Copper River

16

Dina said, “Someone’s coming.”

Cork looked up from the table where he’d been making notes on a small tablet. “Can you see who?”

She stood at the door of Thor’s Lodge, looking through the screen toward the resort road. “Not yet. Too many trees. It doesn’t sound like the Blazer.”

“Close the door.”

She did, and walked to the window where she drew the curtain slightly aside. Cork came out of his chair and hobbled up beside her. She’d taken a shower and smelled of soap and lavender shampoo. They watched a mud-spattered Jeep pull into the lane between the cabins and stop. The man who eased himself from behind the wheel was wide and powerful looking, a refrigerator wearing Nikes. He had on a blue windbreaker with the Northern Michigan University crest on the front, and a blue and silver ball cap with LIONS above the bill. His jaw line was thick with black stubble like a heavy smear of ash. He eyed Dina’s car, then approached Jewell’s cabin. Dina carefully let the curtain drop into place and they waited silently while the big man knocked at the door.

“Jewell?” he called. “Ren? Anybody home, eh?”

Dina tossed a glance at Cork, asking if they should answer the door. He shook his head. They heard the porch creaking under the man’s weight, then the groan of each wooden step as he descended.

With her finger, Dina carefully parted the curtains again. A thin, bright blade of light cut across her face as she peeked out. Cork watched her eyes track to the left.

“He’s standing in the road,” she reported in a whisper. “Scratching his jaw, looking around. Now he’s walking again.”

“To his Jeep?”

“No.” She watched. “Toward the shed.”

“My car,” Cork said.

“I’m on it.” She moved quickly to the door and was out before Cork could respond.

The plates on the Jeep were Michigan. The spattered mud around the wheel wells and the patina of back-road dust that coated the finish seemed to indicate a local. That and the fact that the man had called Jewell and Ren by name. Cork didn’t think he was on Lou Jacoby’s payroll, but he didn’t want to be careless. Except for the fact that the tube and bag taped to his leg would have been hard to explain, he would have preferred to be out there with Dina.

He limped to the guest room. In the closet he found boxes that held men’s clothing, Daniel’s probably. Cork located a pair of folded jeans and checked the size tag: 36 x 32. His waist was a 34, but the length was right. He sat on the quilt-covered bed and pulled his shoes off, then undid his bloody khakis. He slipped the belt free and let his pants slide to the floor. Gingerly maneuvering the left pant leg over the tube and bag, he eased himself into Daniel’s jeans. He buttoned, zipped, and belted himself, then put his shoes back on. All this he did with great discomfort, endured with a stream of muffled groans.

He decided to leave the cane Jewell had given him earlier. He would do his best to walk normally. By the time he stepped onto the cabin porch, however, he was already breathing heavily. In the sunlight near the shed, Dina was in conversation with the visitor. They both looked his way, squinting into the sun as he came. The wind was up, strong, and it pushed at his back, making him work even harder to walk normally. He took his time, a man on vacation, perhaps, with a tight but cordial smile glued to his lips.

“Morning,” he said brightly.

“Howdy,” the big man said.

“What can we do for you?” Cork asked.

Cork saw immediately that the big man noticed details. Most people focused on faces and missed other things, but the man’s eyes had already traveled the length of Cork’s body, lingering a moment over the unnatural lump on the inside of his pant leg. With luck, the guy would think he was simply well endowed.

“I was just telling Mr. Johnson that we’re visiting awhile with Jewell,” Dina said. She crossed her arms as if the wind were chilling her.

“Call me Gary, please. And you said you were visiting. Didn’t say anything about this fella, eh.”

Cork kept the smile on his face, though his leg was killing him. “Looking for Jewell?”

“Ren actually. I just came from the Miller place, from talking with Ned Hodder.”

“You a cop?” Cork asked, thinking that would explain the eyes that didn’t miss much.

“A newspaperman. I publish the Marquette County Courier. Old friend of Jewell’s. Like you. You know, I still haven’t caught any names here.”

“We haven’t thrown any,” Dina replied.

“I’ll bet you’re Ren’s aunt. Donna Walport, right?”

“If I am?”

He offered a smile that seemed genuine. “Ned said you were there with Ren, helpful, like you were his lawyer or something.”

“If it’s Ren you want to talk to, Gary, he’s not here.”

He ran a huge knuckle over the stubble of his cheek. The wind pulled at his hair. “He’s okay, though, right? I mean, it must’ve been awful, what he saw. Look, I’m not just asking as a newspaperman. Like I said, old friend of the family.”

“I’d rather not say anything without Ren or Jewell here. You understand.”

He held up his hands in surrender. They looked like they could pulverize bricks. “This is all off the record, eh. You have my promise.”

“I hope you’ll forgive me, Gary,” Dina said evenly, “but I don’t know you well enough to know the quality of that statement. And I hope you understand that as friends of the DuBois family ourselves we’re reluctant to say anything that might cause them any trouble.”

Johnson shifted his focus toward Cork, who simply smiled and shrugged.

“Are they looking for Charlie?” Johnson asked. “Is that where they’ve gone?”

“We can’t comment on that,” Dina said.

For a very brief moment, the man looked perplexed, balanced at the edge of irritation. Then a broad smile cracked his face and his great cheeks drew back and he barked out a laugh.

“I can see you’ve dealt with reporters before, eh. I swear, everybody should have a relative like you.”

“Mind if I ask you a couple of questions, Gary?” Dina smiled, with just a hint of the coquette. Oh boy, here it comes, Cork thought. “Do you know Charlie Miller?”

“In a small town, everyone knows everyone.”

“The Marquette sheriff’s people consider her a suspect.”

“That’s because they don’t know Charlie,” Johnson said.

“He liked to drink, I understand. When he did, Charlie had to make herself scarce.”

“That’s true.”

“Anyone ever intervene?”

“Charlie took care of herself, eh.”

“Right. And good neighbors don’t interfere.”

The bitterness in her voice was acid. About her own life, the early years especially, Cork knew little. She’d once let slip that she left home young and never looked back. Cork realized that although she didn’t know Charlie, she might understand her quite well.

Johnson’s broad face twitched in an uncomfortable way. “Look, any idea when they’ll be back?”

“None,” Dina said.

He pulled a hand-tooled leather wallet from his back pocket and plucked out a business card. “I’d appreciate it if you’d let Jewell know I was here and that I’d like to talk with Ren as soon as possible. And just a heads-up, eh. I’m only the first. The Mining Journal, Marquette’s newspaper, will be sending out reporters, too, I’m sure.”

“We’ll keep that in mind,” Dina said.

They stood in the wind while Gary Johnson lumbered back to his Jeep, turned the vehicle around, and headed away, waving to them briefly as he passed.

When the Jeep was out of sight, Dina turned to Cork. Her eyes had darkened to a green the color of an angry sky before hail. “What the hell were you thinking? That I couldn’t handle some hick reporter by myself? Just how dumb are you, limping out here like a wounded I-don’t-know-what? What if he turned out to be somebody on Jacoby’s nickel? Think he wouldn’t know exactly what you look like? And now he’d know exactly where you are. That was stupid on so many levels, I don’t even know where to begin.”

“I think you’ve made a good start,” Cork said. “I’ve got to sit down. My leg is killing me.”

As he turned to the cabin, his leg gave out and he faltered. Dina slipped under his arm, and he leaned into her for support.

“He wasn’t one of Jacoby’s people,” Cork said.

“How can you be sure?”

“He’s definitely local. A lot of ways to tell a Yooper. Speech, for one. You pick up on that ‘eh’ of his?”

“Canadian, I thought.”

“Yooper, too.”

“He’s a reporter, and reporters are usually trouble,” Dina grumbled.

Cork limped a few steps with Dina nestled in the crook of his arm, the bone of her shoulders his good support. “Anybody ever tell you you’re pretty when you’re mad?”

“Just shut up,” she said, “and keep walking.”