Northwest Angle

  Finally Kretsch said, “Hell, you might as well go ahead and tell him, Seth.”

  Bascombe kept his eye on the GPS and spoke loud so that Cork could hear over the other noises. “Like we told you before, Sonny Chickaway is Red Lake Ojibwe. Him and Noah Smalldog used to be good buddies, and Chickaway’s always looked out for Lily. Kind of like an older brother. Except some folks think Chickaway’s interest in Lily was more than just brotherly. That maybe it wasn’t only Smalldog who trespassed on Stump Island to visit her.”

  “Chickaway might have been taking advantage of her, too?”

  Kretsch said, “I don’t believe it. Chickaway, well, he’s a good man. And if he visited Lily, there was good reason, and it wasn’t just to be taking advantage of her. Maybe he’s involved in the smuggling, I don’t know. Hell, what if he is? That’s an enterprise got a lot of white men rich over the years.”

  “Whoa,” Bascombe said. “Didn’t mean to push a button, Tom.”

  “It’s just that it’s easy to criticize the Ojibwe for things white folks are guilty of, too. White men get drunk. White men break the law. And nobody says it’s because they’re white. But an Indian does the same thing and the first reason people come up with is that he’s Indian.”

  Cork was liking Kretsch more and more all the time.

  “Okay, judgments aside,” Bascombe said, “I’m just going to point out here that it was Chickaway who loaded all that baby formula on his boat. And if what folks on Stump Island say is true and both men had a similar and unsavory interest in Lily Smalldog, in my experience, there’s nothing that can come between friends faster than a woman.”

  “Why did everyone have to trespass to visit Lily Smalldog?” Cork asked. “These religious folks don’t let people on the island?”

  “A pretty reclusive bunch,” Kretsch said. “Kind of a sect, I guess. They don’t really interact with folks on the Angle, but they never give us any trouble either.”

  Bascombe said, “I run into ’em from time to time. They’re decent enough. I understand they do mission work in places like Africa. Even though they kind of inherited her, they’ve done their best to look out for Lily Smalldog.” He cut back on the throttle and said, “There’s Chickaway’s cabin.”

  The sun was hot, and Cork was grateful for the old canvas hat Kretsch had loaned him. He stared from the shadow of the brim toward the long wooded peninsula on Oak Island that Bascombe had indicated. Built all along the shoreline of the peninsula were some grand lake homes, million-dollar affairs, Cork figured. But, at the very end of the point, he saw a wooden dock and, among the oak trees, a rustic-looking little cabin greatly at odds with the stately homes that were its neighbors.

  Cork said, “How’d Chickaway manage to wedge himself in there with the rich folk?”

  Bascombe said, “Land holdings up here are kind of odd. Sometimes the Ojibwe hold a whole island in trust, and sometimes only a part. Most of Oak Island, for example, is privately owned, but that little point belongs to the Red Lake Ojibwe. Nobody except Sonny Chickaway has ever lived there. Not a real popular resident on the island.”

  “We’re in luck,” Kretsch said. “His boat’s there. Means he’s probably at home. Pull on up, Seth, and let’s have a talk with Sonny.”

  Bascombe brought them in, and they tied up on the opposite side of the dock from where Chickaway’s boat was moored. It was a new-looking Monza with two Evinrude V4 engines, a combination that made for a good, fast craft. But it wasn’t a cigarette boat. They walked the path twenty yards into the shade of the oaks, where the little cabin stood. Kretsch opened the screen door and knocked on the closed inner door. Nobody answered, and he knocked again. He tried to look through the door’s glass panes, but they were curtained. Bascombe moved left to one of the front windows.

  “Curtain’s been torn off this one,” he said. He pressed his nose to the glass. “Jesus Christ. Looks like that storm blew through here, too. Come take a gander.”

  Cork and Kretsch joined him and eyed the inside of the cabin. Bascombe was right. The place had been destroyed.

  Kretsch said, “I think I better take a look.”

  They followed him to the front door. He tried the knob, and it turned; the door opened onto a scene of utter devastation. But Sonny Chickaway was not there.

  “Wasn’t a storm blew through,” Kretsch said. “Looks more like a pissed-off grizzly bear got turned loose in here.”

  Bascombe said, “Yeah, and he must’ve eaten Sonny Chickaway.” He pointed toward a huge dark pooling beneath an overturned chair.

  Cork walked to the chair and knelt and touched the pool with the tip of his finger.

  “Is it?” Bascombe said.

  Cork looked back to where the others stood near the door.

  “It is,” he said.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Kretsch sat at his desk in his office, a telephone pressed to his right ear. The features of his lean, boyish face were drawn taut, as if he were battling a bad headache.

  “No, sir, there wasn’t a body.”

  He listened and picked up a lure from his desktop and dug the hook into the wood.

  “Yes, Chickaway sometimes drinks, and he’s been in fights before, and I suppose that could explain why his place was torn up and maybe even the blood, but—”

  Cut off, he dropped the lure, sat back, took a deep breath, and listened some more.

  “No, nobody’s reported anything. But, hell, that storm yesterday’s got everything and everyone tied up. I mean—”

  He nodded and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “Yes, sir, I called several of the Ojibwe on Windigo and Little Windigo to see if Chickaway might have shown up there looking for medical assistance. No one’s seen him. And that’s my point. If he was hurt—”

  He balled his hand into a bloodless fist.

  “Okay, so even forgetting about Chickaway, what about the baby and Lily Smalldog?”

  Kretsch’s face, as he listened, grew redder and redder.

  “I know it’s out of our jurisdiction,” he finally exploded, “and I do intend to talk to the provincial police in Kenora, but, sir, we have a baby on our hands and a mother who, as nearly as I can tell, was tortured to death, and it seems to me we ought to be beating the bushes for Noah Smalldog, and, honest to God, I can’t do that by myself.”

  He shut up, and the red drained from his face, and he relaxed.

  “You’re right, sir. We don’t have a body there either. And now that the cabin has burned, no evidence of a crime and no way of knowing if Smalldog was involved. I understand. I’ll inform our Canadian counterparts and let them handle things.”

  He was just about to hang up when something more came through the receiver of the phone, and he jammed it once more to his ear.

  “No, I understand your situation, sir. I can appreciate that you have your hands full down there.”

  He hung up and stared at Cork and Bascombe. Then he looked out the window at the big lake, which was all waves in the strong afternoon wind.

  “Did you know, Cork, that the Angle tried to secede from the United States?”

  “No,” Cork replied.

  “Was a few years ago. Angle folks were all pissed off because Canada wouldn’t let the guests in our resorts take fish from their waters, and our resorts were suffering. We complained, but nobody gave a shit about us. Which is the way it’s always been. So we decided maybe we’d see about joining Manitoba. We finally convinced our U.S. congressman to introduce a constitutional amendment that would have allowed us to vote to secede.”

  “Didn’t go anywhere,” Bascombe reminded him.

  Kretsch shook his head. “Nobody took us seriously.” He gave the phone a dour look, then lifted his eyes to Cork. “You told me you were a county sheriff.”

  “Nearly a decade. A deputy for six years before that. And before that I was with Chicago PD.”

  “You ever work a murder investigation?”

  “Several.”

  Kretsc
h turned his blue eyes on Bascombe. “What about you, Mr. ATF? You ever work a homicide?”

  “I saw the aftermath of a couple while I was an agent,” Bascombe replied. “Never worked the investigations, but I’ve got all the instincts, Tom.”

  Kretsch was quiet a moment, then hit the desk with his fist and said, “Fuck ’em. We’re getting to the bottom of things.”

  And he stood up.

  They tracked down the others at Lynn Belgea’s, and found Mal and Stephen and Tony Ebnet at Jerry’s Restaurant across the road from Young’s Bay Resort, where each had finished off a monster of a burger that Stephen swore was the best he’d ever tasted. They had a sack of burgers and lots of fries. They divided themselves between the two launches, Bascombe’s and Ebnet’s, and headed back to Oak Island, with Tom Kretsch along. Ebnet left them at Bascombe’s dock, saying he was always available if needed, then boated away.

  They gathered in the small dining area of Bascombe’s lodge. The big man pulled out beer for those who wanted it and Coke for the others. Cork split up the burgers and fries among those who still hadn’t eaten. The baby was sleeping in his basket, which Jenny had set on the floor near her chair. They all looked to Kretsch, who shrugged and looked at Cork and said, “Where do we begin?”

  Cork laid out the facts as they knew them, then spent a minute thinking, slowly turning his beer bottle on the table as he considered the elements of the situation. “Okay, let’s assume that Chickaway’s been murdered and, like the girl’s, his body’s been disposed of somewhere else. What connects these two people in a way that would get them both killed?”

  “Noah Smalldog,” Kretsch said.

  “That’s one possibility,” Cork agreed. “But did he kill them?”

  “Why would he?” Anne asked. “His own sister?”

  “And a guy who’s supposed to be his good friend,” Mal put in.

  “I don’t know Smalldog, except from what people have told me,” Cork said. “Is he the kind of man capable of these things?” He glanced at Bascombe, then Kretsch.

  Bascombe spoke first. “He’s a hard one to figure, but I’d say, given the right motivation, it’s something he might do.”

  Kretsch shook his head. “I don’t think so. I don’t pretend to know him—I don’t think anybody on the Angle does—but it would take someone more cold-blooded than anything I’ve heard about or seen from Smalldog to do what’s been done here in the last couple of days.”

  “Who around here might be capable of such things?”

  “Christ, nobody in their right mind,” Kretsch said.

  “I don’t think we’re dealing with a psychotic killer, Tom,” Cork said. “There’s a reason behind the murders and why they were so gruesome.”

  “You think Chickaway was tortured, too?” Bascombe asked.

  “There was an overturned chair and some rope in the middle of the pool of blood in Chickaway’s cabin. Same thing was true when we found Lily Smalldog. So let’s assume for the moment that he was tortured and killed in the same way she was. Why would someone do that to both of them?”

  “Someone wanted to know where the baby was,” Jenny said.

  “Why?” Cork asked.

  Jenny looked clueless and shrugged.

  Quiet followed, then Anne said, “Who took her from Stump Island and put her in that isolated cabin, and why?”

  “It seems obvious to me it was because of the kid,” Bascombe said.

  Anne frowned. “Why not leave her on Stump Island, where she and the child had a better chance of good care? And was she taken before or after she gave birth?”

  Rose said, “Does it matter?”

  “I don’t know,” Anne replied. “I’m just asking.”

  “My vote is for before,” Bascombe said. “Noah Smalldog’s the father, or maybe Chickaway, and neither of them wanted her delivering the baby among white people. They snatched her, one or both of them, and took her to the cabin on that island. She delivered like Indians have been delivering for hundreds of years.”

  Cork said, “So why is she dead now and why Chickaway?”

  Jenny looked down at the child asleep in the basket. “It all comes back to the baby.”

  “Did folks on the Angle know she was pregnant, Tom?”

  “Once we all heard about Chickaway and all that baby formula he loaded on his boat, word got around pretty fast. Speculation about the father has been a popular topic since then. But I don’t think anybody knew anything before that.”

  “The people on Stump Island had to know, right?” Cork said.

  “If they did, they never mentioned it.”

  “Who reported the girl missing?”

  “Gabriel Hornett. He’s the head of the camp,” Kretsch replied.

  “Did you investigate?”

  “Sure. Well, as much as I could.”

  “Did you talk to her brother?”

  “Couldn’t find him.”

  “What about Chickaway?”

  Kretsch nodded. “Claimed he didn’t know anything. I asked all around the Angle and the islands and came up with zip. Then the Seven Trumpets people found a sweater that belonged to her washed up on the shore of Stump Island. Honestly, I figured that sooner or later we’d find her floating in the lake, like her mother.”

  “Maybe we should have another talk with the folks on Stump Island,” Cork suggested. “They were the last to see her before she disappeared.”

  “I’m game,” Kretsch said.

  “Can I go?” Stephen asked.

  Cork looked around the table. “Anybody else?”

  Mal said, “My ankle’s killing me. I’ll stay back.”

  “Seth,” Rose said, “if you’ll give me free rein in your kitchen, I’ll see about having some dinner ready when you come back. And maybe Annie would be willing to give me a hand.”

  Bascombe grinned hugely and waved in the direction of the kitchen. “Be my guest.”

  “I’m staying here with the baby,” Jenny said.

  Aaron said, “And I’m staying with you.”

  Cork eyed the baby asleep in the basket, then he eyed Jenny. “As soon as we can, we turn this child over to the authorities. For his safety and ours.” He waited for her to object, but she said nothing. “All right.” He tapped the tabletop, as if adjourning a meeting. “Let’s see what the folks on Stump Island have to say.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  When her father and the others had left, Jenny took the basket with the sleeping baby and went outside. Aaron went with her. They walked to the end of Bascombe’s old wooden dock, where there was a bench, and they sat down. Across the channel lay Birch Island, a broad, unbroken shoreline of birch and aspen, yellow-green in the late afternoon sun. Forty miles north lay Kenora. Somewhere between here and there, Jenny knew, was the place where the child’s mother had suffered horribly and died. Died, she was certain, without saying a word about where her beloved little baby was hidden. Jenny felt a weight on her shoulders and understood that it was a sense of responsibility, not just to the child but to the mother.

  She stared down into the basket, and her heart melted. “Look at him, Aaron. He’s so vulnerable.”

  Aaron glanced, then looked away. “All babies are vulnerable, Jenny.”

  “Not like him. His mother’s dead. Nobody seems to know who his father is. From everything we do know, he doesn’t have a family or anyone who cares about him.”

  “The truth is that we don’t know much at all about him, Jenny. When we do, maybe we’ll know about things like family.” He eyed the child again. “And whether there’s hope for that face of his.”

  Something inside her shriveled into a hard little ball. “That’s all you see?”

  “It’s tough to get past.”

  “What if he had a normal face?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Would that make a difference in how you felt about him?”

  “I don’t feel anything about him, Jenny. He’s not my child.”

  “Mayb
e he could be.”

  Aaron stood up, and the whole dock seemed to shiver. “I know where you’re headed here. But, Jenny, you’re going to have to give him over to the authorities at some point. He’ll become the responsibility of the county or the state or someone.”

  “I mean, Aaron,” she said, trying to keep her voice even, “suppose we had a child and the child wasn’t perfect.”

  “Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  “I think it would be too late then.”

  “Jesus, Jenny.” He threw his hands up, as if scattering something—crumbs, maybe—across the lake. “I love you. I want to marry you. And I’ve been thinking about this whole issue of children. Okay, I admit it scares me. It’s not something I’ve wanted in the same way as you. But I do want you, and if children will make you happy, then I’m fine with that.”

  She gave him a curt little clap of her hands. “Bravo, Aaron. So rational. But I don’t want it to be something that comes from your head. I want it to come from here.” She reached out and thumped his chest over his heart.

  “What I feel for you does.”

  They were quiet after that, painfully so. A flight of white pelicans cut along the channel, so near the crests of the waves that Jenny was afraid their wings would catch and they would crash into the lake. She watched them curl to the west and glide smoothly to rest in the calmer water of a little bay.

  “I just . . . I wasn’t expecting this,” Aaron said at last. “We’re apart two weeks, and when I see you next, you have a baby practically stuck to your breast.”

  “I didn’t plan it. But I believe it’s like Amos Powassin said. He’s come to rest where he’s supposed to be.”

  Aaron eyed the baby with what Jenny perceived as distaste and said, “Listen to me. You can’t keep this kid.”

  “I know that.”

  “Do you? Because anyone who sees the way you look at him would believe he’s yours.”

  “I don’t think I want to have this discussion with you now.”