Iron Lake

35

MOLLY SCRAMBLED THROUGH THE WINDOW of the bathroom in Lytton’s cabin, then turned and took the Winchester that was passed up to her. Cork climbed in after her, pulled a flashlight from his coat, and took back his rifle.

They moved to the big room. The beam of the flashlight showed nothing different from his earlier visit. He played the light along the walls, the furnishings, the floor with its big stain.

“Is that what I think it is?” Molly asked.

“This way.” Cork led her to Lytton’s darkroom, giving a wide berth to the crusty stain on the floor.

In the dark, he found the light string and switched on the bare, overhead bulb. He could see his breath.

“I’ve got to get some heat in here. I don’t know if the chemicals will work this cold. You can stay here.”

“Are you kidding? I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

She followed him into the big room. There were electric baseboard heaters set just warm enough to keep the cabin pipes from freezing. Cork turned them to high. Then he took logs and kindling from the woodbox next to the Ben Franklin stove and had a fire going in no time.

While the cabin warmed, Cork checked Lytton’s equipment and supplies. He found plenty of developer, paper, and wash. He tested the safelight and the enlarger.

“Where’d you learn this?” Molly asked.

“A buddy of mine was a police photographer when I was on the force in Chicago. I just hope I remember enough.”

When the cabin had warmed sufficiently, Cork laid out trays of developer, stop bath, fixer, and water. He took out the negatives and inserted the strip with the dead man into the negative carrier of the enlarger. He turned on the safelight and turned off the bare bulb. He focused the image from the enlarger until the negative that was like a trophy shot was clear on the bare easel, then he opened a package of photo paper and inserted a piece.

“Here goes.”

He switched on the enlarger lamp for fifteen seconds, took the print through the developer, stop bath, fixer, and wash. Using a squeegee, he wiped the excess water off the print and held it up carefully for a good look.

“You were right,” Molly said, a little hoarsely. “Harlan Lytton killed Joe John.”

In the enlargement, the satisfied look was quite clear on Harlan Lytton’s face as he stood with his foot on the body of Joe John LeBeau.

Cork repeated the process with the close-ups of Joe John. They were grisly images. From left. Right. Above. The head and body had been adjusted slightly with each shot.

“God.” Molly grimaced. “What was he doing?”

“I think Harlan was attempting art.”

A sharp snap from the other room made them both freeze. Cork picked up the Winchester from where Molly had propped it against the wall. He held a finger to his lips and stepped to the closed door of the darkroom. He gestured for Molly to switch off the safelight, then he carefully opened the door.

The darkness inside the cabin was profound. Cork crouched with the Winchester readied while he probed the dark with his eyes. Nothing moved. He could hear Molly’s shallow breathing directly at his back. Then he heard the crack of the floorboards near the potbelly stove as they expanded with the heat. He stood up.

“I think we should leave,” Molly suggested. “This place gives me the creeps.”

“I agree. But I want to make a few more prints first.”

Cork made enlargements of all the photos of Joe John’s murdered body. Then he did the same with the negatives of Hell Hanover, the judge, and the Minnesota Civilian Brigade. The brigade photos appeared to have been taken in a clearing somewhere surrounded by unbroken pine forest. Cork recognized a number of faces among the three or four dozen men in the ranks. Any of them were capable of breaking into Sam’s Place and working him over. Most were probably capable of murder as well. He’d been lucky to have come away with only bruised ribs. Luckier than Joe John had been.

Finally he slipped the negatives of the GameTech documents into the enlarger and took a look.

“Consultant contract?” Molly asked, peeking over his shoulder at the first image.

“It appears so. For Stu Grantham’s services as a property consultant.”

“But he’s head of the county board of commissioners.”

“That he is. And look who signed for GameTech,” Cork said, pointing to the flamboyant signature of Robert Parrant.

Cork scanned the other documents, all contracts for consulting services from various individuals in Tamarack County, including—for consulting on the issues of security—Wally Schanno. He made a print of Schanno’s contract, then he said, “Let’s get out of here. The smell of this stuff is making me sick.”

They were quiet a long time on the way back to Molly’s cabin. It was late and the roads were empty.

“Why?” Molly finally asked.

“I don’t know.”

“I thought Joe John was back. But he couldn’t have been, could he?”

“I’m pretty sure those pictures were taken months ago when Joe John disappeared. My guess is Harlan dumped the body somewhere. Probably in one of the bogs on his land. Nobody would go snooping there with Jack the Ripper roaming around loose. Then he crashed the truck somewhere else so there’d be no evidence of the murder.”

“Which brings us back to why.”

“I’m so tired right now I can’t think straight.” He pulled into Molly’s lane and parked in front of the cabin. “I need a cigarette and a beer. And I need a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow I’ll see what I can figure in the why department.”

“Where do you plan on sleeping?”

“Right now, I’d take a bed of nails if it were offered.”

“How about the left side of my mattress? It’s not a bed of nails, but it is a little lumpy.”

Cork smiled wearily. “Best offer I’ve had in ages.”