Boundary waters

38

The world felt new to Cork. Like Easter morning. Like hope had been born again.

The sun was up, bright as a vision of God. The lake was blue as heaven. Snow lay thick on the evergreens and made them white as angels’ wings.

The patches on the canoes were holding.

Cork and the others had hit the lake at first light-Raye in the bow of Cork’s canoe, Sloane, Stormy, and Louis in the other. They spoke little, putting all their effort into their strokes, into making distance. They’d set Louis, whose eyes were young and hawk sharp, to the duty of watching for any sign of Shiloh or the man who pursued her. The morning was so clear that had it not been for all the islands that obscured the horizon, Louis could have seen for miles.

The contrast struck Cork powerfully. In the midst of a beauty so pervasive and dramatic it made his soul quiver, they were racing against a faceless, depthless evil. If Shiloh’s life hadn’t been the stake, he would have allowed himself to exalt in the thrill of the chase. It was a day for doing battle, and he couldn’t help but feel that God and Kitchimanidoo, the Great Spirit, were on the lake with them. When he heard the blaring of a line of Canada geese coming over the treetops, it was as if Gabriel had sounded his horn. He believed-believed absolutely and for no other reason than the day was glorious and their luck was holding-that they were meant to beat the evil. It could easily have been a false euphoria, he admitted to himself, born of exhaustion and the strain of the last two days. But it felt like a gift, a sign, a revelation, and he bent his will to what seemed a greater will that guided them.

He knew the feeling was not just with him. The others were on fire, too. Their faces may have been hollow, sunken with fatigue, but in their eyes burned a light as illuminating as that morning sun. They’d reached deep inside themselves, deep into a place where warriors reached for extraordinary courage. Cork was glad-immensely proud-to be in the company of such men. In a grim way, he was pleased for Louis. The boy had seen terrible things, it was true. But he’d also been given a chance to experience this rare companionship, to feel this rare emotion that lifted them all up and carried them forward together.

They moved swiftly through the morning hours. The lake remained calm and the canoes flew across the water like swallows through air. He’d worried about Arkansas Willie at first, but the illness of the previous night seemed to have passed and Willie made no complaint.

Midmorning, as they approached the Deertail River, Louis cried out, “Over there!”

He pointed toward a jut of land ahead of them and a little to the north dominated by a tall lightning-scarred pine tree. Cork ceased paddling, shielded his eyes against the glare, and squinted where Louis had indicated.

“What is it?” he asked, for he saw nothing.

“A camp,” Louis said. “A tent and a canoe.”

Once Louis had defined the images, Cork could see them, too. The tent was covered with snow and blended almost invisibly into the snow-covered evergreens behind it. The canoe was a long white finger pointing out from the whitened shore.

“Do you see anybody?” Cork asked.

Louis shook his head. “Looks deserted.”

“Let’s check it out,” Sloane said.

“Why don’t Willie and I go first. That way you can cover us with the rifle.”

Sloane chambered a round. “You’re covered.”

They moved in cautiously. As the bow nudged shore. Raye and Cork stepped out. Everything was lightly layered with snow, and the snow was crisscrossed with animal tracks, mostly those of birds and rabbits. Cork went to the tent and pulled back the flap. Two sleeping bags were laid out inside, both empty. He headed to the lightning-struck pine and studied the tracks around the shredded remains of a pack.

“Food,” he said over his shoulder to Raye. “Looks like bears got to it.”

But bear tracks were not the only tracks he saw there. He examined the rope that had at one time held the pack suspended from a high branch of the pine. The end had been cleanly cut with a knife.

“Was this bears, too?” Arkansas Willie asked behind him. He was staring down at a lump of snow sparkling at his feet.

Cork stepped up next to Raye, knelt, and brushed the snow away, revealing eyes as lifeless as agates. He carefully cleared the snow from the rest of the body. Over the dead man’s heart, his blue flannel shirt was hard and black with frozen blood.

“Not a bear,” Cork said grimly. “Unless someone taught it how to fire a gun.”

He moved to a second lumping of snow next to the circle of stones that formed a fire ring. The snowfall hadn’t covered the body entirely, and one arm lay exposed like a severed limb on a white sheet.

“Another one,” he said, wiping the snow from a face dull and white as lard.

“How long have they been dead?” Arkansas Willie asked.

“Hard to tell. A while.”

Cork waved the others to shore.

“Louis, you stay in the canoe,” he called.

Sloane entered the camp and stood beside Cork.

“Two bodies,” Cork told him. “Caucasian males. Multiple gunshot wounds to the chest on both. Dead… a while.”

“Today, you think?”

Cork shook his head. “Snow’s completely covered them. Maybe yesterday.”

“Think they have anything to do with Shiloh?”

“All the death we’ve seen up here has to do with Shiloh. Let me show you something else.” He led Sloane to the shredded pack. “She’s been here. Look, same small boot tracks as at the cabin.”

The tracks led from the shore to the pack, where they were mixed with the tracks of the bear. Boot tracks also led back to the shore, in the same unerring line that had been followed in.

“Food,” Cork said. “She was after food. Cut down the pack from the tree and either took what she wanted and left the rest or she was surprised by the bear and had to leave it.”

Sloane looked at the evidence. He slung the rifle over his shoulder, knelt, and picked up some snow. The warmth of his light brown palm turned the snow quickly to water that trickled through his fingers.

“How long ago?” he asked.

“The sun’s had time to melt the edges of the prints, so I’d say a few hours.”

“Shit!” Arkansas Willie doubled over a moment. “Good Lord, here it comes again.” He hurried to the canoe, grabbed his pack, and raced to the cover of the trees.

After Willie had gone, Stormy called quietly, “Cork.” He stood near the shoreline, beckoning.

When Cork reached him, he saw what Stormy saw. At the edge of the water, near Shiloh’s tracks, were the tracks of the other.

“He’s been here, too,” Cork said.

“Prints are clear,” Stormy pointed out. “Edges clean. The sun hasn’t had time to melt them. He was here after her. And not that long ago.”

Sloane said, “We should move out quickly.”

“What about taking their canoe?” Louis suggested.

Cork stepped to the dead men’s canoe. “Good idea, Louis, but we can forget it. He took care of this one, too.”

Arkansas Willie emerged from the woods looking ashamed. “Sorry.”

“Not your fault,” Cork assured him. “Up here, it happens. But if you can, hang on a bit. I think we’re almost there.” He nodded toward the Deertail, a wide drift of silver in the morning sunlight that led into the pines a hundred yards down the shoreline. “He thinks he took care of us. He thinks he’s home free. But we’re about to nail that son of a bitch, Willie. We’re about to nail him good.”