “Fever” was playing on the juke, and as soon as they walked in, the woman began to sing right along with Peggy Lee but in a voice that reminded Cork of how Jackson sounded when he was whining to get outside. He was surprised to see Doctor Dave at the bar. He thought of the Crooked Pine as a place where people came to lose themselves in a liquor haze. Doctor Dave and Ben Svenson were deep in conversation. The woman swept Cork along with her as she strode unsteadily to the bar. Ben Svenson saw her coming and said something to Doctor Dave, who turned on his stool. He didn’t seem happy to see the woman, but when he saw Cork, he hauled up a smile.
“Hey, Cork. How’s Jackson doing?” he said.
Cork wasn’t sure he’d ever been as uncomfortable as he was at that moment. “Just fine, sir. No distemper.”
The barkeep spoke around the stub of a foul-smelling cigar smoldering in the corner of his mouth. “Distemper a big problem around here, Dave?”
“I’m still keeping a close eye on things, but I’m sure Cork’s dog is safe.”
“You’re good with dogs, I’ll give you that,” the woman said and laughed, though it came out like a bark.
“What the hell are you doing in here, kid?” Ben Svenson said.
“He’s my guest,” the woman said, and put her arm in an uncomfortably familiar way around Cork’s shoulders. “And he’s here to collect for the newspaper he brings you every day.”
“Didn’t I just pay you?” the barkeep said.
“That was for April, May, and June. You still owe me for July.”
“Damn.”
“How much does my brother owe?” Doctor Dave asked.
Adults moved in a different circle from the one Cork occupied, and unless their kids were part of his circle, he didn’t pay much attention to their relationships with each other. But he finally put together something that had never occurred to him before, the fact that Doctor Dave Svenson and the grumpy Ben Svenson were brothers.
Cork told him, and the man reached into his back pocket and brought out a wallet. He took out a five-dollar bill and handed it to Cork. “Keep the change.”
The woman removed her arm from Cork’s shoulders, tried to put her elbow on the counter, but missed and would have fallen to the floor if Doctor Dave hadn’t caught her.
“Come on, Moira,” the veterinarian said, sounding tired, and maybe even a little disgusted. “It’s time we went home.”
She pulled from his grasp. “Not yet. Night is young. Right, honey?” She directed this last comment to Cork.
“Go home, Moira,” the barkeep said.
“What for?” She looked at Doctor Dave, who, Cork now understood, was her husband. “Just to fall asleep? I came here for some action. So far all I’ve come up with is a little lamb.” She reached out and put her hand against Cork’s cheek. Then her eyes moved away, roaming over the men at the tables.
Doctor Dave took her arm once again, but once again she pulled away. “I don’t need you or your help.” She squared her shoulders and headed for the door.
“Night, Ben,” Doctor Dave said and followed his wife outside.
The barkeep took the stub of cigar from his mouth and dropped it in what was left of his brother’s drink on the bar. The ember died with a little sizzle. “Drunken cow,” he said under his breath. He turned angry eyes on Cork. “What are you waiting for? You got your money, now get out.”
“Your receipt,” Cork said and tossed the slip onto the bar.
* * *
Marriage was a mystery to Cork, one he’d never much considered. He understood that marriage was about love, but love was also about a lot of other things. Marriage was about children, but that seemed to him a consequence, not a reason. Marriage was, he vaguely understood, about sex, legal sex, sex that was okay in the eyes of everybody that mattered, maybe the Church most of all. In the case of his parents, marriage seemed to be about companionship. His mother and father seemed to like spending time with each other. As he walked home in the gathering dark, he thought about Doctor Dave Svenson and his wife, who didn’t seem to like each other much at all. He wondered if it had always been that way between them, but decided probably not or why would they have gotten married in the first place?
The evening sky was a satin blue with the first faint stars just beginning to show. As he wandered toward home and neared St. Agnes, Cork saw that his father’s police cruiser was parked in the church lot and the light in the priest’s office was on. He stopped pondering marriage and thought about what his father had said—that to be fair, he needed to question Father Cam. He didn’t know the kinds of questions his father might ask, but he thought Father Cam wouldn’t lie. He was a priest. Priests were different from regular people. Although he knew his father wouldn’t want him intruding, as if with a will of their own, his feet took him to the door that opened onto the church’s administrative and education wing. It was unlocked, and he stepped inside. The hallway was dark, the only light coming from the church office. He moved to it quietly and peeked inside. The room was empty.
The absence of both the priest and his father from the only lighted room gave him an unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach. He crept down the hallway toward the sanctuary, walking in the dim red light shed by the Exit sign above the sanctuary doorway. He stood near the altar rail, eyeing the great crucifix that dominated the chancel. From the rear of the sanctuary came a low moaning, as if from someone in deep pain. Cork walked slowly down the center aisle, toward the small chapel off the narthex, which was sometimes used for quiet meditation or an intimate ceremony.
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