Vermilion Drift

  “The second round of threatening notes, ‘We die. U die. Just like her.’ That was you, wasn’t it, Max?”

  “After you found Lauren’s body, I got worried, afraid you might look my way. It was simply misdirection.” The tone of his voice indicated that to him it was a thing that hardly mattered now.

  “Come back with me, Max. We can go to the sheriff, and you can explain.”

  Cavanaugh gave his head a slight shake. “I never married, Cork. Never had children. Do you want to know why?”

  “Because you had your hands full taking care of your sister?”

  “Because I might have had a child like Lauren. Or worse, like my mother. It’s in my blood somewhere. But I’m the last of the Cavanaughs. When I’m gone, the blood curse is gone, too.”

  “Come with me, Max.”

  “You go on. I want to stay, keep company awhile with these rock walls. I feel comfortable here. You can tell the sheriff everything I told you. You will anyway, I suppose, and it’s all right with me.” He waited, and when Cork didn’t move, he said, more forcefully, “Go on, Cork. I want to be alone.”

  “Max—”

  “I can call a security person and have you escorted out.”

  “No need. I’ll go.” But he didn’t, not right away. He said, “I’m sorry, Max.”

  “For what?”

  “Those ropes you talked about, I guess.”

  Cavanaugh offered him a sad smile. “And I’d guess you have ropes of your own. Doesn’t everybody?”

  Cork walked back to his Land Rover and got in. He looked back and watched Cavanaugh return to his Escalade.

  He slid the phone from under his shirt. “You get all that, Marsha?”

  “Loud and clear, Cork. I’m at the front gate now. I’ll pick him up when he comes out.”

  Cork swung his vehicle around and started toward the incline that would take him along the switchbacks to the top. He figured he’d join Dross and together they would wait for Max Cavanaugh.

  He hadn’t gone more than a hundred yards when he heard the explosion behind him, and the walls of the pit were lit as if by lightning, and he saw in the rearview mirror the Escalade consumed in an enormous blossom of red-orange flame.

  FORTY-FIVE

  He was home by midnight and in bed by one, but sleep stayed beyond his reach.

  At three, he threw the covers back and went downstairs to check his e-mail, but there was nothing new from any of his children.

  At four, he turned on the television in the living room and lay down on the sofa and surfed the channels, but nothing appealed.

  At four-thirty, the birds began to chatter.

  At five, he gave up, showered, dressed, and took Trixie for an early walk.

  At six-thirty, he thought about breakfast but wasn’t hungry.

  At seven, he called Judy Madsen, told her he would need her to cover for him at Sam’s Place for a while, got into his Land Rover, and headed to Crow Point to find Henry Meloux.

  The dew on the meadow grass was heavy, and under the yellow morning sun Crow Point seemed strewn with sapphires. A breeze caught the smoke that rose from Meloux’s cabin and thinned it quickly to nothing against the morning sky. The cabin door was open. Near it, Walleye lay drowsing with his head on his forepaws. Cork, as he approached, smelled biscuits baking.

  Rainy Bisonette stepped outside, shaded her eyes, and watched him come.

  “We got word early this morning that Max Cavanaugh killed himself and that you were there,” she told him. “True?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Uncle Henry said you’d be here.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Preparing for you. Have you eaten?”

  “A little. But those biscuits smell good.”

  “I just made them. And I have coffee, if you’d like.”

  “Thank you.”

  They sat at the sturdy table Meloux had made for himself long before Cork was born. Cork looked around the simple, single room with affection and admiration.

  “A person doesn’t need any more than this,” he said.

  “Sometimes I think that, too. Other times, I’d kill for a lightbulb.”

  “Thanks for the biscuit. It’s really good. Did you make this jam?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s wonderful.”

  “Since the kids have grown and gone, I don’t cook as much as I used to, or as much as I’d like. That’s been one of the best things about being here with Uncle Henry. Someone to appreciate my cooking.”

  “How is he?”

  “No worse. But I still haven’t got a handle on what’s going on.”

  “There’s a pretty good hospital in Aurora. They could run tests.”

  “Uncle Henry won’t go.”

  Cork nodded. It figured.

  The light through the open door was blotted by a sudden shadow, and Meloux walked in. He moved slowly, bent and looking tired. He sat with them at the table, ate a biscuit with jam, drank some coffee, and said to Cork, “You are ready for the end of your journey?”

  “There are things I’ve forgotten, Henry, things that I have to know. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, I can’t think. I’ve always been proud to say that I was the son of Liam and Colleen O’Connor, but now I don’t know what that means. I’m not sure who they were, and I’m not sure anymore who I am.”

  “Are you afraid?”

  “Yes. I think there must be a good reason I don’t remember things, but I don’t care what that reason is. I have to know the truth.”

  “Then I am ready to guide you to it. Niece?” He held out his hand, which trembled, and she helped him to his feet.

  Every spring, in a small clearing on the eastern shore of the point, Meloux built a sweat lodge. The old Mide usually had help, Shinnobs from the rez, and some years Cork gave a hand. This year it had been mostly Rainy who’d assisted her uncle. They’d built the frame—a hemisphere eight feet in diameter and five feet high at the center—of willow boughs tied together with rawhide prayer strips, and had covered it with tarps overlaid with blankets.

  When they reached the sweat lodge, Meloux turned to Cork.

  “First you will fast,” he said.

  “How long, Henry?”

  “A day. You will fast and ask yourself if you really want to know the truth, for that is the end of this journey. If you are thirsty, drink from the lake. If you feel the desire or need, bathe there, too. We will come at moonrise to see if you want to go on, and if you do, we will come again before the rise of the sun to build the sacred fire. Do you understand, Corcoran O’Connor?”

  “Yes, Henry.”

  “Then sit here,” Meloux said and indicated a bare area that lay between the sweat lodge and the lake, “and let it begin. Come, Niece. You, too, old dog,” he said to Walleye, who’d padded slowly behind them from the cabin.

  Meloux turned and headed back the way he’d come.

  “Rainy?” Cork called.

  She turned back. “Could you call John and Sue O’Loughlin? They live across the street from me. Tell them I might be a while and ask them to feed and, if they’re willing, walk my dog until I get back?”

  “I’ll do that,” Rainy promised.

  Cork sat on the ground, crossed his legs, and waited.

  The sun rose high and the day grew hot and Cork grew thirsty. He got up and walked to the lake, unsteadily because his legs had gone to sleep. As he knelt to drink, he saw a huge bird, a great blue heron, gliding over the lake, which was glass smooth and mirror perfect. The reflection of the bird crossed the reflection of the sky. Slowly, gracefully, the heron descended. In the mirror of the lake, its other self rose, and in a brief moment of rippling water, the two met. With a powerful sweep of wing, the great bird rose again and the other descended, and in a minute the sky and lake were clear again. The ripple of their meeting spread outward, however, and where Cork knelt at the lake’s edge, the water undulated gently.

  Sometime in the afternoon, a dark-colore
d snake shot from the grass that edged the cleared area around the sweat lodge. Cork had been drowsing, and the dart of the snake startled him, and he sat bolt upright. The snake stopped, tested the air with its tongue, and for a fatal moment lay there, a black crack across the bare dirt a dozen feet from Cork. In the next instant, a goshawk swooped down, snagged the reptile, and, effortless as dreaming, carried it away.

  These sights, or sights like them, Cork had seen before in the great Northwoods, and he could explain them. But at dusk, he witnessed something that he’d never seen and for which he had no explanation.

  The sun had set, and the lake had taken on the look of melted lead. The shoreline was drifting into darkness, and the tops of the pine trees formed a ragged black outline that reminded him of the sharp teeth of a predator. The night birds had begun to call, and the tree frogs were just starting to sing. At a place a hundred yards distant, where Crow Point met the shoreline in a curve of brush and timber, Cork spotted movement, a stealthy creep of pale white, which he realized was a wolf. Then he spotted another wolf, this one a mottled gray, which seemed to mirror the movement of the first. They circled, facing each other in a threatening way. Suddenly they lunged and met in terrible canine battle. The sound of their yips and snarls echoed off the trees, and the birds and the frogs fell silent. The wolves separated, circled, and lunged again, gnashing teeth and tearing through fur into flesh. They went on this way until it was too dark to see them, and then the noise of their struggle finally ended. Cork sat wondering at what he’d witnessed and wondering what it meant.

  At moonrise, as he’d promised, Meloux returned. Rainy was with him.

  The sky was black, and through it ran the pale river of the Milky Way. The gibbous moon, as it rose, cast a glow that pushed long, faint shadows across the ground.

  “What have you seen today?” the old Mide asked.

  “A bird descended from the sky, Henry, and touched its reflection and flew away.”

  “What else?”

  “This afternoon, a snake crawled near me, and a hawk snatched it and carried it off.”

  “What else?”

  “Something I didn’t understand, and maybe didn’t really see.”

  “What was that?”

  “Two wolves fighting. Over there.” Cork pointed toward the curve in the shoreline.

  “Ah,” Meloux said, as if this was important.

  “What does it mean, Henry?” Cork asked.

  “In every human being, there are two wolves. One wolf is love, from which all that is good in life comes: generosity, forgiveness, acceptance, peace. The other is fear, which creates all that is destructive: greed, hatred, prejudice, violence. These two wolves are always fighting.”

  “Did I really see them?”

  “Really?” In the dark, the crescent moon of a smile appeared on the old man’s face. “I don’t know what that question means, Corcoran O’Connor. Are you willing to continue your journey?”

  “I am, Henry.”

  “Then continue.” He turned as if to leave.

  “Wait, Henry,” Cork said. “The two wolves fighting? Which one wins?”

  But Meloux didn’t answer. He walked away, and Rainy followed.

  Just before sunrise, Meloux and Rainy came again, and Walleye came with them. They brought two folded blankets.

  Cork hadn’t slept, or been aware that he’d slept. The night had been long, and his thoughts had drifted widely.

  “You are ready for the end of your journey?” Meloux asked.

  Although he was weary, Cork replied, “I’m ready, Henry.”

  “Help me with the fire, Niece.”

  As Cork watched, Meloux and Rainy built the sacred fire, and when the blaze had produced a fine bed of glowing coals, the old man pointed Rainy toward a pitchfork that leaned against a nearby tree. Not far away was a stack of large rocks, which Cork knew were the Grandfathers, the stones that would heat the lodge. Rainy used the pitchfork to place the Grandfathers among the embers. Meloux burned sage and cedar in the fire and used an eagle feather to guide the smoke over Cork to further cleanse his spirit. He gave Cork tobacco, and Cork sprinkled it into the fire, asking the Great Spirit to guide him in his quest. Then Meloux told Rainy to put the blankets on the ground inside the lodge. When all was ready, he said to Cork, “It is time.”

  The old man stripped off his clothing, and Cork did the same. Meloux went first and Cork followed. When they were seated on their blankets, Rainy carried in the Grandfathers, one by one, cradled on the tines of the pitchfork, and laid the red-hot stones in the hollow in the center. She used a pine bough to sweep away any lingering ash or embers from the stones. Last, she brought in a clay bowl that held a small dipper and was filled with water. Then she retreated and dropped the flap over the opening, plunging Cork and Meloux into darkness.

  During a long period of silence, Cork’s eyes adjusted, and he saw Meloux reach for the dipper and pour water over the stones. Steam shot into the air, and Cork began to sweat, and the old Mide began a prayer, an Ojibwe chant whose words Cork didn’t understand.

  The heat increased, and Meloux sprinkled more water on the stones and continued chanting.

  After a while, Cork relaxed.

  His weariness overwhelmed him.

  And he began to dream.

  FORTY-SIX

  What do you see, Corcoran O’Connor?

  He was outside himself, seeing himself, and he said so.

  How old are you?

  Thirteen, he said.

  Tell me what is happening.

  And this is what he told.

  He’s lying on the sofa in the living room of the house on Gooseberry Lane. He’d thought he would watch television to take his mind off the worry that never left him these days, but he hasn’t bothered to turn the set on. Instead, he stares up at the ceiling and wonders if his father will ever find his cousin Fawn or Naomi Stonedeer, and if he does, will they still be alive. They’ve been taken, abducted, everyone on the rez is sure, but no one has any idea who would do such a thing, and everyone is afraid. The Vanishings. That’s what everyone is calling what’s happened.

  The house is quiet. He’s alone. His mother is on the rez with Grandma Dilsey and Fawn’s mother, Aunt Ellie. His father is … well, his father could be anywhere these days. He’s gone a lot. During the day, he leaves in uniform. But at night he leaves in different clothing, and often he doesn’t come back until early morning, when Cork is asleep. But his mother doesn’t sleep, and his father’s sneaking out is something that concerns her. Because of his mother’s worry and because of his father’s inability to find Fawn and Naomi and, most of all, because of his father’s silence and odd behavior that clearly hurt his mother, Cork is angry with him, angry all the time. They barely speak these days. Sometimes Cork sees in his father’s eyes something like regret. And sometimes he longs to tell his father that he’s tired of his own anger and wants to let go of the worry and that all he really wants is for everything to be as it was before the Vanishings began.

  He hears the kitchen door open, and a moment later he hears his mother’s voice.

  “Damn it, Liam, why won’t you listen?”

  “I have listened. To you and all your relatives and every other Shinnob on the reservation. And I understand your concern, and I wish to God that you’d trust me and let me do my job.”

  “You leave almost every night and are gone until almost dawn and you won’t tell me where you go.”

  “That’s the trust part, Colleen.”

  “Trust works both ways, Liam. Tell me what’s going on. Trust that I’ll believe you or forgive you or whatever it takes.”

  At first, his father offers only silence. Then he says, “Where’s Cork?”

  Cork lies still as death to be sure he can’t be seen.

  “I don’t know,” his mother replies. “Out, I suppose.”

  “Sit down.”

  Cork hears chairs scraping linoleum.

  “A while back, Cy Borkman and
I responded to a call from Jacque’s in Yellow Lake.”

  “That’s a vile place, Liam.”

  “Places like that are the reason I have a job,” he says. “It was an altercation over a woman, the kind of woman who looked like she wasn’t particular who shared her bed. I broke up the fight, and ended up escorting the woman to her vehicle. She made me the kind of offer an experienced streetwalker in Chicago might have come up with.”

  “Does that happen often?” his mother says, in a brittle tone.

  “People try to negotiate with me using all kind of tender. This is about trust, remember?”

  “I’m sorry. Go on.”

  “She called herself Daphne, and there was something familiar about her. Then it came to me. Beneath all that makeup and the wig and the slutty clothing was Peter Cavanaugh’s wife.”

  “Monique?”

  “Yep. Monique Cavanaugh.”

  “You must have been mistaken, Liam.”

  “No mistake. It was her.”

  “Did you let her know you recognized her?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I was curious. What was a woman like her doing in a dive like Jacque’s dressed like a prostitute and behaving like one? Since then I’ve been watching the place to see if she might come again, and to see if I could figure what she was up to. She’s the wife of one of the richest men on the Iron Range, and I knew I needed to be careful in how I went about things. Last night, I saw her again. She was made up like Daphne, and she wasn’t alone. She came with someone familiar to us both.”

  “Who?”

  “Indigo Broom.”

  “Mr. Windigo? God, just thinking about him gives me the creeps.”

  “It gets creepier. I sit in my car in the parking lot most of the night waiting for them to come out. Finally Daphne does, but she’s not with Broom. She’s got a biker on her arm, some big, hairy ape of a guy who gets on his motorcycle and she gets on behind him. Before they take off, Broom comes out, gets in his truck, and when they leave, he follows them. I follow Broom. We end up at the North Pine Motor Court over on Long Lake. The biker and Daphne check in and take a room. Broom parks in the motor court lot, turns off his truck, sits. I park on the road and wait until almost dawn, then Daphne comes out. She gets into Broom’s truck and leaves with him. I pull out my badge and buckle on my gun belt and knock on the door of the room she left. Nobody answers. I knock again, then try the knob. Door’s unlocked. I go in. The biker’s on the bed, naked, tied up with a woman’s nylons and with a woman’s panties stuffed in his mouth and looking like he’s been attacked by a tiger, long bloody scratches everywhere. Bruises, too. I pull out the gag and cut the nylons, toss the guy his clothes, ask him what happened. ‘Nothing,’ he says. The badge gets me nowhere. I threaten to haul him in. He calls my bluff. The kind of guy who’s dealt with uniforms a lot and doesn’t scare. I tell him to get dressed, and I go to the motor court office, get us both some coffee, bring it back. He says he’ll talk but off the record. There’s something he wouldn’t mind getting off his chest, but not to a lawman. So I say, ‘Off the record.’ He tells me that at one point when she’s got him tied up, she pulls a knife from her purse, a switchblade, and says she’s going to cut his heart out and eat it. He laughs, but then she puts the blade to his chest, and for a moment he thinks she’s really going to do it. So I ask him, was it worth it? He says, ‘Mister, even though I thought for a minute I might die, the way she made me feel I almost didn’t care.’”