Blood Hollow

  “He’s been in his share of fights, but he’s never come close to killing anyone.”

  “Cork, he never told us he didn’t kill her.”

  “We never asked.” Cork laid his hand over hers. “Will you defend him?”

  She laughed with surprise and drew away. “You’ve got to be kidding. This is going to be a murder charge. I’ve never defended someone accused of murder.”

  Cork slowed a moment and looked steadily at her. Even in the dark, he could see how ice blue her eyes were, and how intense. “He trusts you.”

  “There’s a lot more to winning in a courtroom than trust.” She looked away. “The best person in Tamarack County for something like this is Oliver Bledsoe.”

  They turned onto Gooseberry Lane and Cork saw immediately that Solemn’s truck was gone. When they got inside the house, Jenny and Annie both greeted them with anxious faces.

  Before either of his daughters could say a word, Cork asked, “Stevie?”

  “We put him to bed hours ago,” Annie said. “He’s sound asleep. Randy Gooding was here. He was looking for Solemn Winter Moon. He said there’s a warrant for his arrest.”

  “Because they think he killed Charlotte Kane,” Jenny jumped in.

  “And then a tow truck came and took his truck away,” Annie added, a bit breathlessly.

  “Did he kill Charlotte?” Jenny asked. There was disbelief, and maybe a little fear, in her voice.

  Jo took off her jacket, opened the entryway closet, and reached for a hanger. “The sheriff has evidence that points in that direction.”

  Jenny leaned back against the wall and stared down at the rug. “When they first started going out, it seemed like it was Solemn just playing her. By the end, I remember wondering who was playing who.” She shook her head. “But, Jesus, killing her?”

  “He’s innocent until proven guilty, Jen,” Cork said.

  She looked at him with those crystal blue eyes that were her mother’s. “Not Solemn Winter Moon, Dad. Not in this town.”

  11

  SAM WINTER MOON used to say white people were just like puppies. If one peed on a tree, all the others had to pee on it, too. The morning after Solemn vanished into the night, Cork found out just how true Sam’s words were.

  Jo had a court case first thing, and she left in the gray light before sunrise to prepare. Cork made sure the kids got up, had breakfast, and were off to school on time. They drank Minute Maid orange juice, ate Cocoa Puffs and Kix, and complained because Rose always had a hot breakfast for them. When they were finally out the door and on their way, Cork thought a hot breakfast did sound like a good idea, and he hopped in his Bronco and headed for the Broiler.

  Johnny Papp’s Pinewood Broiler was an institution in Aurora, a gathering place for locals as far back as Cork could remember. His father, during his tenure as sheriff, often started his day there, rubbing elbows with the loggers and construction crews and merchants and resort owners of Tamarack County. Most of them were descended from the early Voyageurs and the immigrants—Finns, Germans, Slavs, Irish, and a dozen other nationalities who’d come in the old days, lured by the promise of a good life built on the wealth of the great white pines and the rich iron ore deposits of the Mesabi and Vermilion Ranges. Only a very few ended up rich, but most immigrants were able to build good lives, create homes, and establish history. The problem was that as they moved in, they shoved aside an entire group of people who had occupied that land for generations. The white men called them the Chippewa, which was a bastardization of one of the names by which they were known, Ojibwe. They were part of the Anishinaabe Nation whose territory, by the time the white settlers arrived, stretched from the eastern shores of the Great Lakes to the middle of the Great Plains. The Anishinaabeg saw themselves as stewards of the land with no more right or need to possess the earth than the hawks did the air currents that held them aloft. Land ownership was a white man’s concept, and it was accomplished through a series of treaties and underhanded business dealings that robbed the Anishinaabeg blind.

  But all this was a long time ago, long before the Broiler regulars were born, and to them it was ancient history and of no relevance to their lives. Unless the uppity members of one of the tribal bands decided to push the issue. Which happened on occasion. Usually with an outcome that pleased no one.

  When Cork stepped into the Broiler that morning, the talk was of Solemn Winter Moon. Everyone seemed to know about the accusations and about Solemn’s flight. Cork bellied up to the counter, called to Sara, a young waitress with tanning-booth brown skin and dyed blonde hair, for a cup of coffee and a stack of buckwheat cakes, then he turned to listen to what was being said at the nearest table.

  Jeeter Hayes was holding forth. Jeeter was head of a crew that did tree work for the Tamarack County Department of Parks and Recreation. He was a big man with an enormous number of tattoos that made his arms look, from a distance, like the green hide of an alligator. He had a small head for such a large frame, and Cork had always suspected that the size was an indication of how little that skull had to hold. Everyone at Jeeter’s table seemed to have a story of a social or criminal trespass by Solemn, and every story seemed to be worse than the last.

  Jeeter finally looked in Cork’s direction. “I heard he did things to her before he killed her. That true, Cork?”

  “You want details, ask Arne Soderberg.” Cork sipped his coffee and wondered where the hell his pancakes were.

  “I heard your wife’s defending him.”

  “You want to know, ask her.”

  “I always kind of liked Jo,” Jeeter said. The way he said it made it sound vaguely dirty. “We all do, don’t we, boys?” He nodded, but the other men only looked at him, as if wondering where this was going. “We don’t like it when she pushes something for them out there on the rez, but she’s almost one of us by now, you know?” Jeeter stood up, walked to the counter, and sat on the stool next to Cork. “Defending a guy like Winter Moon, after what he did to Charlotte Kane, that’ll set a mean hook in a lot of folks’ thinking. Am I right?”

  Cork said, “The kid hasn’t been formally charged yet, and you’ve already got him convicted and hung, Jeeter.”

  Jeeter narrowed his eyes on Cork. “A man who’d piss on a cross, hell, I imagine nothing’s beyond him.”

  Solemn had never pissed on a cross. He had, however, admitted to vandalizing St. Agnes Church, which included urinating in the baptismal font and spray-painting graffiti across one of the church walls. He’d written Mendax. The vandalism had taken place late at night, a few weeks before Christmas. In a door-to-door canvass of the neighborhood following the incident, the sheriff’s deputies found someone who’d seen Solemn’s truck parked on the street in front of the church. When they went out to Dot’s place to talk to Solemn, the deputies found a can of black spray paint in his truck. Solemn didn’t even try to deny his guilt.

  Jo had defended him. Solemn claimed to have been drunk and to have acted alone, but Jo had a question for him he couldn’t answer and it made her believe he was not telling the whole truth. She asked him what Mendax meant. He told her he didn’t know. “Liar,” she said. He swore he was telling the truth. “No,” Jo told him. “Loosely translated, the word means liar.” When she asked him why he’d put that particular word on the wall of St. Agnes, he refused to reply. It was Jo’s belief that Solemn hadn’t done the deed on his own. She thought he’d been talked into it and was covering for his accomplice. She believed the most likely candidate was his girlfriend Charlotte Kane, who was bright, Catholic, and at that time, displaying a wildness that surprised everyone. Solemn insisted on taking the fall alone. He apologized in person and in writing, and he spent a day taking the spray paint off the wall. He also agreed to shovel the walks of St. Agnes free of charge during the rest of the winter.

  At the counter of the Broiler, seated next to Cork, Jeeter opened his hands and said with great innocence, “I’m just going on history here, O’Connor. Just looking at the road th
at kid’s already traveled and torn up behind him.”

  Cork said, “I took you in a few times for drunk and disorderly back when I wore a badge, Jeeter. Does that mean you’re ripe for killing somebody?”

  Jeeter leaned close. Cork could smell the char of crisp bacon on his breath. “You want to know the truth, I don’t have to wait until a jury says he’s guilty. I know it already. Indian bucks, see, they love the idea of doing a white woman. Get ’em drunk and, hell, anything’s game.” His words were not spoken loud, but they were spoken into a hush that had settled over the Broiler.

  Cork looked across the room at the faces of people he knew, but who sometimes seemed like strangers. No one contradicted Jeeter Hayes.

  “This conversation’s over, Jeeter,” Cork said.

  Jeeter sat up. “And if I keep talking, what? You’ll arrest me? You know, I’m thinking it’s a hell of a good thing you’re not sheriff around here anymore. What with you being a half-breed. You know what else? Those times you hauled me in, if it hadn’t been for your badge, you and me, we might’ve gone a few rounds. I would’ve liked that.”

  Johnny Papp intervened at that moment, dropping a plate of steaming cakes on the counter between the two men. “Go on back to your table, Jeeter,” Papp said. “Let the man eat in peace.”

  “Sure,” Jeeter said after a long moment. “I got work to do anyway.” He stood up and headed toward the register. “Come on, boys. We got a lot of rotten trees to take care of and time’s a wastin’.”

  After they’d gone, Johnny Papp said, “Sorry, Cork.”

  “Not your fault, Johnny.” He slid off the stool and picked up his check.

  “What about your cakes?”

  “I’m not hungry anymore.”

  Papp reached across the counter and took the check from Cork’s hand. “Then don’t worry about paying.”

  “I drank your coffee.”

  “It’s on me.” Papp crumbled the check. “And for the record, Jeeter Hayes is a jackass, and everybody knows it.”

  The day was overcast. A chill wind came out of the northwest, straight out of Canada. Now and then, a wet snowflake splattered against the windshield of Cork’s Bronco, probably just the lingering echo of winter, but in that far north country, you never knew for sure. He was on his way to Sam’s Place, to work on getting things ready for the May opening. The grayness wedged its way into his mood, and by the time he arrived, he was feeling pretty lousy.

  Long ago, after he bought the Quonset hut for a song from the Army National Guard, Sam Winter Moon had divided the building into two sections. In the front, he’d installed a gas grill, a freezer, a sink, storage shelves, and a food prep area. He cut out two serving windows in the south wall, and between them he hung a wood-burned and hand-painted sign that read SAM’S PLACE. During tourist season, the rear of the Quonset hut was his home. It consisted of a kitchen, a bathroom, a living area with an eating table and chairs that Sam had made from birch, a desk for doing business, and a bunk. There were bookshelves, too, for Sam loved to read.

  Cork opened the door and stepped inside. The curtains were drawn over the windows, and the room was dark. Cork lifted his hand toward the light switch, but stopped when a voice said, “Don’t.”

  “Solemn?” Cork let his hand fall, the switch untouched. It wasn’t so much that he’d recognized the voice immediately as he understood the rightness of the situation, that Solemn should seek shelter in yet another place where Sam Winter Moon had dwelt.

  “Close the door.”

  Cork did. His eyes were adjusting, and he could make out Solemn lurking in the entryway to the bathroom. He had something in his hand that Cork assumed must be a firearm.

  “You can put the gun down.”

  “Gun?” Solemn laughed quietly. He came forward into what little light filtered through the curtains, and Cork saw that what he held was a hammer. Solemn aimed the handle at him. “Bang.”

  “Been here all night?”

  “Most of it.”

  “Hungry?”

  Solemn seemed surprised by the question.

  “I haven’t eaten yet,” Cork said. “I was thinking of fixing some eggs. You want, I’ll fix enough for both of us.”

  Solemn looked at him, making some kind of assessment. “I could eat,” he said.

  Cork drew open the curtains over the sink to let in some light. He opened the refrigerator, where he kept a small supply of food—eggs, milk, butter, cheese, fruit, bread—in case he got hungry while he was readying the place for the tourist season. During the time when Cork’s life fell apart and he and Jo were separated, he’d lived in Sam’s Place. The pans and utensils he’d used then were still in the drawers and on the shelves. Many of them were left from the time when Sam had lived there.

  “You haven’t changed things much,” Solemn said.

  Cork lit a burner on the stove and put a frying pan over it. He dropped in a pat of butter, then broke six eggs into a bowl, added a little milk, salt and pepper, and began to beat the mixture with a fork.

  “Never saw much that needed changing,” he said over his shoulder. “Sam put things together pretty well.”

  “Even smells the same,” Solemn said. “Fry oil.”

  Cork poured the beaten eggs into the hot pan. He took a grater from a drawer and began to grate cheese onto a cutting board.

  “Coffee?” he said.

  “Sure.”

  “In the cupboard, in a jar.” He nodded to his right. “Don’t have a drip coffeemaker. You’ll have to let it perk on the stove.”

  Solemn took the old aluminum pot from the back burner and set about making the coffee.

  “When’s the last time you were here?” Cork asked. With a spatula, he rolled the eggs carefully in the pan, cooking them gradually to keep them from becoming stiff and dry.

  “Three years ago. Before Sam died.”

  “You’ve never come by since I took over the place.”

  “Figured it wouldn’t be the same.”

  “Almost nothing ever is.”

  Solemn looked around. “You’ve done a good job of keeping it up.”

  “I spend a lot of time out here, even in winter. I use it as a getaway.”

  “From what?”

  “Bills. Phone calls. Life.”

  Solemn lit a burner and put the coffeepot on the stove. “There’s a good spot for ice fishing about a hundred yards out.”

  “I know,” Cork said.

  Solemn walked to the table and sat down. Cork scraped the grated cheese off the cutting board into the eggs and stirred to melt it.

  “I watch sometimes,” Solemn said.

  “Watch what?”

  “You. Here. With your kids. I stand out there in the trees.” He waved toward the copse of poplars to the south.

  “What are you looking for?”

  Solemn shrugged.

  “What you had here once with Sam maybe?”

  Solemn didn’t answer.

  Cork turned the flame down low and put a lid over the frying pan. “When the coffee’s ready, we’ll eat.” He took a chair and sat near Solemn. “Why’d you run last night?”

  “Because they think I killed Charlotte and because that ass-hole looked at me and grinned like I was some kind of rat he had in a cage.”

  “The sheriff?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It was Gooding you slugged.”

  “Was it? I don’t remember much. I just knew I had to get out of there.”

  “How do you feel about it, knowing that Charlotte was murdered?”

  Despite his moments of fire, Solemn, like many Ojibwe, could wipe all emotion from his face in an instant, become absolutely unreadable, and that moment he did. But that in itself was a sign. He had something to hide. Was it guilt? Or had he genuinely cared about Charlotte and didn’t want Cork or anyone else to know?

  The coffee began to perk. Cork went to the cupboard and pulled down a couple of plates and cups. He took flatware from the drawer and put the thin
gs on the table. He let the coffee perk until the color was deep brown.

  “Why don’t you pour us some,” he said to Solemn, “and I’ll get the eggs.”

  At first they ate in silence. Solemn’s predicament didn’t affect his appetite. He stuffed the food into his mouth in huge forkfuls, and he followed each bite with a deep gulp of coffee. It was the way a hungry teenager ate, as if every meal were the last. Cork, as he watched Solemn, saw so much about the young man that was still not formed, but forming.

  “What are you going to do now?” Cork finally asked.

  “I don’t know. Talking to the sheriff sure didn’t do me any good.”

  “At least you know where you stand.”

  “Yeah. In deep shit.” He spoke around a mouthful of eggs. “I’m thinking of going to Canada.”

  “Your truck’s been impounded.”

  “Hell, I could walk from here.”

  “Then what?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll figure something.”

  “Not much of a plan.”

  Solemn stopped eating and for a moment poked idly at his food. “What do you think I should do?”

  Cork looked at him, looked deeply into the eyes that were not quite Indian or quite white, into the face that was not quite that of a grown man. And he asked the question no one had bothered to ask yet. “Did you kill her?”

  Solemn put his fork down. “No.”

  “Then my advice is to turn yourself in.”

  “Are you kidding?” Solemn’s look began to turn dark. “They’ve got enough right now to put me behind bars forever.”

  “You run, it seems to me you’ll be putting yourself in a different kind of cage, one that’s not any better.”

  “No way.” Solemn scooted his chair back and jumped up. He began to pace the room. “I need money.”

  “If that’s what you came to me hoping for, you’ve made a mistake.”