Blood Hollow

“I wasn’t asking. But I’m in this mess because I listened to you.”

  “You were already in this mess. Now, if you want my help, I’ll give it. That means going at this thing head-on, not running away.”

  Solemn had a frightened look in his eyes, as if he were watching the door to freedom close on him. “It’s all lies. I didn’t do anything.”

  “Then somebody’s gone to a lot of trouble to make it look like you did. I’ll do my best to find out who.”

  “Your best?” His voice was tight, climbing in pitch.

  “That’s all I can offer. But I’ll make you a promise. I’ll stay with you the whole way. You won’t go through this alone.”

  Solemn looked as if he couldn’t decide between laughing or crying. “Is that supposed to mean something? Who the hell do you think you are? You make hamburgers, for Christ sake.”

  Cork waited a moment, then said calmly, “So did Sam.”

  Solemn spun angrily away.

  “Do you see anyone else stepping forward, Solemn? I’m willing to help, but the choice is yours. This is what I’m going to do. I’m going to leave here and go get Jo. We’ll come back. If you’re still here, we’ll all head to the sheriff’s office together. If you’re not … well, Solemn, I guess you’re on your own.”

  Cork got up from the table and headed to the door. He turned back with his hand on the knob. Solemn was watching him now.

  “While I’m gone,” Cork said, “how about you do up those dishes.”

  12

  CORK PARKED IN FRONT of Pflugelmann’s Rexall Drugstore across from the county courthouse. He found Jo in the courtroom of Judge Daniel Hickey. She sat at the plaintiff’s table, jotting notes while Ed Mendez, the defendant’s attorney, argued something about “interpretation of the trust language.” Hickey looked bored. The clients weren’t present, and the courtroom was mostly deserted. Cork sat behind Jo, on a bench in back of the railing that blocked off the spectator area. He waited a few minutes for an opportunity to make his presence known to Jo. It came when the judge asked to have a look at a document Mendez held. As defense counsel approached the bench, Cork leaned across the railing and handed Jo a scrap of paper on which he’d scribbled a note. She read it and nodded.

  When Mendez started away from the bench, Jo stood. “Your Honor, I apologize, but I’d like to request a ten-minute recess. A rather pressing personal matter.”

  Hickey, a little man with a white billy goat beard, shook back the sleeve of his robe and glanced at his watch. “Any objection, Ed?”

  Mendez thought a moment. “No, that’s fine.”

  “All right. Ten minutes I think we can handle, Jo. Court is in recess until nine-forty.” He sealed his pronouncement with a tap of his gavel, and he yawned as he left the bench.

  Jo turned to Cork.

  “Not here.” He motioned her to an empty corner of the courtroom.

  “Where is he?” Jo asked.

  “At Sam’s Place,” he whispered. “He spent the night there. He’s ready to turn himself in.”

  Jo shook her head. “I told you. I can’t represent him.”

  “No, you said you won’t. That’s different. He needs our help.”

  “I can’t just leave here. I’m in the middle of a hearing.” She waved toward the judge’s bench.

  “Solemn’s just a kid, Jo, and he’s scared. He could bolt at any moment. Couldn’t you ask Hickey for a continuance or something?”

  Jo pressed the tips of her fingers to her forehead and closed her eyes a moment. “Look, talk to Oliver Bledsoe. He really is Solemn’s best hope. He’s here today. Courtroom B. Cork, I’m sorry, but I can’t help Solemn, not in the situation he’s in right now.”

  “Will you at least go with me to talk to Ollie?”

  Jo looked at her watch. “If he’s free.”

  They were in luck. Bledsoe was standing in the hallway outside Courtroom B, consulting his Palm Pilot.

  Cutting off a part of his foot had turned out to be a blessing for Oliver Bledsoe. He’d been a young man without much direction beyond earning a good paycheck and spending it having a good time. While recovering from the logging accident, he’d decided to make some significant changes in his life. The first thing he did was to enroll in college. He completed his B.A. at the University of Minnesota at Duluth in three years and applied immediately to law school. He graduated from William Mitchell School of Law in St. Paul, second in his class. He could have had his choice of law firms. Instead, he opened a storefront legal office on East Franklin Avenue in the Phillips neighborhood of Minneapolis, an area that at the time contained the largest population of urban Indians in the United States. He represented people who often had little hope and even less money. His practice ranged from simple wills to defending clients accused of murder. Eventually, he made a name for himself. His one-person law office grew over time to include half a dozen lawyers, some of whom had left lucrative positions to work in what they considered the front lines of American justice. After twenty years, Oliver Bledsoe had been persuaded to return home to head up the new legal affairs office for the Iron Lake Band of Ojibwe. Because of the casino profits, he was better paid now, but his clients and their problems were little changed.

  Bledsoe glanced up when Cork and Jo approached, and he smiled.

  “Got a minute?” Cork said.

  “Just.”

  “You heard about Solemn Winter Moon?”

  “You’d have to be deaf not to.”

  “He wants to turn himself in. He’ll need representation.”

  Bledsoe’s eyes shifted toward Jo.

  She held up her hands in objection. “I can’t. I’ve never handled a criminal charge that serious.”

  Bledsoe shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t help him either.”

  “You’ve got the experience,” Cork said.

  “But I’m not in a position to help. Cork, I represent the Iron Lake Band of Ojibwe. I officially represent them. You know better than anyone how tenuous the relationship is between the rez and the rest of Tamarack County. Solemn’s antics feed into some of the worst stereotypes white people have about Indians. I can’t risk the possibility that people will associate him as an individual and the mess he’s got himself into with my official representation of the reservation. If Solemn’s civil rights were being violated, or, shoot, if I really believed he was being wrongly accused—”

  “You don’t?” Cork said.

  “It’s my understanding there’s plenty of evidence against him.”

  “He’s still entitled to the best representation possible.”

  “Look, why don’t you try Bob Carruthers? He’s a good, experienced criminal attorney.”

  “Experienced,” Jo said. “Good would be a stretch.”

  Bledsoe looked at his watch. Cork was becoming irritated that in this house of the law, time seemed more important to everyone than justice. But he kept his mouth shut.

  “I’m sorry,” Bledsoe said. “I’m due in court. Good luck.” He headed away.

  Cork swung his gaze to Jo. He could see her tense a moment, then give a little sigh. “All right,” she said. “I’ll go with Solemn while he turns himself in so that he’s got someone to advocate for him, but I’m not agreeing to take his case. I’ll help just until we can get a lawyer capable of doing a good job of representing him in this thing.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Yeah,” Jo said without enthusiasm. “I don’t know what the hell I’m going to tell Judge Hickey.”

  The occasional snowflake had turned to a dismal drizzle of cold rain by the time Cork and Jo pulled up to Sam’s Place. Iron Lake had disappeared behind a gloom of mist. As they walked across the lot, they felt the wet gravel like slush under their feet. Cork pushed open the door of the Quonset hut and called, “Solemn?”

  There was no answer.

  He looked in the front where the rain dripped down the glass of the serving windows, but Solemn was not hiding there. He turned back to Jo.

 
“You told me he didn’t exactly promise he’d stay,” Jo said. “You tried to help. What more could anyone ask?”

  Cork stood in the room where he thought he’d made a connection with Solemn. He felt that he’d somehow failed the young man, although he couldn’t have said exactly how. He glanced at the kitchen sink and saw that it was empty. Before he’d vanished, Solemn had done the last thing Cork had asked of him. He’d washed the dishes.

  MAY

  13

  ON A SUNNY SPRING MORNING a few days after the autopsy, on a hillside in Lakeview Cemetery, Charlotte Kane was buried. If she’d still had sight, her eyes would have beheld a wonderful view from the few feet of earth that were to be hers forever. Spread out below her was Iron Lake. In winter, it would be hard and white as a beaver’s tooth, and in summer so blue it would seem like a fallen piece of the sky. If she’d still had her senses, she’d have felt the touch of the wind off that lake and smelled the cool, deep scent that was the breath of a million pines. Cork had always believed that if you were going to be stuck somewhere forever, that hillside was a pretty good place. Not many people were asked to attend the simple graveside ceremony. Rose and the Soderbergs were among them. Rose had spoken with Glory about a visitation, some way for the folks of Aurora—or of St. Agnes, at least—to pay their respects, but Glory wanted nothing of the kind. Apparently, what Glory wanted most was to be gone, because the morning after the funeral, she left town. Without a word to anyone. Not that there were many who would have cared. Rose told Cork that when she stopped by the old Parrant place to call on Glory, Fletcher had given her the news. “Gone,” was all he would say. And no idea where. Cork could see that Rose was puzzled by her friend’s abrupt departure, and perhaps a little hurt that Glory hadn’t said good-bye.

  * * *

  April warmed gradually into May. The ice on Iron Lake retreated and then was gone. The aspens and poplars budded, and above them geese wedged their way home to the Boundary Waters and to the lakes of Canada beyond.

  The Anishinaabeg called May wabigwunigizis, which means month of flowers. It was the season in which Grandmother Earth awakened and the storytellers fell silent, waiting to speak the sacred histories until after the wild rice had been harvested and the snow had returned and Grandmother Earth slept again.

  It was tick season. The news was full of reports and warnings of Lyme disease, and doctors’ offices were crowded with patients concerned about every little rash.

  It was softball season, and Cork’s favorite team, the Aurora High Voyageurs, for which his daughter Annie pitched, were predicted to take the conference title.

  It was the opening of fishing season, the beginning of months when tourists flocked to Aurora lured by walleye and the beauty of the great Northwoods naked of snow.

  And it was, as always, the season of love.

  “Dad?” Annie said.

  “Yeah?”

  “What do guys want?”

  It was Saturday afternoon. Cork was standing on a stool in Sam’s Place, checking the consistency of the mixture for the shake machine. Business had been slow that day, which was good because Annie had seemed preoccupied.

  “Big question,” Cork replied. “With lots of answers, depending.”

  “I mean, what do guys look for in a girl?”

  She was Cork’s middle child, fifteen years old, and had developed a bit later than her friends the slopes and curves that might catch a young man’s eye. She had never dated, channeling all her energy into sports, especially softball. She was a decent student, although academics were far less important to her than they were to her sister, Jenny. Lately, however, her grades had been slipping and Cork wondered if the current conversation might be a clue as to the reason. It was an unusual topic to be discussing with Annie. Usually they talked sports. But Cork gave it his best shot.

  “I can’t speak for all guys. I fell in love with your mother because she was strong, independent, smart. I liked that. She laughed at my jokes, too.”

  Annie leaned on the counter of her serving window. She wore jeans and a dark blue sweatshirt with VOYAGEURS printed across the front. She’d begun to let her reddish hair grow out, and it was at an unruly, in-between stage that made it look like licks of flame were bursting out all over her head.

  “She was pretty, though. Right?” Annie asked.

  Cork put the lid back on the shake maker and climbed down from the stool. “I thought so. But, you know, love has a way of making people beautiful. To each other anyway.” He put the stool in the corner next to a stack of cartons that held potato chips.

  Annie was quiet a moment. “Do you think I’m pretty?”

  He looked at her. Sunlight cleaved her face, and the freckles of her left cheek were like a field of russet flowers. “Gorgeous,” he said.

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. Gorgeous.”

  “Oh, Dad.”

  He could see that she was pleased. She went back to looking out the window, at the lake that was a huge, sparkling sapphire.

  “We were talking about sex at youth group the other night. Like, not officially or anything,” she added, catching the look on her father’s face. “A few of us after. We asked Randy about it, you know, to put him on the spot, see if we could embarrass him.”

  She was speaking of Gooding, who headed the youth program at St. Agnes.

  “Did it work?”

  “Oh yeah. He got all red in the face. It was sweet.” She used sweet the way kids did when they meant devilishly enjoyable.

  “What did he say?”

  She scraped a finger idly along the window glass. “That men mostly want a woman they can respect and who’ll respect them back. Respect is important, huh?”

  “I’d say so.”

  She looked at him coyly. “When you told me why you fell in love with Mom, respect wasn’t one of the things you mentioned.”

  “Respect preceded the love,” he said, thinking quickly.

  Annie laid her head on her arms like a tired dog and thought awhile. “Gwen Burdick got her navel pierced and she wears these short tops so you can see her belly button ring. Guys seem to like that, but it seems to me that’s got nothing to do with respect.”

  Cork almost said that there were a lot of things guys liked that had little to do with respect, but he didn’t want to open a door to a subject he wasn’t comfortable pursuing.

  “I’m thinking of getting my ears pierced.”

  “Have you talked to Mom?” Cork opened a carton of chips and took out a half dozen small bags. He began to clip them on the display near the other serving window.

  “Yeah, she says ears are okay but it stops there.”

  Thank God for Jo, Cork thought.

  Two days later, Annie showed up for work an hour late wearing dark lipstick that made her look like a vampire who’d just feasted, and sporting dark eye shadow that made her lids appear to be bruised. Gold studs twinkled from her earlobes. She wore a tight red top and jeans that hugged her butt. She went about her business as if nothing were unusual. About her makeup and clothing, Cork judiciously held his tongue, thinking that he’d talk things over with Jo first. About the pierced ears, he said, “Looks good, kiddo.”

  Jenny, who was also working, was blunter. “You look like a KISS groupie. Why don’t you let me help you with your makeup?”

  “Who died and made you fashion queen?”

  “Fine. You want to date zombies, you’ve got the right look. You decide you want to date guys, let me know and I’ll give you the benefit of my excellent taste.”

  In the evening, a little before seven, Annie took a break and stepped outside. Cork watched her walk down to the dock, bend, and study her reflection in the water of Iron Lake. He hoped that she saw deeper than that awful layer of makeup, saw what he saw, her unbridled laughter, her grace when she moved on the ball field, her shining spirituality. It was what he hoped some young man would see someday, but Annie was probably right. Boys were more apt to be impressed by exposed midr
iffs and pierced navels.

  Randy Gooding drove up in his Tracker, parked, and came to the serving window. “Hey, Cork, Annie around?”

  “Taking a break down by the lake. What’s up?”

  “I need to talk to her about the youth group car wash next weekend. She’s in charge, she tell you?”

  “I think so.”

  “All right if I go on down?”

  Cork thought of warning him about Annie’s new look but decided against it. “Go ahead.”

  After Gooding left, Jenny said, “I’d buy a ticket to see the look on his face.”

  They watched Gooding saunter down to the dock. Annie was so engrossed studying her reflection that she didn’t hear him coming. Gooding called to her as he neared. She straightened up and turned to him, an expectant smile on her face. Gooding stopped dead in his tracks. For a moment, he just stared. His back was to the Quonset hut and neither Cork nor Jenny could see his face, but it must have been something awful because Annie’s response was a look of horror. Gooding finally spoke, and Annie took off, running in the direction of Aurora and home.

  Cork rushed from Sam’s Place and hurried to the dock. “What happened?”

  Gooding stared fiercely in the direction Annie had fled. “My God, Cork, didn’t you see her?”

  “Yeah, I saw her.”

  “And you didn’t say anything?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like she’s just asking for trouble.”

  Cork knew a lot of men thought that way, a lot of cops, but it surprised him coming from Gooding. And because it was Annie, it pissed him off, too.

  “It’s a look, Randy. Christ, just a look. She’s not asking for anything.”

  “Maybe not, but that kind of look can get a girl hurt, even a good kid like Annie.”

  “Did you tell her?”

  “You bet I did.”

  “What the hell were you thinking?” Cork stepped back and let the boil of his own blood cool. “This doesn’t sound like you, Randy. That was Annie you sent off in tears. She thinks the world of you.”

  Gooding watched Cork’s daughter as she grew smaller with every stride that carried her away, and slowly his face changed.