Desolation Mountain

  “Why?”

  * * *

  Rainy and Jenny had dinner waiting, macaroni and cheese and peas. It was one of Waaboo’s favorites, and also Stephen’s. The men stripped off their muddied clothing, cleaned themselves, and took their chairs at the table in the dining room. Stephen sat next to Waaboo, who loved his uncle and made grunting noises at him, like a pig. Stephen returned the grunts, but his heart wasn’t in this play.

  When they’d finished the meal and Waaboo had been read to and taken upstairs to bed, Stephen removed himself from the others and sat in the porch swing, rocking and processing. The night air felt clean after the storm. The sky had cleared, a waxing moon had risen, and the front yard under the elm was a complex tapestry of moon shadow and silver light.

  Rainy joined him on the swing. Like Meloux, she had been nurturing Stephen in his own desire to become Mide, though nothing formal had begun. It was all preparation.

  “You’re struggling to understand,” she said.

  “Why do the visions come if there’s nothing I can do about them, if they don’t help prevent the horrible things that happen?”

  “I’ve never had a vision, so I can’t answer that.”

  “I don’t want this. I don’t want to see these things.”

  “I understand. But do you have a choice?”

  He stared at the complex pattern of light and shadow on the lawn. “I tried to stop it from coming. I tried to close my mind.”

  “Even if you don’t understand, maybe you should open yourself to acceptance, believe there’s purpose, although what that might be isn’t clear, at least at the moment.” She looked up at the sky. “The Great Mystery.”

  This was one of the more poetic interpretations of Kitchimanidoo, which was also translated as the Great Spirit or sometimes the Creator. Stephen, in his efforts at spiritual understanding, had come to believe that whatever you called this spirit—God, Allah, Kitchimanidoo—it was an integrated consciousness on a cosmic scale, the interconnectedness of all creation. When he was grounded, centered, he understood and, exactly as Rainy was counseling, worked at acceptance. But at that moment, all he felt was frustrated, cut off, full of anger and rejection.

  “If I’d understood, maybe all those people would still be alive.”

  “Or maybe not. Who can say? It seems a lot to take on your shoulders, responsibility for this.”

  “If I’d only understood in time.”

  “Stephen,” she began.

  “I’m going for a walk.” He shoved himself out of the swing and rushed headlong across the yard and down Gooseberry Lane.

  Cork stepped onto the porch. “Where’s he going?”

  “To be with himself.”

  “Maybe I should go after him.”

  “I don’t think he’s ready to talk.” She watched the figure growing small and dark. “He feels responsible.”

  “For the plane crash?”

  “For not keeping it from happening. He believes he failed because he didn’t understand his vision.”

  Jenny and Daniel joined them.

  Cork asked, “Waaboo’s down?”

  “Sound asleep.” Daniel leaned against the porch railing. “I was just listening to the radio. It’s all over the news.”

  “Do they know how many were on the plane with Senator McCarthy?” Jenny asked.

  “Her husband, her son, an aide, and the two pilots. That’s the working count. NTSB is on the scene now. I suppose we’ll know more tomorrow.”

  “Do they have any idea what caused it?”

  “They’re still looking for the black box.”

  Cork shook his head. “I wish to God they hadn’t hustled us out of there. I can’t help feeling there was more we could have done.”

  At the same time Stephen had discovered the boy’s body still strapped in its seat, another influx of searchers had arrived. Among them were FBI personnel, agents from Minnesota’s Bureau of Criminal Apprehension, and first responders from other communities in Tamarack County. Control of the scene moved into the hands of the FBI, and all the others were asked to stand down and clear the marsh. Floodlights were brought in. Cork, Stephen, Daniel, and the others made their way back to the logging road, the lights behind them glaring and unnatural. And within Cork, maybe within them all, a disturbing sense of something important left undone.

  “Could you have saved anyone?” Rainy asked.

  “I don’t think so. But maybe some questions could have been answered.”

  “Like what?”

  “Monkey says there was something odd about the plane, how it was flying, low and slow and canted. No one talked to him about that. Not Dross’s people, not the FBI. He and Ned were first on the scene. But no one bothered to question them.” He looked at Daniel and added, “Or you and the others who weren’t far behind, for that matter.”

  “We spoke with Azevedo, but just briefly,” Daniel replied. “He was the one doing all the talking with the FBI, but I don’t know if he said anything about us.”

  “The sheriff?” Rainy asked. “Where was she?”

  “Marsha stayed on the logging road, coordinating the flow of the other responders,” Cork said. “I didn’t see her at the scene until the FBI was telling the rest of us to stand down.”

  Jenny looked puzzled. “That seems unusual. Shouldn’t she have been in charge?”

  “Azevedo’s been her go-to incident commander for a long time now,” Cork explained. “Marsha trusts him with a scene. I’m guessing she was in communication with all the other agencies, making quick decisions, trying to keep a handle on things. Situation like this, it can be chaos, explode in your face.”

  “Mom!”

  “Thought Waaboo was down,” Cork said.

  Jenny rose. “Probably picking up all our unsettled vibes.” She and Daniel headed inside.

  On the porch, alone with Rainy, Cork stared at the sky, where the glow of moonlight outshone the stars. “I don’t know how to help him.”

  “He’ll find his way.”

  “I understand where he’s coming from. What good is a vision if it saves no one? Just makes you feel useless.”

  “You’re both wishing you could have done something more.”

  “Moot point. What’s done is done. I’m going inside. Coming?”

  “I think I’ll wait out here a bit longer,” Rainy said.

  Cork studied the empty street. “He may not be home for a good long while.”

  Rainy continued to rock in the porch swing, and Cork called it a night.

  * * *

  The house wasn’t completely dark when Stephen finally returned. A light had been left on in the hallway. He shed his jacket and climbed the stairs to his bedroom, where he lay fully clothed on top of the covers. He’d found no answers on his long, solitary sojourn. Moonlight slanted through his window. Shadows invaded his room. He stared at the ceiling, seeing a body full of shattered bones strapped in a plane seat, a face no longer human. He was certain he wouldn’t get any rest. But sleep stole over him with surprising suddenness.

  And in the night, the vision came to him again.

  CHAPTER 8

  * * *

  “Pilot error.”

  Cork was reading the Duluth News Tribune. It had been nearly a week since Senator Olympia McCarthy’s plane plowed into a bog near the base of Desolation Mountain, killing everyone on board.

  “That’s what they’re calling it. Not officially yet. Not until they’ve sifted through everything, which’ll take weeks. But at this point they don’t have a better explanation.”

  Rainy was at the kitchen counter, pouring her first cup of coffee that morning. “They still haven’t talked to you or to Daniel. Have they talked to anybody who was out there?”

  “According to the article, the investigation is ongoing. God only knows what that means.”

  In the first days following the crash, the world had become glaringly aware of Aurora, Minnesota. The hotels, normally filled with leaf peepers at this time of
year, had filled instead with journalists and television reporters. Every day, the main street carried traffic equal to that of a busy summer weekend. The road to Desolation Mountain was a constant stream of coming and going, although the authorities had blocked access to the crash site itself. That area was still cordoned off while the NTSB continued documenting the scene and collecting debris. But Cork knew that news was only news if it was fresh, and it was fresh only for a heartbeat. After a few days, if nothing sensational came to light, people’s interest moved on. Aurora would soon be back to normal. Out of the limelight. He hoped.

  “The funeral is tomorrow in the Twin Cities. A private affair,” Cork said, relaying what he’d learned from the newspaper story. “Then a public memorial at the cathedral next week. They’re expecting thousands.”

  Rainy joined him, propped her elbows on the table, sipped her coffee. “Minnesota lost a senator. The little guy in America lost a champion.”

  “Speculation is that our governor is going to arrange to have himself appointed to fill her seat.” Cork folded the newspaper. “So for the next four years, the little guy in America will still be lacking a champion. And the question becomes, what do you do now?”

  “What do I do now?”

  “About the mine.”

  “Cork, you talk about that mine as if you have nothing at stake. It could ruin a lot of the water on the rez, to say nothing of the Boundary Waters.”

  “I’m well aware of the potential.”

  “Then why aren’t you angry, like the rest of us?”

  “Rest of us? There are a lot of folks in Tamarack County who’d be overjoyed to see that mine begin operation. Jobs coming back. It’s been a long time for some of the men who worked the iron mines.”

  “But it’s so shortsighted. In the long run, all I see is devastation.”

  Jenny entered the kitchen, Waaboo trailing behind her, still looking sleepy. Jenny wasn’t looking so bright-eyed herself. “Raised voices this early in the morning? Honeymoon’s over, I guess.”

  “I had a bad dream, Baa-baa.” Waaboo sat on his grandfather’s lap and laid his head against Cork’s chest. “It was scary.”

  “What was it?”

  “A monster. He was chasing me.”

  “Did he catch you?”

  “I hided.”

  “You hid,” Jenny said, pouring herself a mug of coffee.

  “It had lots of heads, Baa-baa. Monster heads.”

  Cork hugged his grandson. “Only a nightmare, buddy.”

  “Did you see Daniel?” Jenny asked.

  “Already gone when I got up this morning,” Cork told her. “Why so early?”

  “He’s still trying to track down those poachers. He keeps getting reports, but he can’t nail the guys. I thought I heard Stephen leave early, too.”

  “Gone at first light.”

  “Did you talk to him?” she asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Know where he was going?”

  “No idea. Tight-lipped as ever.”

  Waaboo slid from his grandfather’s lap and trotted to where Trixie, the O’Connors’ ancient pooch, lay on a blanket near her food dish. Trixie lifted her head, and her tail swiped back and forth across the linoleum. In her old age, her pupils had gone cloudy, and there was some concern about her sight going altogether. But her ears and nose still worked well enough, and right now everything about her became suddenly alert as she let out a woof in warning. Only a moment later, the front doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it.” Jenny left the kitchen.

  “A little early for visitors,” Rainy remarked.

  “Probably John O’Loughlin.” Cork was speaking of the neighbor across the street. “Out of coffee again.”

  “Dad,” Jenny called from the front hallway. “Someone to see you.”

  Although the man standing with her at the front door was a stranger, Cork knew immediately that he had a badge somewhere on him.

  “Agent Able Gunderson, FBI.” The stranger showed his ID. “Can I speak with you a moment, Mr. O’Connor? And your son and son-in-law as well.”

  “Is this about the plane crash?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Stephen and Daniel are out, but I’m happy to talk with you.”

  “Can I get you some coffee, Agent Gunderson?” Jenny offered.

  “No, thank you.” He smiled, polite but steely.

  “I’ll leave you two to talk then.”

  “Have a seat.” Cork led the way into the living room, and Gunderson took the easy chair.

  He was nondescript. Fortyish, medium height and build, sandy hair kept short, eyes whose color was hard to discern or remember. He wore a light leather jacket and jeans.

  “Finally getting around to this then,” Cork said.

  “A lot to be done, Mr. O’Connor. You understand.” He took out a small notepad and pen. “What time did you arrive on the scene?”

  “Must’ve been about six-fifteen.”

  “Who else was there at that time, do you recall?”

  “Roy Berg, he’s our fire chief.” Cork gave the names of the volunteer firefighters he could remember. “Roy would have the full list, I’m sure. Have you talked to him?”

  “We have. Any others?”

  “Deputy Azevedo. He was coordinating things at the site. Alf Morgan and Joe Riley, they’re search and rescue guys, like me.”

  “I understand there were men from the Iron Lake Reservation.”

  “Monkey Love, of course. That’s Jameson Love. He reported the downed plane. His uncle Ned Love. Daniel English, my son-in-law. Another game warden from the rez, Phil Hukari. And Tom Blessing. He works at the tribal office.”

  Gunderson wrote down the names. “What was going on when you arrived?”

  Cork told him about the flaming fuselage and the firefighters.

  “Where were the men from the reservation?”

  “Just about to head off to search the woods where some of the debris had come down.”

  “But they’d been there awhile, searching the area before anyone else arrived, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And when they went into the woods, you went with them?”

  “Not right away. But after the storm began, with all that lightning, Roy made us clear the bog and we joined them then.”

  “Did any of you find anything?”

  “Senator McCarthy’s son, still strapped in his seat.”

  “Did any of you pick anything up?”

  “Like what?”

  “You tell me. Did you pick up anything?”

  “Not that I recall. But as you already know, Daniel and the others were in the woods before us. Have you talked to them yet?”

  “We will.”

  “I have a question for you,” Cork said. “Why is the FBI involved?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I didn’t think you guys stepped in unless this was a criminal investigation.”

  “Senator McCarthy was a national figure, Mr. O’Connor. In these times, when acts of terrorism are possible anywhere, we have to take a close look.”

  “You think terrorists might have been responsible?”

  “I didn’t say that. Just that we have to look carefully at a situation like this. I’m sure you understand. These men from the reservation, what’s the best way to get in touch with them?”

  “Phil Hukari and Tom Blessing live on the rez. Check with the tribal office. They’ll point you in the right direction. It’s clear you already know that Daniel and Stephen live here. Ned Love and his nephew are a little more difficult. They have a cabin not far from the crash site, but it’s pretty hard to find.” Cork sat back. “I can’t believe nobody’s talked to Ned or Monkey Love yet. They were eyewitnesses to the plane going down. The only ones as far as I know.”

  “We’ll get to them, Mr. O’Connor. Is there anything else about the crash site you think we should know, even if it seems inconsequential?”

  “To tell you
the truth, as soon as your guys showed up on the scene, we got hustled out of there pretty fast, so we weren’t a part of the search for very long.”

  “Our people were preserving the integrity of the site,” Gunderson said, as if by rote. He put his notepad and pen away and stood to leave. “Thanks very much for your help. If you think of anything more, feel free to call me.” He held out his card.

  After the agent had gone, Cork returned to the kitchen.

  “What did he want?” Rainy asked.

  “Whatever I could tell him about the search at the crash site. But get this. We’re almost a week out and nobody’s interviewed Ned or Monkey Love. Christ, they saw the plane go down.” He took his jacket from where it hung on a peg near the back door.

  Rainy gave him a questioning look. “Where are you going?”

  “I want to talk to Marsha Dross and George Azevedo.”

  “Why?” Jenny asks.

  “Something doesn’t feel right.”

  Waaboo got up from beside Trixie and hugged his grandfather around the waist. “Watch out for monsters, Baa-baa.”

  CHAPTER 9

  * * *

  The entrance to the old logging road along the base of Desolation Mountain was blocked by a wooden barricade. Stephen drove his Jeep slowly past. Two vehicles were parked beyond the barricade, both dark blue SUVs, no official logo of any kind visible anywhere. The plates were U.S. government issue.

  Stephen continued two more miles down the main gravel road until he was on the eastern side of the mountain. There was no easy way to the top from there. Photographers and others interested in the view always took a well-worn path that led up from the now-barricaded logging road. He pulled the Jeep off the shoulder and into a flat area among the trees and parked behind a blackberry thicket. He circled the Jeep, satisfied that between its scratched-up, dull olive paint job, the coat of dust and dried mud that it wore, and the leaves of the blackberry thicket it was fairly well hidden. He had no clear idea who he might be concealing it from, but his recurring vision made him cautious.

  On official maps, Desolation was the name of the mountain, but the Ojibwe called it Majimanidoo-oshkiinzhig, which meant, more or less, Devil’s Eye. Traditionally, it was thought to be a cursed place. Rez elders told children stories about it meant to give them chills. Most modern Shinnobs laughed at the dark tales. Still, Desolation Mountain wasn’t a place you were likely to find folks from the rez taking in the view.