Boundary Waters

  He dug some more in that same box and came up with a shot of Ellie’s Pie Shop, the old house on the edge of town that Cork’s mother loaned the money for and that Ellie Grand turned into an enterprise much favored by the summer tourists. He found a photograph he recalled taking himself at the Windom Bluegrass Festival the year Marais took first place. She was sixteen, beautiful, happy. All the tragedy was still far ahead.

  Cork was tired by the time he came across several articles clipped together. They’d come from the St. Paul Pioneer Press and were a series that reported on the murder of Marais Grand at her home in Palm Springs. He skimmed the articles, refreshing his memory. The primary suspect had been a man named Vincent Benedetti, owner of a Vegas casino called The Purple Parrot and reputed to have had connections with organized crime. In the rumor mill, he’d been linked romantically with Marais. The articles followed the investigation until it was ultimately dropped, officially leaving unanswered the question of who’d killed Marais Grand.

  Cork carefully placed everything back in the trunk except the early photo of Marais on the front lawn, and the bearskin. The photo he slipped into his pocket. The bearskin he held a while, considering the weight of what it concealed. Sam Winter Moon had once told him that all things created by Kitchimanidoo, the Great Spirit, had many purposes. A birch tree supplied shelter for animals, bark for canoes, sticks for cooking fires. A lake was a home for fish, water for drinking, a cool place on a hot day.

  But a gun. What purpose did a gun serve except to kill?

  Cork put the bearskin back, closed the trunk, and turned away from one more unanswered question.

  5

  HE WAS STEPPING OUT OF THE SHOWER fifteen minutes later when the phone rang.

  “Cork? Wally Schanno.”

  Cork rubbed a towel across his chest. The towel smelled musty and he made a note to do some wash.

  “Yeah, Wally. What’s up?”

  “Can you drop by my office? Soon?”

  “How soon? I haven’t had any dinner yet, and I’m starved.”

  “Grab a burger. You can eat it here.”

  “I eat burgers all day long. What’s it about?”

  “I’ll tell you when I see you. Just get over here.”

  “How about a please?”

  Sheriff Wally Schanno was quiet on his end of the line. “Please,” he finally grunted.

  Twenty minutes later, Cork pulled his Bronco into the parking lot of the Tamarack County Sheriff’s Department. Inside, the night desk officer, Deputy Marsha Dross, buzzed him through the security door.

  “They’re in the sheriff’s office,” she said, nodding toward a closed door.

  “They?”

  “I make ’em to be FBI, maybe BCA. Poles up their asses for sure.”

  “Any idea what they want?”

  She shrugged. “Search me. But every time the sheriff pokes his head out, he looks like somebody gave his colon another crank.”

  Cork knocked on the door and opened it when he heard Wally Schanno grumble from the other side.

  Schanno sat at the desk Cork had occupied for almost eight years himself. Too much time had passed for Cork to feel any antipathy toward the man who’d taken his place. Schanno was about one gray hair shy of retirement anyway. He was a Lutheran, staunch Republican, and not a bad sheriff. A big man, he wore special-order shoes, had huge hands with long crooked fingers. At the moment he was dressed in a white shirt, gray pants, black suspenders. He looked tired, but he often looked that way. His wife Arletta suffered from Alzheimer’s, and between his duty to the voters and his duty to his wife, Schanno had those huge hands of his more than full.

  He waved Cork in like an impatient cop directing traffic. “Close the door behind you.”

  “Good evening to you, too, Wally,” Cork said.

  Three men were in the office with Schanno. Two were black, one white. They wore suits, although a couple of them had their coats off, ties loosened, sleeves rolled back. The windows were closed. The air in the office was warm, a little rank from the sweat of worried men. They’d been huddled in front of a map taped to Schanno’s wall. When Cork came in, they turned. He felt their eyes go over every inch of him, but their faces registered about as much emotion as if he were nothing but a draft of air.

  The tallest of the men was the first to move toward Cork and offer his hand.

  “Mr. O’Connor, Special Agent in Charge Booker T. Harris. FBI. I appreciate your coming.”

  Like the deep measured tone of his voice, his handshake was firm and purposeful. A man used to command. His hair was short and for the most part black, although gray had begun to flair along his temples. His skin was light, like maple wood.

  “Agent Harris,” Cork said, and nodded.

  Harris turned to the nearest of the others, a man whose skin was dark brown with just a hint of red, like cinnamon tea. “This is Special Agent Sloane.”

  Sloane reminded Cork of a linebacker he knew in college, a man low to the ground and solid. But if Sloane had indeed played football, his best games were thirty years behind him. Much of his muscle had gone to fat, although there was still a lot of power visible in his big chest and shoulders. Cork and Agent Sloane exchanged a decent handshake. The man’s eyes were a liquid brown and tired. His sleeves were rolled back and his huge forearms were covered with white scar tissue like long scratches on mahogany.

  “And Special Agent Grimes.”

  Grimes was lean and grinning. He had red-brown hair in a military crew cut, a jawbone sharp as a machete, blue-white eyes like hot steel, a calloused hand. His face carried the tan and sharp creases of a man who spent a lot of time in the sun.

  “Have a seat,” Schanno said.

  Cork sat down and looked carefully at the map taped to the wall. A topographic map of the Boundary Waters.

  “I’ll get right to the point, O’Connor,” Harris said. He leaned back easily against Schanno’s desk, in a pose that made the office seem familiar to him, as if the space had very quickly become his personal territory. “The sheriff has assured me you’re a man who can be trusted. We’ve got a problem on our hands, and we’re going to need your cooperation.”

  “Go on,” Cork said.

  Harris reached into a briefcase on the floor, pulled out a folded tabloid newspaper, and handed it to Cork. The major headline read $10,000 REWARD! It appeared above a huge color photo of the woman called Shiloh. The photograph was the kind anyone—man or woman—would have begged to have burned. Shiloh’s skin was bright and oily, her eyes angry, her face twisted in a snarling remark in the instant the glare of the flash had caught her. She looked positively demented, nothing like the soft CD cover Arkansas Willie Raye had shown him that afternoon. Beneath the photo the caption read HELP US FIND SHILOH AND YOU POCKET TEN GRAND!

  “It’s a gimmick,” Harris said. “This rag’s been updating the world on Shiloh sightings ever since she dropped out a couple of months ago. New York City, Paris, Sante Fe, Graceland. We have reason to believe this woman is, in fact, somewhere up here, O’Connor.”

  “What reason?” Cork asked. He returned the paper to Harris.

  “Good reason,” Harris said, and let it drop.

  “All right,” Cork said. “Assuming she is up here, what do you want with me?”

  “We know she was guided into the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness some time ago by an Indian. We need to identify this man so that we can locate her. Sheriff Schanno believes you can help us with that.”

  The room was too warm. Cork wanted to tell Wally Schanno to open a window, let in some cool evening air and let out the smell of the worry.

  “You say she dropped from sight,” Cork said. “Voluntarily?”

  “Yes. We’ve spoken with her publicist and her manager. They both say the move was her choice but that they don’t know anything more. She was apparently very secretive about the whole thing and very sudden.”

  “Then why look for her? Seems to me if she wants privacy, she’s entitled to it.??
?

  “We have our reasons,” Harris replied.

  “Good reasons,” Cork finished for him. He stood as if to leave. “Gentlemen, it’s been interesting, but you’re on your own.”

  “This is a federal investigation, O’Connor,” Harris warned him.

  “So take me to court.”

  “Look, if you want his help, tell him what’s going on,” Schanno broke in. “Just be straight with him.”

  Harris gave Schanno a sharp look, considering the advice as if it were about as enticing to him as a spoonful of sulfur. His eyes flicked toward the other two agents, and they appeared to have a wordless conference. Harris gave a grudging nod. “Okay, the Bureau’s interest in this case, and its jurisdiction, comes from the RICO statute. You know what that is?”

  “Sure. Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act. How does that tie in with the woman in the Boundary Waters.”

  “Fifteen years ago, this woman, Shiloh, was the only witness to her mother’s murder.”

  “We all know that,” Cork said, and he sat back down. “Her mother was a local.”

  “Then you probably also know that she’s always claimed she couldn’t remember what happened that night. Post-traumatic amnesia. Not unheard of. A few months ago, she was ordered by the court to undergo treatment for substance abuse. She’s been seeing a psychiatrist named Patricia Sutpen. You may have heard of her. Lots of famous clients. Been on Oprah. Her psychological bag of tricks includes regression therapy. We believe that in the course of her treatment, Shiloh may have finally recalled the events of the night her mother died.”

  Harris picked up the tabloid from where it lay on top of Schanno’s desk and slapped it down, hard.

  “This piece of trash appeared a couple of weeks ago. Almost immediately, the reporter—if you can call anyone who stoops to this kind of journalism a reporter—in charge of this story gets a call from a woman named Elizabeth Dobson. She’s a studio musician for Shiloh. Plays the violin.”

  “In country music, they call it a fiddle,” Grimes put in quietly and with a grin.

  “Whatever.” Harris waved it off and went on. “Elizabeth Dobson claims to have letters from Shiloh. Claims that not only do they tell where she is, but they contain some pretty juicy revelations as well. The reporter arranges to meet her at a restaurant in Santa Monica. She doesn’t show. He gets her address from the phone book, goes to her apartment, but gets no answer to his knock. He greases the building manager’s palm, they open her door, and find her lying dead on the living-room rug. Strangled. It appears to be a burglary, lots of stuff missing. Including the letters she claims to have had. LAPD, while investigating, stumbles onto a diary Elizabeth Dobson kept right up to the day she died. Entries indicated that Shiloh was somewhere in the Boundary Waters. She was being supplied by a man she referred to only as—uh—”

  “Ma’iingan,” Agent Sloane said.

  Cork was surprised at the agent’s correct pronunciation.

  “Means ‘wolf,’ in the Ojibwe language,” Sloane said.

  Grimes had taken a pack of Juicy Fruit from his shirt pocket. He folded several sticks into his mouth. “You’re a regular encyclopedia,” he told Sloane, speaking thickly around the wad of gum.

  Harris gave them both a sharp look, then addressed Cork again. “We’re concerned that whoever killed this woman may be after Shiloh.”

  “Got any idea who that ‘whoever’ might be?” Cork asked.

  “That’s where RICO comes in. The primary suspect in the murder of Marais Grand was a man named Vincent Benedetti. Owns a casino in Las Vegas.”

  “The Purple Parrot,” Cork said.

  “Yes.” Sloane looked surprised. “How’d you know?”

  “Lucky guess. Go on.”

  Harris glanced at Schanno, who only looked back blankly, then the special agent in charge proceeded like a man on a ride he couldn’t stop. “Before her death, Marais Grand and Benedetti were romantically linked. At the time of the woman’s death, Vincent Benedetti was under investigation for racketeering. We’ve always believed the two events were related. Now Benedetti’s nowhere to be found. If Shiloh has remembered what happened that night, we’re here to make certain she has the opportunity to testify.”

  “Why is it you think I can help?” Cork asked.

  “The diary makes it quite clear that Shiloh’s somewhere in the Boundary Waters and that the man who guided her in is an Indian. When we explained the situation fully to Sheriff Schanno, he suggested you might be our best hope for identifying this man.”

  “Because I’m part Ojibwe?”

  “And,” Harris added pointedly, “because he insists you’re smart and can be trusted.”

  “Smart?” Cork smiled at Schanno. “You actually said that, Wally?”

  “Well?” said Harris, interrupting. “Can we count on you?”

  “Could I see the diary?”

  “Give him the photocopies,” Harris said to Sloane.

  Sloane lifted an expensive-looking leather attaché case from where it sat on a chair, snapped it open, and took out a folder. He closed the case and carefully put it back down. He crossed to Cork and held out the folder, which was labeled in small, precise, block letters DOBSON DIARY.

  The diary entries went back several months. Someone had gone through them already and neatly highlighted in yellow those passages that pertained to Shiloh. Elizabeth Dobson wrote like a romantic. Her script was florid, with big loops above the line and elaborate flourishes that ended each sentence. Her writing leaned heavily to the right. Optimistic. The passages that hadn’t been highlighted talked about mundane things: loneliness, whether she should get a cat, worries—a lot of them—about her mother’s health and the cost of caring for her. He found the reference to Ma’iingan, but, in his cursory look, found little else that was very helpful.

  “Before I agree,” Cork said. “I’d like a few minutes alone with Sheriff Schanno.”

  Harris shook his head. “This is my case. Whatever you’ve got to say about it, I’d like to hear.”

  “Your case, my office,” Schanno pointed out. “If Cork wants to speak with me alone in here, he’ll speak with me alone. You gentlemen can wait outside.”

  Harris chewed on the decision a moment, then jerked his head for the others to follow him. When they stepped outside, Cork closed the door.

  “Hate these guys,” Schanno said. “Waltz in here like they own the place.”

  “You ID them?” he asked

  “Yeah, Harris anyway. Why?”

  “Doesn’t it seem odd, them showing up here this way, no introduction from the local field office?”

  “I thought the same thing. So I made a call to Arnie Gooden, the field rep in Duluth.”

  “I know him. A good man.”

  “He worked in the L.A. office for a while. Said he didn’t know anything about this investigation, but he did know Harris. They spoke on the phone a few minutes. Gooden promised to help if Harris needs anything. Look, Cork, you put it all together, it adds up pretty well. If this girl is in the kind of trouble they say, I’d hate to leave her hanging.”

  Cork stood at the window. Across the street, the bell tower of the Zion Lutheran Church was lit with floodlights, blazing white against the dark evening sky. There was something wonderfully simple in the solid colors and the straight lines, and Cork stared a long time. He wondered if he should tell Schanno about Arkansas Willie Raye.

  “Anything else?” Schanno asked.

  “I guess not,” Cork answered.

  He opened the door. Only Harris and Sloane came back in.

  “Well?” Harris said.

  “I’ll do what I can,” Cork told him. “But if I’m going to help, I’ll do things my way.”

  “Elaborate,” Harris said.

  “The people I’ll be talking to are Ojibwe. They won’t trust you. I’ll talk to them alone.”

  “I’d prefer one of us accompany you,” Harris insisted.

  “You’re strangers,”
Cork reminded him. “More than that, you’re federal law. It would be like throwing a skunk at these people—no offense. If I do this, I have to do it alone.”

  “He’s right,” Schanno said.

  Harris crossed his arms, his hands fisted and sheathed in the bends at his elbow. He looked like a man who’d invited himself to dinner only to discover that the special of the day was a plateful of shit.

  “All right,” he finally agreed unhappily. “Just remember, whoever murdered the Dobson woman may be here now. They could be after Shiloh at this moment. We don’t have much time.”

  “In that case,” Cork said, “I’d best get started. How do I contact you?”

  “We’ve got a cabin at a place called the Quetico. Here’s the phone number.” He wrote it on the back of an FBI business card. “One more thing, O’Connor. We’ve tried to keep a lid on this. But the tabloid that posted the reward for Shiloh has a front-page story on the Dobson death ready to go. By midweek, your little town here is going to be middle ring in a three-ring circus.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Cork said. He held up the photocopied diary of Elizabeth Dobson. “Mind if I hang onto this?”

  Harris waved him an okay. “We’ve got other copies.”

  At the desk outside Schanno’s office, Deputy Marsha Dross handed Cork a brown paper bag. “Fried chicken,” she said, and smiled. “Sheriff’s orders.”

  Outside the county building, Cork found Grimes waiting for him. The man leaned against Cork’s Bronco and watched him approach.

  “A word of advice, O’Connor,” Grimes said, stepping out to intercept him.

  Cork held up and waited.

  Grimes chewed while he talked, moving the wad of Juicy Fruit around in his mouth like it was chaw. “I’ve seen local lawmen screw up more times than I care to remember. Working with them is always like trying to dance a ballet in diver’s boots. You understand what I’m saying? So what do you say you do us all a favor: Just give us what we ask for and try to stay out of the way the rest of the time. Comprende?” Grimes took the wad of Juicy Fruit from his mouth and dropped it.