Boundary Waters

  “Shoot him,” Raye shrieked.

  Milwaukee hesitated.

  “I said shoot him, you chickenshit bastard. Or I will.”

  Raye swung his own gun toward Cork.

  Milwaukee lashed out faster than Cork had ever seen a man move. He grabbed Arkansas Willie’s arm and twisted it at an unnatural angle so that the gun dropped from his hand. Then he delivered a sharp, precise kick to the side of Raye’s right knee and the bone or cartilage gave an audible pop. Raye crumpled to the floor. Milwaukee did all this without the barrel of the automatic he held veering in the slightest degree from its dead-on aim at Cork’s heart.

  Arkansas Willie clutched his knee and stared up at Charon/Milwaukee with pain and anger and disbelief. “Are you fucking crazy?”

  “I won’t take disrespect from any man.”

  “It’s broken,” Raye whined.

  “Consider yourself lucky.”

  “I paid you.”

  “Tell you what,” he said. “When I see you in hell, we’ll talk about a refund.”

  In no more time than it took to strike a match, everything had changed. Cork looked at the hard brown eyes and wondered what it was that made the man kill or decide not to. It didn’t matter. If Cork had to live forever not knowing why, he could do that.

  “You think you’re out of this?” Raye screamed. “You think you can just walk away? They know who you are.”

  “No, they only know a name. I have lots of those.”

  Milwaukee bent and picked up the pistol Raye had let fall to the floor. As he straightened, he noted the consternation in the eyes of Cork and the others. “I prefer to let you live,” he said simply. He backed toward the door and stepped outside into the sunlight. He looked up, squinting, then into the dark of the trailer. “‘Long is the way and hard, that out of hell leads up to light.’” He turned and, as if he’d walked through a doorway into another dimension, vanished.

  “What was that all about?” Jo asked.

  “Milton. Paradise Lost.” With Shiloh’s help, Angelo Benedetti had eased into a sitting position, his back against the trailer wall. Seeing Jo’s surprise, he managed a faint smile. “Minor in English lit at UNLV.”

  Cork went to Benedetti and checked the wound. It was high on the right shoulder, clean entry and exit. “Small caliber, and the angle was just right. Seems to have missed almost everything, including bone. You’re pretty lucky.”

  Benedetti laid his head back. Even with his California tan, his face looked pale. Shiloh held his hand. “I never had a little sister to protect before,” he told her. “All things considered, it pretty much sucks.”

  Shiloh kissed the top of his head. “Thanks.”

  “Get some towels to press against those wounds, Jo,” Cork said. He went to check on Raye.

  Arkansas Willie tried to stand as Cork approached, but he cried out and flopped back to the floor. His face contorted and he howled, “Christ, the son of a bitch shattered everything.”

  “Best thing you could do for yourself now, Willie, is stay there and stay quiet. Shiloh, think you can make sure he does that?”

  “My pleasure.” She took the knife she’d dropped into the pocket of Wendell’s jeans, opened the blade, and stood over Arkansas Willie Raye. “I have a whole lifetime of reasons, Willie. All I need is one more,” she threatened.

  Cork moved to the doorway of the trailer home just as Jo returned with the towels. “Where are you going, Cork?” She knelt and opened Benedetti’s shirt and pressed a towel to his wound.

  “Wendell keeps a rifle in the shed.”

  “You’re not going after that man, are you? You don’t have to do that. Cork, you’re not the sheriff anymore.” She seemed torn between tending Benedetti and rising to hold back Cork.

  Cork stared in the direction Charon/Milwaukee had disappeared. There was only the empty drive leading through the bared birches toward the main road.

  “He killed Wendell and he killed Dwight Sloane,” Cork said to her over his shoulder.

  “And he killed Libbie and two men who were only trying to help me,” Shiloh added. She looked at Cork as if she understood him perfectly.

  “You all stay here and lock the door after me,” he told them. “The sheriff’s people should be on their way. Althea Bolls went into Allouette to phone them.”

  “Cork—”

  He heard her call to him, but it was too late. He was out the door and moving swiftly toward the shed.

  He found the tall cabinet and inside the rifle—a Remington 700 ADL bolt action. As Stormy had said, the cartridges were in an old Quaker Oat container: 30-06, 180-grain bronze point, enough power to bring down a small bear. Cork pulled out half a dozen and fed them into the magazine, worked the bolt—not an easy thing with his injured shoulder—and chambered a round. Then he headed outside, where he stood a moment in the sunlight, considering.

  The man had disappeared down the drive toward the road. That made sense. To have reached the trailer as quickly as they had, he and Arkansas Willie must have driven a vehicle of some kind, probably one Charon/Milwaukee had left somewhere they could easily reach when they came out of the Boundary Waters. And now it would be parked somewhere hidden from the road but accessible. Not toward Allouette. Too great a chance of being seen. More likely the other direction, somewhere south along the shore of Iron Lake.

  Cork recalled that a quarter mile south of Wendell’s trailer was an old boat launch. It was seldom used anymore because proceeds from the casino had allowed the Iron Lake Anishinaabe to develop a fine park just north of Allouette that included new launch facilities. The old boat launch still showed on maps, but hardly anyone ever used it. It would be a good place to stash a vehicle.

  Cork circled Wendell’s shed, moved past the empty canoe racks, and headed quickly into the cool shadow of the trees that bordered Wendell’s yard, thinking, He’ll be watching the road. He’ll be looking for me to come from the road. But I’ll take him from the cover of the trees.

  He carried the rifle with his right hand only. Although he attempted to keep his left side as immobile as possible, every step was like twisting a knife in his shoulder. He tried to formulate a plan as he went, keeping his mind on his calculation rather than his pain. All he could come up with, however, was to reach the launch before the man drove away. In the back of his mind, he knew that even if he missed Charon/Milwaukee, the man would have a hard time making a clean getaway in Tamarack County. The main roads were few, and as soon as Schanno got word, he’d lock those roads up tight using his own men and the state highway patrol.

  That brought Cork to a sudden stop.

  Charon/Milwaukee had been ahead of him in his thinking all along. Some of that was Arkansas Willie’s doing, but more, it was because the man anticipated well. He knew his adversaries and knew how they thought. He’d know the roads would be watched closely and that his description would be out over every police radio in northern Minnesota. He wouldn’t risk the roads.

  Then a detail flashed into Cork’s thinking. As he’d moved past the canoe racks at Wendell’s shed, he’d noted, without really thinking about it, that the rack was empty. When he’d been there two days ago with Arkansas Willie, there’d been one canoe left.

  For a man like Charon/Milwaukee, a man who knew how to survive in the wild, heading into the protection of the great North Woods was a perfect choice. Within a few days, he could be across the border into Canada. Or ease his way west or south until he was beyond whatever net the law had thrown across the roadways to snag him.

  Cork turned toward the wide, sparkling blue of Iron Lake.

  The shoreline near Wendell’s place was a ragged edging of small, rocky inlets dotted with pines. Stepping quietly, his rifle readied, Cork made his way to the water. He paused a moment, listening. The lake was calm, lapping very gently at the rocks. Just north of where he stood, in the direction of Wendell’s trailer, rose a big slab of gray rock about the size of a pickup truck. From the other side came the almost impercept
ible bass note of a canoe hull tapped lightly with a paddle. Cork eased to the rock, and around it, until he saw Charon/Milwaukee leaning over the canoe. The man stood bent, caught in a netting of shadow cast over him by the branches of a big red pine. He appeared to be securing a pack under the stern thwart. Cork stepped up behind the trunk of the red pine and leaned himself against it to help his left arm support the weight of the rifle as he brought it to bear. A fire raged in his shoulder. He prayed he wouldn’t have to hold the rifle that way for long.

  “Put your hands on your head and don’t turn around.”

  The man paused. “O’Connor,” he said, as if Cork were not unexpected at all.

  “Hands on your head. Now.”

  Charon/Milwaukee complied, pressing his palms to the back of his head.

  “Turn around slowly.”

  As the man came around, Cork could see he wore an affable grin. “I guess I should have killed you.”

  “With your left hand, using only your thumb and index finger, take your weapon from its holster and drop it on the ground.”

  When the handgun lay flopped on a bed of pine needles, Cork asked, “That’s Willie’s twenty-two. Where’s your weapon? The automatic. What was it? A Sig Sauer?”

  “In the pack.” He gestured with a jerk of his head toward the canoe behind him.

  “Sure it is.”

  “Care to frisk me?” Charon/Milwaukee gave a very small, very real laugh. “A little tough holding that rifle. And with a bum shoulder.”

  “We’re going back to the trailer.”

  “You’ll be dead before we get there.”

  A slight wind made the water roll and the bow of the canoe went up and down like a little head nodding in agreement.

  “You make the tiniest move and I’ll shoot you,” Cork warned.

  “How quickly can you swing that rifle and aim with a dislocated shoulder?” Charon/Milwaukee asked. “That’s a bolt action. You’ll be lucky if you even get one good shot, because I’ll be moving. I can imagine the pain you’re in, O’Connor. The pain’s already eaten into your normal ability to aim, to react. It would be the same for any man.” He lifted his hands from his head, only a few inches, a gesture of reasonability. “Look, you’ve fought a better battle than anyone I’ve faced in a very long time. Let’s call it a truce, you and me. Go back to your wife. I’ll fade away into the darkness I came from. We’ll never see one another again.” Something sharp and pointed entered his words as he finished, “I’ve given you your life once already.”

  “Let’s go,” Cork ordered.

  Charon/Milwaukee didn’t move. His face lost any trace of reasonableness. He narrowed his gaze and a deep line appeared between his eyes like a sudden streak of war paint. “If you don’t back down now, this is what will happen. I’ll kill you, and after I kill you, I’ll return to that trailer and kill everyone in it. Is it worth that risk to you?”

  Cork was silent.

  “I thought not.” Charon/Milwaukee smiled, but almost sadly, as if the victory had been a cheap one. “Then it’s good-bye, O’Connor.”

  He took a step backward, still smiling. He turned toward the canoe. As he pivoted, he made his move quickly, diving left, rolling on the soft pine needles that covered the ground along the shoreline, reaching for the automatic stuffed in his belt under his vest. Cork didn’t fire until the moment the man called Milwaukee and Charon came up to one knee and braced to shoot.

  The bullet from Wendell’s rifle blew off most of Charon/Milwaukee’s left hand. It plowed a wide, messy path through his chest and exited his back along with large splinters of his shoulder blade. The force knocked him backward. He lay on the ground, his arms spread wide, his face turned toward the sky. The automatic had fallen near his feet, unfired. With difficulty, Cork worked another round into the chamber of Wendell’s rifle. Carefully, he approached the downed man.

  Charon/Milwaukee’s eyes were open. The hard brown, Cork saw, was flecked with gold. He was still breathing, small gasps that sounded like hiccups. Cork bent to him and said, “I’ve hunted all my life. One good shot is all you ever get.”

  Charon/Milwaukee tried to speak, but he seemed to be addressing someone behind Cork, above him. Cork almost turned to see who it might be. Then the hiccuping stopped, and the brown eyes became sightless as a couple of marbles.

  Cork’s legs gave out and he sat down hard. His shoulder hurt like a son of a bitch. Whatever it was that had sustained him was gone. His ability to focus, to think at all, had fled. If the dead man had risen up like Lazarus from his pine-needle bed, Cork wouldn’t have been able to lift a finger to defend himself. He was empty.

  He barely turned when he heard the crackle of twigs breaking underfoot. He saw George LeDuc come from the trees cradling a rifle. George knelt beside him. When he spoke, his breath smelled of spearmint gum. It was like the scent of an angel.

  “You okay?”

  Cork nodded.

  “That him?” George pointed the rifle muzzle at the body.

  A thought crept out of the haze in Cork’s mind, a clear wonderment. “What are you doing here, George?”

  “Woman came into the store, used the phone to call the sheriff. Seemed like somebody should get here quicker’n they could.”

  Cork looked at him dully. “The others?”

  “They’re fine. Up at Wendell’s trailer. Jo wanted to come, but I put my foot down. Wasn’t sure what I’d find out here. Come on. Can you walk?” He offered his hand.

  As they approached the trailer, the whine of sirens rose from the distance. The trailer door opened and Jo rushed into the sunlight.

  “He’s okay,” George called out to her as she came.

  “Thank God.” She put her arms around Cork.

  “Gently,” he cautioned, although her arms felt good.

  In a moment, two cars from the Tamarack County Sheriff’s Department skidded onto Wendell’s drive and kicked up dirt and gravel as they sped toward the trailer. Behind them came the blue Lumina and the Lincoln Town Car.

  Wally Schanno bounded out. “You okay?”

  “Alive anyway.” Cork gestured toward the trailer. “Some folks in there need help. Get an ambulance.”

  Schanno hollered instructions to a deputy in the other car. He took inventory of Cork. “You look like you could use some medical help, too.”

  “At this point, Wally, I’m just happy to be alive. There’s a body down at the lake. George can show you where. Not one of the good guys.”

  The big man Joey approached them, carrying Vincent Benedetti in his arms. “My son?” Benedetti asked.

  “Inside,” Cork said. “He’ll be fine.”

  “And Shiloh?” Nathan Jackson came up beside Joey, Harris right behind him.

  “She’s in there, too. Unharmed.”

  Cork and Jo followed them inside. Schanno went to check on Arkansas Willie, who sat hunkered in a corner, holding his knee and looking like a trapped varmint. The others went directly to where Shiloh sat on the floor next to Angelo Benedetti.

  “Shiloh,” Angelo said, gesturing toward the man in Joey’s arms, “meet your father.” She looked up, confused. Then Benedetti waved toward Nathan Jackson. “And . . . meet your father.”

  Nearly a dozen bodies were packed into the small living room of the trailer home. Cork backed out, and Jo with him. “Let them sort it out,” he said.

  Schanno accompanied them. “We’re going to need a full statement, Cork.”

  “First we’re getting him to a doctor,” Jo said. “He may have a broken collarbone.”

  “Want to wait for the ambulance?”

  She shook her head emphatically. “I’ll take him.”

  They walked away from the trailer. Across Iron Lake, through the cedars near the shore, over grass still greening under the October light, came a breeze that smelled of the North Woods. Of evergreen and deep, clean lakes. Of sun-warmed earth. Of desiccated autumn leaves. Of the cycle of dust to dust. Of things seen and half seen, things unseen bu
t sensed. Fragrances that had gifted Cork all his life, that had become as common to him as the scent of his own body. Pay attention to what blows across the water, Henry Meloux had advised Cork early on. In his wisdom, the old man had offered more than just a warning about the coming of the majimanidoo, and Cork found himself taking in the air with a renewed sense of wonder.

  “You’re grinning like this was Christmas morning,” Jo said.

  “Am I?”

  “I’d have thought you’d be in a lot of pain.”

  “You hurt long enough, you almost forget it’s there.”

  “I know.” She stopped walking.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “I was just thinking. You’ll need some tending while that shoulder heals. Why don’t you come and stay with us.”

  The smile on her lips seemed as delicate as a snowflake and as easily melted.

  “You mean . . . at the house?”

  “Yes.” The breeze pushed a wisp of yellow hair onto her forehead. She swept it back with her small hand. “You can stay in the guest room to begin with. We could see how things go while you heal. While we all heal.”

  It was a day of miracles. Of two suns. One crowning a cloudless sky and the other rising new in Cork’s heart.

  “Hey, Cork!” Schanno called to him. “If I want to reach you, where will you be?”

  For a moment, Cork was lost in the blue of Jo’s eyes. Then he answered, “Home, Wally. I’ll be home.”

  EPILOGUE

  IN HIS FORECAST based on the coats of muskrats, Charlie Aalto had been correct. Two days before Halloween, a heavy snow fell over the North Woods. The weather came gently, moving in just before nightfall, and hour after hour, snow drifted silently down until it covered the ground deep as a man’s calf.

  The weather did not deter the Anishinaabe. Quiet as the snowfall, they filed past the white trailer home, past the harvested garden, through the line of cedars, and gathered around a fire on the shore of Iron Lake to honor Wendell Two Knives.