“Lock him up, Joe.” Liam reached for his phone and called Sam’s Place. “Sam,” he said when Winter Moon answered. “I need your canoe.”
CHAPTER 58
What woke him, Cork couldn’t have said. Maybe a noise. Maybe the dream—he’d been having a nightmare about drowning. Maybe just the fact that he had to pee. He opened his eyes and saw that the moon hadn’t moved much in the sky, and it still cast long shadows of everything that stood upright in the Northwoods. Tiny flames, like little devil horns, still flickered inside the fire ring. He figured he hadn’t been asleep all that long, and he didn’t really want to be awake. But there was his bladder, demanding attention.
He sat up slowly, slid from his sleeping bag, and stepped away from the other boys to take care of business. He stood facing the lake, which was just like the sky, a blackness where a million jewels seemed to sparkle and where the moon laid out a path of silver. The wind had died, and everything had grown silent, not even the sound of tree frogs or night birds disturbing the utter stillness.
A hundred yards offshore sat a little island with a few scrub pines, their tips black and ragged against the silver of the lake. As he took care of business, Cork’s eyes settled there for a moment. And he saw it. Just a flicker of light among the trees. There for a moment, a sudden flaring in the dark, then it was gone.
He turned back to the nearly dead fire. The other two boys were sound asleep. He could hear Billy snoring softly. He considered waking them but decided against it. He stared intently where he’d seen the little flare of light and decided that it was probably a match that had been struck and that it must belong to whomever had come to the lake before them, to whomever it was that had left the boot print on the short portage up from Spider Creek. Other campers, most likely. But they were so close. Why hadn’t he seen them earlier? He wondered if maybe they’d been fishing late into the night on one of the lake’s many fingers and had only just made camp. He knew the island and knew it was not a good spot for making camp. Maybe they’d been trying to find their way back to the portage and had got lost and decided to stop for the night before they got lost even further. He tried a couple of other scenarios, but nothing felt quite right. In fact, the whole thing felt off. He decided it had to be checked out. Due diligence.
To reach the island would mean putting the canoe in the water by himself, a difficult maneuver, particularly in the dark. But there was another way, he realized. He could swim there. The lake had been heating all summer long, and Cork didn’t balk at all at the idea of entering it in the night. He removed his T-shirt so that he wore only his boxer shorts. He stepped carefully over and among the boulders, making his way down to where they’d secured the canoe. He slid into the water easily, the chill a little startling at first, but he quickly got used to it. Then he began to breaststroke. Around him, the water was liquid silver. As he moved through it, the surface was broken with black ripples. He swam soundlessly, knowing that if he needed to, he could swim this way for miles. He’d grown up swimming in Iron Lake, and earlier that summer, on a dare from Jorge, he’d swum all the way across and back in the course of an afternoon, nearly six miles, while Jorge canoed at his side. The feel of the water was second nature, as if he were part fish.
He neared the island, stopped swimming, and treaded water just off the shore from the spot where he’d seen the tiny flare of light. The island was flat, he recalled, and between the scrub pines the ground was covered with thick brush. But there was a narrow, grassy apron on the near side. Although the area was dark now, under the glare of the moon, he could see a figure standing on that apron of grass. As he watched, a tiny red eye seemed to open in the head of the moonlit figure, and Cork became aware of a faint smell totally out of place in the wilderness: the foul odor of cigar smoke.
He was near enough to shore that his feet could touch, and he stood on the broken rock of the lake bottom, his head and shoulders above water as he tried to make sense of all the elements the moment presented to him. A lot of men smoked cigars, but Cork’s thinking settled immediately on one in particular. He was a man who’d used this entrance into the Boundary Waters before, who’d come here as a kid, a Boy Scout. A man Joe Meese had called Devil Dog, which Jorge had told him was a nickname for a Marine. And a man who had always seemed to Cork riddled by a foulness as odious as the smell of his cigars.
Cork knew who’d killed Louise LaRose.
He turned to swim back to Eagle Point but found his way blocked by a canoe. It had come up behind him so silently that he hadn’t noticed. The beam of a flashlight shot into Cork’s eyes, blinding him.
“Easy there, son. Nothing to worry about.” A long pause followed, then the man spoke again. “What say we both head in to shore and talk things over.”
Though the light blinded him, Cork knew the voice behind it, and in a way, it didn’t surprise him at all.
CHAPTER 59
Thank God for the moon, Liam thought.
There were two canoes on Spider Creek. Oscar Manydeeds and Sam Winter Moon led the way in one, Liam and Joe Meese followed in the other. They’d rendezvoused in their trucks at Lightning Strike, launched the canoes, and paddled quickly to the mouth of the stream. Now they stroked in brilliant moonlight, the two Ojibwe in the lead, making their way flawlessly through the web of marshland channels toward Naabe-Mooz. If he’d had wings, Liam would have flown. Although he tried to concentrate on the effort at hand—stroke, stroke, stroke—his brain was like an untamed beast.
What could it hurt? he’d asked himself when his son had requested his permission to look for evidence. In all the scenarios that had run quickly through his head, he’d never once considered that the men who’d killed Louise LaRose would end up hunting Cork and his friends. It was supposed to be a harmless outing, something to keep his son busy, to give him a sense of being of some help. What kind of father am I? Liam thought. What kind of lawman? And, oh God, what if… But that was a place he wouldn’t let his mind go. Instead, he thought strategy.
The men had camped on Eagle Point. Liam knew the place. A small clearing atop an outcrop where the long inlet that led from the end of the portage opened onto the big lake. If either of the men was watching, both canoes could easily be seen in the brilliant moonlight. But why would they be watching? Who would expect a rescue party in the dead of night? Still, it might be best to pull up short of the point and approach through the trees. Except that they would make noise that way, especially trying to move in the dark. Was there another approach? No, Eagle Point was like a watchtower on the entrance to Naabe-Mooz, and if the men were vigilant, it would be impossible to come at them unseen. If they came swiftly enough, however, even though Skinner or Svenson might spot them, what could those two do except run? And what would be their path of escape? Only to flee into the woods, which were deep and confusing, or take to the lake, and Liam would be waiting there. The real question in all this was would they harm the boys. Or had they already?
On the other hand, maybe Cork and the others had checked Eagle Point, found nothing, and moved on. This was the hope Liam clung to when they reached the place where the water that fed Spider Creek cascaded down from Moose Lake. They shouldered their rifles, lifted the canoes from the stream, and began the short portage up to the lake. The trees broke the moonlight into ragged patches, and they had to make their way carefully. To Liam, it felt as if they were snails.
They set the canoes in the water at the end of the long, rock-lined corridor that led to the body of the lake. Under the moon, the surface was opalescent and dead still. They shoved off, and Liam knew they were only a quarter mile from Eagle Point now. Only a quarter mile from the boys, maybe. A quarter mile from Cork.
They’d gone a little more than halfway when they heard the first of the rifle shots.
* * *
Cork waded to shore, the canoe trailing him. He stood with his feet in the water as the canoe glided up beside him. The man who waited for them there, cigar jammed in the corner of his mouth, g
rabbed the bow of the canoe and steadied it as Nick Skinner disembarked.
“Christ,” Svenson said. “We’re screwed now.”
“Keep your cool, Ben. This is just a slight wrinkle.”
“Wrinkle my ass. What do we do with the kid?”
“That depends on the kid.” Skinner had turned off the flashlight and he stood facing Cork under the glare of the moon. His face was ghost white, his eyes agleam with moonglow. “What did you do with it, Cork?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“We’ve been watching you since you got here. We know you found the medallion.”
“What medallion?”
“Let me explain things, son. What happened out here was an accident.”
“You killed her,” Cork said.
“No. God’s truth, it was an accident. She was drunk. She fell and hit her head.”
“And you tied her to a rock and sank her body in the lake.”
“It would have been hard to explain things, Cork.”
“She was just a kid.”
“She hadn’t been just a kid for a long time,” Skinner said. “When you grow up, things get complicated. When you grow up like she did, things get complicated early. She was already hooked on booze, Cork. That should tell you something.”
“She didn’t deserve what you did to her.”
“You got no idea what we did to her,” Svenson said.
Cork thought about her naked body and he did have an idea, but not one he wanted to dwell on.
“When she fell and hit her head, she pulled the medallion off Ben’s neck,” Skinner said. “We know that you found something in the water. Had to be Ben’s medallion. That was it, wasn’t it?”
“We didn’t find anything,” Cork said.
“We don’t want to cause you any trouble, Cork. All we want is the medallion.” Skinner smiled in a friendly way and held up his hands, showing his empty palms, ghost-white in the moonlight, as if to prove he had nothing to hide.
“Please, Mr. Skinner—”
“Call me Nick.” And he smiled a little more broadly.
“We didn’t find—”
“Screw this,” Svenson said. “Okay, kid, this is what I’ll do. I’ll go to your camp. I’ll round up your two friends. Then I’ll start cutting you up, each of you, one by one, until one of you talks or you’re all cut into pieces. Then I’ll dump those pieces in the middle of the lake. I’ve learned something from what happened with the girl, and I’ll make sure this time nothing comes back up.”
“Ben,” Skinner said.
“Enough of this shit, Nick. I’m not kidding, boy. I’ll slice you good.” He reached to his belt and, from a sheath there, drew out a vicious-looking blade that gleamed in the moonlight like a long tongue of silver fire.
Cork took a step back and said desperately, “My dad knows.”
“Your dad knows shit,” Svenson said.
“What does your dad know?” Skinner said.
“Everything.”
Skinner gave a little laugh. “I’ll bet he doesn’t know about Ben’s precious medallion.”
He’d spoke derisively and Svenson said, “Hey, I’m proud to be a Marine.”
Skinner shook his head. “Once a Marine, always a goddamn Marine.” He looked again at Cork, but this time there was no false friendliness in his voice. “One more chance. All I want is the medallion.”
The moon, which had been brilliant all night, suddenly blanked out, as if it had moved behind a thick cloud or had slipped behind a mountain. It had been high above the lake at Cork’s back. The two men stood facing him but now their attention moved beyond him, and they lifted their eyes, which grew huge. Even in the sudden dark, Cork could see the terror on their faces. He didn’t wait to find out what had so frightened them. He turned, dashed into the lake, and dove under the dark water.
* * *
Silence. And black. And with each stroke of his arms, a desperate push forward. He’d swum twice the length of the Aurora Municipal Swimming Pool underwater many times, and the press of the lake all around him was nothing he feared. What frightened him, what drove him to go deeper, farther, faster, was the slicing of silver bubbles to his right as bullets penetrated the water. He understood that whoever was shooting at him was anticipating that he would head back in the direction of Eagle Point. Instead, he cut farther to the left, angling toward the corridor that led to Spider Creek.
He swam until his lungs hurt, but when he finally came up for air, he came up quietly, making no splash to give away his position. The moon had returned from where it had hidden itself or had been hidden. The scene before him was once again a milk white island shoreline where the trees and everything else that stood upright cast black shadows. He saw only one figure on the shore and, because of the cigar ember that was like a red eye, knew exactly who it was. But Nick Skinner wasn’t with Ben Svenson. Cork tried not to panic. Then he spotted the canoe.
It was far to his right, heading toward Eagle Point. On top of the point where the boys had made camp, he could see flashlight beams. He figured that the sound of the gunfire must have roused Jorge and Billy. He had no idea what kind of madness was in Skinner’s mind, but he knew he couldn’t let his friends be taken by surprise.
“Jorge! Billy!” he shouted. “Run for it! He’s coming!”
Two feet to his right, the smooth surface of the lake was punctured with a tiny splash, followed almost instantly by the report of a rifle shot. Cork dove, swam until his lungs hurt, then came up. Once again, he shouted to his friends to run for it. And once again, when the bullets began to split the water near him, he sought cover deep in the lake.
This time, he did not swim away. The bright moonlight illuminated the water around him all the way to the lake bottom, six feet below. What he saw directly beneath him was a gray cube of stone eighteen inches in width and height, very much like the angular boulders at the base of Eagle Point. But this one was different, because two short lengths of white cord had been bound around it. At the end of each cord was an empty loop. He let himself hang almost weightless as the understanding and impact of what he was looking at dawned on him. He lifted his eyes and stared up at the surface half a dozen feet above him. The moon was an explosion of frost-white in a black velvet sky. Where the water met the air, there seemed a transparent coating, almost like the thinnest sheet of ice. There was no sound except the occasional release of bubbles from between his lips. He had no idea if Nick Skinner had swung his canoe around and would come for him. Or if Svenson would have him in his rifle sight the next time he surfaced. But oddly, it didn’t matter. He wasn’t even thinking about that. He was thinking about a young girl who’d gone through unimaginable brutality and had been made a prisoner to the lake while she was still alive. He wondered if, with her ankles bound to the boulder’s heavy weight, she’d stared up at a full moon like the one above him now and had seen that fragile place where air and water met. He wondered if she’d been afraid, and he hoped not. But he knew absolutely she’d been alone, and maybe that was the worst thing. To die so alone.
His lungs were beginning to burn, and he knew he had to come up for air. At that moment, the silhouette of a canoe passed directly above him and stopped.
Nick Skinner, he thought. And he wondered, Does he have a gun, too? He was afraid the man could see him six feet below. He needed air, needed it bad, and he kicked away from the shadow. But the canoe above followed. He sees me, Cork thought. He tried to think of an escape plan, but his lungs seemed about to burst, and in another moment, he would have no choice but to surface.
Then a hand dropped into the water and gestured for him to come up.
CHAPTER 60
“Steady, Joe.”
Liam sat in the bow of the canoe, as still as he could possibly make himself in that unsteady craft. His Winchester was snugged against his shoulder as he took aim just below the red eye of the cigar end, which was the same place he’d seen the flashes from the muzzle of a rifle
. He breathed in. Let the air out slowly. Squeezed the trigger.
Not even in the war had he wanted the killing. But he wanted it now.
The recoil rocked the canoe, and Liam nearly went into the lake. But he saw the red ember fall to the ground and the reports from the island ceased.
In the canoe to his left, Sam Winter Moon dipped his hand into the lake, and when he brought it up, Cork was in his grasp.
“He’s okay, Liam,” Sam called out. “He’s fine.”
As soon as he saw his son come out of the water, gasping for air but clearly alive, Liam’s whole body went limp and his vision clouded. He’d heard many times that in the moment before dying, a man’s life flashed before his eyes. In this moment, it was his son’s life that Liam saw. A small red face and wrinkled little body swaddled in a white hospital blanket and nestled against Colleen’s breast, and he felt again how deeply he loved them both. A frightened toddler squirming into bed beside him during a thunderstorm, and he remembered the sweet smell of his son’s breath against his face as they snuggled. A little boy standing in the firelight, wide-eyed but proud during his naming ceremony, and Liam’s own pride at how straight his son stood. A kid with doe-colored hair struggling to hold back tears because his father had spoken to him more harshly than necessary about a lost screwdriver.
“A lost screwdriver,” Liam whispered. “Jesus.”
And now he was the one struggling to hold back tears. Tears of regret for his pointless anger at a child, tears of gratitude for the blessing that was his son, tears of relief that the ordeal was over and Cork was alive.
“One of those sons of bitches is getting away,” Oscar Manydeeds shouted.
“Let him go,” Liam said, wiping at his eyes. “He’ll have to come back to town eventually. We’ll grab him then. Let’s make sure the other boys are safe.”
* * *
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