Northwest Angle

  Through the field glasses, Cork saw a match flare in the shadow of the recessed front entryway. A moment later, the match was waved out, leaving only the red glow from the tip of a cigarette. He continued to study the shadow and the ember, which fell and rose and blossomed and fell again with the act of smoking. After a couple of minutes, a man stepped into the wash of the yard light, and Cork saw that he carried a rifle slung over his shoulder.

  Cork handed the field glasses to Kretsch and indicated the great hall and the man who stood before it. Kretsch spent a moment looking, lowered the glasses, leaned close to Cork’s ear, and whispered, “Is that an assault rifle he’s carrying?”

  Cork nodded. Bright lights and armed guards. What was this group protecting?

  The door of the great hall opened, illuminating the shadowed entryway, and several people emerged. They spoke for a moment with the man who shouldered the assault rifle. Their voices carried but so low that Cork couldn’t make out the actual words. Their backs were turned, and even with the field glasses, he couldn’t make out who they were. They moved quickly on, leaving the man with the assault rifle stationed where he’d been, and headed toward the dock. Cork followed them with the glasses and watched them enter the boathouse. A light came on there, and a minute later he heard a deep roar in the windless night, the sound of big engines. A boat backed out onto the lake, then shot south across the big water, running without lights.

  “A cigarette boat,” he whispered to Kretsch.

  “Smalldog?” the deputy asked.

  Cork hadn’t seen enough to answer that question.

  Two figures reemerged from the boathouse and returned to the great hall. A short while later, the light inside went out. The guard had finished his cigarette by then, and he began to patrol the perimeter of the building. He disappeared in back, and Cork swung the field glasses to the compound yard, because he’d spotted something there. Near the broadcast tower was another figure, this one draped in white and moving slowly, drifting like mist.

  “Who does that look like to you?” He handed the glasses to Kretsch.

  Kretsch studied the ghostly figure. “It’s Hornett’s wife. The woman who thinks she’s the Virgin Mary.”

  Cork took the glasses from Kretsch and watched as Mary Hornett, who wore a white shawl though it was a warm night, went to the dock and stood at the very end, staring out across the big water. Cork thought that she might be looking where the powerful engines could still be heard from the south, then realized she wasn’t paying any attention to the cigarette boat. Her face was turned toward the night sky.

  In the silence that had descended with the cease of the wind, Cork’s ears caught something surprising.

  “Hear that?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” Kretsch said. “Is she singing?”

  “She’s singing,” Cork confirmed.

  “I can’t quite make it out.”

  Cork said, “Twinkle, twinkle, little star.”

  The song died abruptly, and a different sound came to Cork, a deep and prolonged wail. He understood that in its own way this was also a song. The heartbreaking song of grief.

  “I think we’ve seen enough,” he said. “Let’s get out of here before someone spots us.”

  FORTY

  Aaron’s call had come near sunset, telling them that Kretsch had brought the boat safely to the south shore of the big water, and that Jenny and the baby and Stephen and he were on their way to Meloux’s cabin. Even so, no one could sleep. Rose and Anne made cookies and coffee, and Mal and Bascombe played cribbage, and they waited deep into the night to hear the sound of Kretsch’s small boat motoring up to the dock. They watched the clock on the wall, and nearly an hour after the stroke of midnight, Bascombe said to no one in particular, “They should have been here by now.”

  “Can you raise them on the radio in your boat?” Rose asked.

  Bascombe shook his burly head. “Tom wanted to run silent. He didn’t want to take a chance on anyone picking up anything over the air. No telling who might be monitoring transmissions.”

  “And there’s no cell phone reception out there?”

  Again, Bascombe’s answer was a dour shake of his head.

  “The wind’s died down,” Anne noted. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

  “Not necessarily,” Bascombe replied. “Means the sound of Tom’s engine’ll carry pretty far in all directions. If someone’s watching for him, he’ll be easier to spot.”

  “Who’d be watching for him?” Mal asked.

  Bascombe laughed, not a funny sound. “Besides Smalldog? Could be half the Angle for all I know. This whole business has me looking at all my neighbors in a different way. And frankly, I don’t like it.”

  Rose said, “They grope in darkness with no light; he makes them stagger like drunkards.”

  “What’s that?” Bascombe said.

  “From the Book of Job,” Mal replied. “A book about trust in God and patience in the face of adversity.”

  Bascombe cast them both a cold eye. “Religion,” he said, as if spitting.

  Anne brought the coffeepot around to refill cups. “What do you have against religion, Seth?” she asked.

  Bascombe lifted his cup to his thick lips. Before sipping, he replied, “Seen way too much bad to believe there’s anybody up there trying to do any good. Or if there is, they don’t know their ass from applesauce.” He paused, and a modestly contrite look came over his face. “I know you folks are religious, but that’s the way I feel.”

  “No need to apologize,” Mal said.

  Bascombe drank his coffee and fell into a brooding silence.

  Rose picked up her mug and walked to the window of the lodge. Outside, the lake was calm at last and so white under the moon that she thought it resembled a great meadow after a snowfall. In the room at her back, she felt an uncomfortable tension that came from Bascombe. She understood the big man’s despair of religion and his doubt of God, and she thought that maybe she ought to say something to take the thorns out of his thinking, but honestly, she had her own doubts.

  Then she heard the sound of an engine, and across the lake appeared a long, dark trail of disturbed water, which Rose discerned was the wake of a boat. Running lights came on, and she turned back to the others. With a clear note of relief, she said, “They’re here.”

  * * *

  “These folks are deadly serious about End Times,” Mal said after Cork and Kretsch had told their story.

  “I don’t understand why Smalldog would be there,” Anne said. “What does he have to do with their beliefs? Is he one of them?”

  Cork said, “I’ve been thinking about that.” He had his hands wrapped around a mug of freshly brewed coffee, and on the table in front of him sat a couple of Rose’s good sugar cookies. “Judging from the casings Tom and I found on that firing range, I’m guessing they have some kind of arsenal out there. They had to get the hardware from someone, and from what I understand about Smalldog, he might be just the ticket. A man with a military background, already involved in smuggling.”

  “Match made in hell, you ask me,” Bascombe said.

  “Is there anything you can do about all those weapons?” Rose asked, directing her question toward Deputy Tom Kretsch.

  Kretsch looked uncomfortable. “We didn’t find anything solid, really, and what we did find was because we were trespassing. I don’t imagine any judge would look kindly on that in considering a search warrant. And for all I know, they may have a license for all those firearms.”

  A look of incredulity leapt to Rose’s face. “A license for a fifty-caliber machine gun?”

  Bascombe said, “The sale of machine guns among private individuals is regulated by ATF, but not banned, provided the weapon in question was manufactured prior to 1986. The process is complicated, but not particularly difficult. So Tom’s right. It’s entirely possible that what they’re shooting out there is completely legal.”

  Rose gave a snort of disapproval, to which Bascombe respo
nded, “I understand your personal feelings here, but there’s a constitutional amendment that gives those folks the perfect right to bear arms. I believe strongly in that amendment myself.”

  “Surely a fifty-caliber machine gun in the hands of a civilian wasn’t our founding fathers’ intent,” Rose shot back.

  “Ma’am, with all due respect, there’s a lot of case law says otherwise.”

  Cork broke in on an argument he knew was pointless at the moment. “Tom’s right. We can’t approach a judge with what we have, but I’d sure like another opportunity to talk with the faithful of the Seven Trumpets. See what I might be able to shake loose.”

  “How about in daylight this time,” Kretsch suggested. “First thing in the morning?”

  “That’ll do,” Cork said. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m bushed.”

  “You’ll be able to sleep?” Anne asked, nodding toward the coffee mug that Cork cradled.

  “Sweetheart, a stampede of wild horses couldn’t keep me awake.”

  “We ought to keep somebody on guard,” Bascombe suggested. “In case Smalldog comes sniffing around again. Maybe switch off at hour intervals. I’ll be happy to take first watch.”

  “And I’ll take second,” Mal said.

  “I’ll relieve you,” Kretsch volunteered.

  “Then I’ll stand the last watch,” Cork said, “which should take us to dawn.”

  “I’ll give a hand in any way I can,” Rose offered. “But I won’t carry a firearm.”

  “Same here,” Anne chimed in.

  “How about you fix us a hearty breakfast in the morning,” Mal suggested. “And keep the bed warm for me.”

  Anne said, with a note of disparagement, “Women’s work.”

  Rose put her hand on her niece’s arm and smiled. “We asked.”

  Despite what he’d told Anne, Cork couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t the caffeine. He just couldn’t get his brain to shut down. He went over the events of the last couple of days in his head again and again, and no matter how he juggled things, nothing made sense. He couldn’t wrap his thinking around a man like Smalldog, a man who may well have abused and then tortured and killed his own sister. A man who hated white people yet smuggled arms to a group of white religious zealots. A man who’d been raised by a father whom the Ojibwe of Windigo Island admired but had, nonetheless, turned into hate on two legs. What caused a man’s soul to be so misshapen? He wished Henry Meloux were there so he could ask his old friend that very question. If anyone could understand Noah Smalldog, it would be Meloux. And if anyone could tell Cork what he ought to be doing about Smalldog, that was also Meloux. But Henry was in his cabin on Crow Point, which was a good thing, because Jenny and Stephen and the baby were there with him, and as long as that was the case, Cork knew they were safe.

  He finally got up from his bunk and pulled on his clothes and walked outside. It was Mal’s turn on watch, and Cork spotted his brother-in-law sitting on the bench at the end of Bascombe’s dock. Mal wasn’t alone. Rose was with him, her head laid against his shoulder. In the quiet that had come that night with the end of the wind, he could hear them talking, though so softly that he couldn’t make out words. It was a scene of intimacy, of two people whose separate lives were braided together into a single strand. Cork was happy for them. And at the same time, the sight of them made him feel empty and alone. He stood in the shadow of the cabin cast by the moon and let himself, as he sometimes did, remember his wife fully. He could see her face, which had been beautiful, her eyes, which had been deep blue and sharp with intelligence, her hair the color of corn silk. He could hear her voice murmuring his name in the way she’d sometimes done after they made love, which had been like the whisper of a secret. And he felt her body shaped perfectly to his, as it had often been when he held her in the cool quiet after the heat of their passion.

  The truth, he knew in his rational thinking, was that his marriage had not always been so perfect, but at that moment it didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was happy for Mal and Rose, and that he hoped, if Jenny and Aaron chose to work things out, they would find a way to braid their two lives together with love, and that, although he was himself alone now and lonely, he hadn’t always been.

  He turned and went back into his cabin and lay down thinking that if he, a man who’d known great love, felt lonely, what must a man like Noah Smalldog feel? Was there any limit to how alone a human being could be?

  FORTY-ONE

  The child woke at first light. Jenny lifted him from the bedding inside the ice chest that had cradled him all night and walked away from where Aaron and Stephen still lay in their sleeping bags, dead to the world. From the stovepipe atop Meloux’s cabin, smoke rose white against the faint blue of the dawn sky, and Jenny could smell biscuits baking. She saw light through an open window, heard the whisper of quiet conversation inside, and thought about joining Rainy and Henry, who were clearly awake. For a little while, however, she wanted to be alone with Waaboo.

  There was a path that led away from the cabin, across the meadow, and through an outcropping of tall rocks. On the other side was a fire ring full of the ash of many fires and surrounded by sections of tree trunk cut to serve as stools. Jenny had been there on many occasions with her father and Stephen, while Henry Meloux fed sage and cedar to the fire in the ring. It was a place sacred to the old Mide. She sat on one of the makeshift stools, and stared at the water of Iron Lake not more than a dozen feet away, smooth and gray as smoked glass. Somewhere on the lake a loon cried and another answered.

  “Waaboozoons,” she said aloud. She brushed his fine black hair with her fingertips and stared down into his dark eyes, which stared right back at her. “What are you thinking, Little Rabbit?”

  “Not much,” came the reply, but it didn’t come from Little Rabbit. It was Henry Meloux who’d spoken.

  Jenny looked up as the old man walked slowly toward her from the opening in the rocks. He wore overalls and a long-sleeved flannel shirt, though the day was warm already and promised to be hot. He wore no hat, and his long white hair hung down and framed his face, which was like sandstone fractured by time and the elements. His old dog, Walleye, came with him, padding softly at his heels. Meloux seated himself on a sawed section of tree trunk next to Jenny. Waaboo’s eyes swung toward him briefly, then back to Jenny’s face.

  “He does not think,” Meloux said. “He only feels. And what he feels is comfort and love. What every child should feel, but some do not. This one is lucky.”

  “His mother was killed, Henry. How lucky is that?”

  “But he is alive. And he found you, and you found him.”

  Walleye had taken an interest in the child. He put his wet, black nose near Waaboo and sniffed, and his tail thumped the ground. Then he walked in a circle twice and lay down near Meloux.

  The old Mide watched the baby in Jenny’s arms, his eyes warm with affection. “I don’t claim to understand the Great Mystery that is Kitchimanidoo, but I believe that nothing happens without purpose. This child has been given to you for a reason.”

  “He’s not mine, Henry. I’m sure the authorities will find someone else they’ll say he belongs to.”

  “Belongs.” Meloux seemed to consider the word. “I believe no one belongs to anyone else. You, me, Waaboozoons, we are all dust borrowed for a little while from Grandmother Earth. And even that dust does not belong to her. She has borrowed it from all creation, which is the Great Mystery, which is Kitchimanidoo. And if you ask this old man, I would say that another way to think about Kitchimanidoo is as a great gift. Kitchimanidoo is not about keeping. Nothing belongs to anyone. All of creation is meant as a giving.”

  “I’m not sure that a white court would see it that way, Henry.”

  The old man smiled. “Think big.”

  Rainy appeared between the rocks and came toward them. In one hand she held a bottle prepared for the baby, in the other, a steaming mug. She brought them both to Jenny.

  “What’s this???
? Jenny asked, taking the mug.

  “An old Ojibwe brew,” Rainy replied with a sly smile. “Henry taught me how to make it.”

  The old man nodded. “I have seen it help a woman make milk. If you are going to be mother to this child, it would be a good thing to be a mother in all ways.”

  “What’s in it?”

  Rainy said, “It’s safe, Jenny. Don’t worry. And it’s really rather good.”

  Jenny sipped and found that Rainy was right. It tasted of blackberry and honey and something that she couldn’t identify but that wasn’t at all unpleasant.

  “It may help,” Meloux said. “But I believe there is something powerful at work here that will help you more.”

  “What, Henry?”

  “I will let you think about that,” he said. “I am going back to the cabin. Come on, old dog. You are probably hungry. I know I am.”

  Walleye eased himself to his feet.

  Rainy said, “I’ll be there in a minute, Uncle Henry.”

  “I can butter and jam my own biscuit, Niece,” he replied, a bit churlish.

  He walked away slowly, and Walleye followed at a pace that kept him easily at the old man’s side.

  When he’d gone, Rainy explained, “He’s generally okay with me being here, but he sometimes gets resentful of my nursing.”

  “What do you do for him?”

  “Mostly the heavy work. His washing and the cooking and the cleaning. I go into Allouette for groceries,” she said, speaking of the larger of the two communities on the Iron Lake Reservation. “I charge my cell phone while I’m there.”

  “You walk?”

  “My Jeep’s parked on a logging road a couple of miles from here. Henry, if he could, would walk the whole way into town and back. He’s done it all his life. Until now.”

  “He has to be well over ninety,” Jenny said. “Isn’t it about time he slowed down?”

  “Try telling that to Uncle Henry.”

  The baby pulled away from Jenny and began to fuss in a way that she had learned was all about his empty stomach. Rainy handed her the bottle. Jenny tested the warmth of the formula with a few drops against her wrist. Satisfied, she offered it to Waaboo, who took it immediately. Jenny gently sealed the cleft in his lip with her index finger. She looked up and saw Rainy watching, her almond eyes warm with what Jenny read as approval.