Northwest Angle

  A light appeared at the cabin door. Jenny knew that Meloux had no electricity, and she supposed that the light must be from one of his lanterns.

  “He’s awake,” Stephen said.

  “Let’s go.”

  They followed the path across the meadow, and as they approached the cabin, Jenny saw that it wasn’t the old man who was awaiting them. It was a woman in a loose T-shirt and sweatpants. In the lantern light, her face was the color of faded brick. Her long hair was black, except for a streak of gray that ran down it like a vein of graphite. She was pretty, and she was smiling as if their presence was no surprise.

  Stephen said, “Anin,” offering her the traditional Ojibwe greeting. “Are you Rainy?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “Uncle Henry told me to expect someone, but he didn’t say who or that it would be in the dead of night. Unless I’m mistaken, you’re all O’Connors, right?”

  From the ice chest came the whimper of the baby.

  “Oh, my goodness,” Rainy said, peering inside. “What have you got packed in there?”

  Without hesitation, Jenny said, “His name is Waaboozoons. We call him Waaboo for short.”

  A heavy cough issued from the dark in the cabin. They all turned, and Henry Meloux shuffled into the lantern light. He looked surprisingly old and frail to Jenny, gaunt and immeasurably tired. His dark eyes stared at them from a face so deeply lined that there wasn’t an inch of smooth left on it. Then he smiled, and despite the pall of illness that clearly hung over him, a gentle and lively spirit seemed to dance in all his aspect.

  “You are late,” he said. “I have been expecting you forever.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Rainy Bisonette made tea and brought out cold biscuits left over from the dinner she’d made that evening, which had been fish and wild rice stew and which she offered to reheat. They accepted the tea and biscuits but declined the stew, though it was clear to Jenny that Stephen would gladly have eaten a bowl or two. The only room in the cabin was clean and simple. The walls were hung with items that recalled Henry Meloux’s long history among the Iron Lake Anishinaabeg: a bearskin, a bow ornamented with feathers, a deer-prong pipe, snowshoes crafted from spruce-wood frames and strips of moose hide, a lacquered rack that cradled an old Winchester rifle. The only furnishing that looked new was the iron cookstove in the center of the room. There were four handmade chairs around the rough-hewn birch table. Aaron insisted on standing, and he leaned against the wall near the door, looking uncomfortable, as if prepared any moment to bolt. Jenny held the baby in her arms. Walleye lay in the corner with his old head cradled on his paws, blinking at the gathering and probably blinking back sleep as well. Henry Meloux sat with a blanket around his bony shoulders and listened as Stephen told their story.

  “Waaboozoons,” the old Mide said when Stephen had finished. “A little animal who knows how to hide from the wolf.” His dark eyes rested on the child, and he seemed pleased with the name.

  “Mishomis,” Stephen said, respectfully using the Ojibwe word for “grandfather,” “my father sent us here. He hopes that you’ll help us keep the baby safe until he can catch the wolf who hunts Waaboozoons.”

  “It is a long way to come,” the old man said. “Why here?”

  “Because on the Angle we don’t know for sure who to trust.”

  “I have an old friend who lives on that great lake,” Meloux said. “His name is Amos Powassin.”

  “We met him,” Stephen said.

  “And you would not trust him?”

  “He pretty much sent us here,” Stephen replied. “He was afraid, I think.”

  A troubled look came over the old man’s face, a darkness in every line. Jenny saw that his hands shook with a slight but uncontrollable tremor. “An animal that has made Amos Powassin afraid? Tell me about this wolf who hunts a child.”

  Stephen said, “I haven’t seen him, but Jenny has.”

  Everyone looked to her. She shook her head. “I’ve only seen him from a distance, maybe a couple of hundred yards away, when he raised his rifle to shoot at us.”

  The old man seemed interested in this information, which hadn’t been a part of the shortened story Stephen had told. “Two hundred yards? Did he have a scope on his rifle?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “Did he shoot at you?”

  “No.”

  “Two hundred yards is nothing for a good hunter, but he did not shoot.” Meloux seemed puzzled. “Is he not a good hunter?”

  Stephen said, “Mr. Powassin seemed to think he was.”

  “A predator that does not behave as a predator should,” the old man noted.

  “Mr. Powassin said something to me, mishomis. He said that in everything that’s good is the possibility of evil, and in everything that’s evil, the possibility of good.”

  The old Mide nodded, and his eyelids drew nearly closed as he considered Stephen’s words. To Jenny, he looked immeasurably tired. “I think I will have to sleep on this,” he finally said. “Niece, will you make our visitors comfortable?”

  “Of course, Uncle Henry.”

  There was a bunk in the cabin, and that was Meloux’s. There was also a cot, where Rainy Bisonette slept. She offered it to Jenny, who refused. “I’d prefer to be outside so that if our little guy gets fussy I can walk him without disturbing anyone. I have a sleeping bag, and he can sleep there with me.”

  Stephen said, “I’ve slept in the meadow before. It’s pretty comfortable.”

  “That’ll be fine,” Jenny said.

  “Will he need a bottle in the night?” Rainy asked.

  “Probably. I have a thermos if we could heat some water now.”

  “Of course. I’ll stoke the fire in the stove. Uncle Henry, why don’t you lie down.”

  “Migwech,” he said, thanking his niece. With some difficulty, he stood and returned to his bunk. As soon as he lay down, his eyes closed, and he appeared to go immediately to sleep.

  Stephen and Aaron headed outside to arrange things in the meadow. Jenny stayed in the cabin with Rainy, who busied herself adding wood to the embers she’d banked in the stove and blowing a flame to life. There was a sink with a hand pump for water. From the cabinet above the sink, Rainy took out a steel saucepan, filled it, and put it on the stove.

  “Uncle Henry and I drink the water straight from the pump,” she said. “But to be on the safe side, I think we should boil it for Waaboo.”

  Waaboo. The moment Stephen had said the name, Jenny had liked it. It fit her little guy. He was becoming fussy, and as she held him, he turned his head to her breast.

  Rainy saw and smiled. “Any port in a storm.”

  “When we were stranded on the island, I let him have my breast,” Jenny said, as if it were a confession of some kind. “Just to keep him quiet.”

  “Did it work?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you like it?”

  It seemed at first an odd question, but the truth was that she had. “Yes,” she admitted.

  Rainy smiled. “There’s nothing at all unnatural in that. Or, for that matter, in a woman breast-feeding a child not her own.”

  “I’ve got nothing to offer him.”

  “Not now maybe.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Rainy leaned against the sink counter with her arms folded across her chest. “I’m a public health nurse. I’ve seen women adopt a breast-feeding baby and, with time and patience, begin to lactate, though they’re not and, in some cases, never have been pregnant. There’s a tea I can make.”

  “That will help me lactate?”

  “It may. But it will take some time.”

  Jenny said, “I don’t know how much time I have. Waaboo is mine for only a little while.”

  Rainy looked at her, and Jenny saw nothing but utter compassion in the other woman’s face. “You’ve stepped onto a difficult road, Jenny.”

  “I know. But I don’t think I had a choice.”

  “Uncle Henry would say t
hat the choice was made for you by Kitchimanidoo and that there’s a reason.”

  “I felt . . .” Jenny hesitated, realizing she was confessing again.

  “Yes?” Rainy encouraged her.

  “I felt something from the moment I first saw him all alone in his basket with that horrible devastation everywhere around him. I fell in love with him, Rainy. Another woman’s child.”

  “Do you know what, Jenny? If I were Lily Smalldog, I’d be happy that my child found you.”

  “He found me?”

  “I believe that, where love is involved, we find each other, no matter how random it may seem.”

  Rainy went to the stove and checked the water. Jenny watched her, this stranger who, in only a few minutes, had begun to seem a good friend.

  Aaron opened the door and came in. The moonlit meadow lay at his back, visible through the doorway.

  “Everything’s set outside,” he said. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  “You and Stephen go ahead and lie down. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “No. We’re fine.”

  When he’d gone, Jenny glanced in the direction of the bunk where Meloux’s breathing was quiet and regular. “What is it with Henry?”

  Rainy put a finger to her lips and said, “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  The water boiled. Rainy let it cool a bit, then filled the thermos. The baby had gone back to sleep, and Jenny laid him in the bedding inside the ice chest. She faced her new friend, who unasked, took her into her arms and whispered, “You’ll come through this, Jenny, and on the other side will be answers to all the questions that trouble you right now.”

  “Is that a promise?” Jenny asked.

  Rainy smiled and laid a warm hand on Jenny’s cheek. “It’s a fact.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  Stump Island lay black under the hard, white light of the full moon. As they neared it, Cork couldn’t help thinking that it very much resembled a huge panther preparing to spring at them.

  Kretsch hadn’t been excited when Cork told him about the stop he wanted to make on their way back to the Angle.

  “Those Seven Trumpets folks greeted us carrying firearms the last time we visited,” he’d reminded Cork. “And that was in broad daylight. What are you hoping to find at night?”

  “This was the last place anyone admits to seeing Lily Smalldog alive,” Cork had said. “When we talked to Hornett, I didn’t get a particularly cozy feeling from him. I didn’t think he was telling us everything. Couple that with the fact that they’ve chosen to build their little community in a place way the hell and gone from anywhere, and it makes me wonder what they might be trying to hide.”

  “You think it might have something to do with Lily Smalldog and the baby?”

  “I’m sure there’s a lot more to it than that. I’m hoping we’ll know more once we’ve had a chance to look around without a rifle at our backs.”

  Kretsch had agreed without much argument, and then he’d plotted their landing.

  “We should come in from the east,” he’d advised. “The Seven Trumpets camp is on the west end of the island, and if the wind is still up, and I can almost guarantee that it will be, the sound of my old Evinrude’ll be carried away from them.”

  “Is there an easy place to land?”

  “Not that I know of. But I haven’t spent much time on Stump. It’s miles out from everything else, and it’s always been owned by religious groups who’ve been protective of their privacy. The GPS’ll keep us from running aground, but as for actually landing, that could be tricky.”

  Cork had looked up at the moon, which was so brilliant he nearly had to shield his eyes. “We’re in luck. We’ve got good light to see by.”

  “Means they do, too,” Kretsch had pointed out.

  Now they were near enough to the island that Kretsch turned off his running lights to be sure they weren’t seen. At the far west end of Stump Island lay the bright yard lights in the Seven Trumpets camp, and the big wind turbine like a white dinosaur and the faint spiderweb of the broadcast tower the group was constructing. Kretsch continued to circle to the east until the thick forest that covered most of the island stood between them and the camp.

  “Here,” he said, handing Cork a pair of field glasses. “Find a likely place to land if you can.”

  Cork scanned the shoreline, which was well lit by the moon, and finally spotted what appeared to be a small, protected cove.

  “Over there,” he said and pointed.

  Kretsch saw it and nodded and carefully brought the boat toward shore. He eased it forward against waves being kicked up by the westerly wind, keeping his eyes riveted to the screen of the GPS module. A dozen yards out, he cut the engine.

  “You’ll need to get into the lake and use the bow line to pull us in,” he told Cork. “If there are rocks lurking under the surface, I don’t want them chewing up my propeller blades. Be quick about it, before that wind shoves us clear over to Canada.”

  Cork eased himself over the side and slipped into water that reached above his knees. The bottom was littered with rocks, which made his footing uneven and hurt the wounded soles of his feet. Kretsch tossed him the line. Cork caught it and began to haul the boat after him. It took a minute before he stepped onto dry land, where he quickly tied the rope to an aspen sapling. Then he called softly back to Kretsch, “Secured.”

  The deputy waded ashore, checking the cylinder of his .38 revolver as he came.

  “Have you ever actually had to use that?” Cork asked.

  “I only fire it on the range,” Kretsch admitted.

  “Keep it holstered,” Cork said. “If we do this right, you won’t need to clear leather.”

  Kretsch seemed relieved to be able to slip the gun back onto his belt.

  They turned to the thick wall of forest in front of them, and Cork moved along the shoreline looking for a way in. He’d gone fifty yards when he spotted the narrow opening of a deer trail.

  “We’re in luck,” he said and, with Kretsch at his back, headed in.

  The canopy of branches and leaves scattered the moonlight, but there was still sufficient illumination for the two men to see their way. The wind muscled through the treetops, making enough racket to cover the sounds of their passage. Even so, Cork felt all his senses heightened, and he moved with great caution.

  They’d gone a few hundred yards when they came upon a large clearing. Cork stopped at the tree line and carefully eyed the open area. Kretsch moved up beside him.

  “Hand me the field glasses,” Cork said.

  Kretsch took them from the case on his belt and handed them over. Cork scanned the clearing. It was roughly rectangular, fifty yards wide by a hundred yards long. Across the far end of the clearing lay a line of what looked to be earthen mounds, spaced a few yards apart from each other, casting small black shadows against the meadow grass.

  “What do you make of those?” Cork asked, handing Kretsch the glasses.

  Kretsch took a look, then shook his head. “Got me.”

  Cork crept along the edge of the clearing until he was at the far end. He checked again to be certain that he and Kretsch were alone, then stepped into the open and walked to the first mound. As he approached, he saw glinting on the ground, darts of reflected moonlight. He bent and picked up something fallen in the tall grass. He held it up to the light and saw that it was brass, maybe four inches long and three-quarters of an inch round.

  “What is it?” Kretsch asked.

  “A shell casing,” Cork said. “From a big-ass weapon. My guess would be fifty-caliber. A machine gun probably.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Kretsch said. “These folks are serious about Armageddon.” He glanced down the length of the clearing. “They must use this as a firing range.” He gave a whistle. “Pretty smart.”

  Cork turned the shell so that moonlight slivered along the edge. “What do you mean?”

  “We’re a good five miles fr
om the nearest populated island. And we’re pretty much into the big water, so fishermen never come out this far. If they wanted to conduct war games here, hell, they could probably do it without raising any eyebrows at all.”

  Cork tossed the shell casing to Kretsch and said, “It appears they already have. Let’s keep going.”

  Not far from the mounds, Cork found a wide path more heavily worn than the narrow deer trail, and they followed it.

  “Careful,” Kretsch whispered at his back. “We’re heading for the compound.”

  “Compound?”

  “What did Hornett call it? The Citadel? I’m thinking it’s more than just a beautiful spot to spend some time praising the Lord and preparing for the Rapture.”

  When he saw yard lights through the trees, Cork paused and whispered to Kretsch, “Most rural folks I know keep the lights at night to a minimum. The beauty of the night itself is something they appreciate. These folks have their area lit up like a prison camp. Makes you wonder what they’re afraid might be lurking in the dark.”

  “Us,” Kretsch said and glanced down at his holster, as if to make sure his .38 was still there if he needed it.

  There was a sudden lull in the wind, and the trees ceased their restless rattling. All around Cork the woods grew silent. He stopped walking, and Kretsch held up beside him. Cork listened but heard nothing. He signed to the deputy to proceed. The path was strewn with small twigs so that it was impossible to move without the occasional dry-wood snap under their shoes. They continued until they reached a place where the trail led into the cleared area of the camp and its many buildings. Cork took a position behind a tree and signaled to Kretsch for the field glasses. He examined the camp grounds: the boathouse and the dock, the cabins that housed the residents, a large shed with a gas pump outside that probably housed vehicles and equipment, the communal shower, the laundry building, the wind turbine, the metal web of the broadcast tower under construction, and the great hall, the largest of the finished buildings, which served as church, community center, and dining room. There was a light on in the great hall, the only building lit from the inside.