Iron Lake

39

“HE’S NOT HERE,” Ellie Gruber told Cork at the rectory door. “Father Griffin left this morning before I got here and hasn’t been back.”

“Did he tell Father Kelsey where he was going?”

“He never says where he’s going,” she said with exasperation. “And I mean to tell you it’s got Father Kelsey more than a little upset.”

“Did he take his motorcycle or his snowmobile?” Cork asked.

“Why that old snowmobile went kaput nearly a week ago. He’s left it out at the mission, I believe. So he took that old monster of a motorcycle, must be.”

“Lazarus is still at the mission? Are you sure?”

She thought a moment. “I suppose I am.”

* * *

The reservation road curved between solid pines, then dipped into a long flat area of marsh populated by swamp alder, tamarack, and gnarled oak. Cork came to a turnoff in the marsh half a mile shy of the old mission. The turnoff was a road that had been started into the marsh so long ago Cork couldn’t even remember why. There was nothing to log, and the ground was too swampy to support buildings of any kind. Construction hadn’t progressed well, evidenced by an old bulldozer that lay sunk in the marsh near the road, only one rust-crusted corner of the blade left above the snow. Work had been abandoned before the road had gone even a quarter of a mile. The dead end turnoff was blocked now by a bank of plowed snow. Cork put the Bronco into four-wheel drive and cleared the snowbank. He drove a hundred yards into the trees until he was out of sight of the main road and he parked.

He fed a few shells into his Winchester. Then he took off his coat and his red flannel shirt, which left him dressed in his jeans—the denim had been washed so many times they were nearly white as ice—his white wool thermal top, white Nikes, and a light gray stocking cap. In the pale winter colors, he was less likely to be seen, but he was also likely to freeze if he had to spend a lot of time dressed that way. He hoped he wouldn’t.

The mission stood in the middle of a meadow beyond a hill at the end of the marsh. Cork approached the top of the rise in a crouch, keeping to the gray shadow of the snowbank. A hundred and fifty yards ahead, rising white from the white of the snow in the meadow, stood the old mission building. Smoke feathered up from the stovepipe toward the high blue-white of the sky. He knelt and watched the mission for a while. In the wide flat of the meadow and along the dark wall of pine trees and bare birch that surrounded it, nothing moved. He was to the north of the building and a little east. It was nearing two o’clock and the sun was low and bright. Staring into the glare off the field of snow made his eyes water. Finally he had to look away. The images behind him seemed darker then. The tamaracks, the swamp alders, the bare oaks. A shadow flickered over the road and a large crow alighted on a branch of a young tamarack near Cork. It cocked a yellow eye at him, but seemed content to be quietly curious. To the Anishinaabe, the crow was a symbol of wisdom. As he crouched shivering from the cold, Cork hoped the bird was a good sign that he’d find some answers before he froze to death.

He glanced again at the mission and immediately hunkered lower.

Someone stood outside the back door. He couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. Whoever it was stood very still and seemed to be looking across the meadow to Cork’s right where a white-tail doe and her two yearlings had come out of the woods. They stepped carefully in the deep snowdrifts. The yearlings had to leap to keep up. The doe would take a few steps and pause, her body poised in an alert stance, her ears flickering left and right as she watched and listened. Each time she stopped the yearlings took the opportunity to bound to her side. All three were coming straight at Cork. If he didn’t move, the deer would lead the eyes of the watching figure right to him. If he did move, the deer would bolt. In either event, he stood a good chance of giving himself away. He sat frozen in place, watching the deer approach.

From behind him came the sound of a vehicle on the reservation road. Cork glanced back. He couldn’t see anything yet, but in only a few moments the vehicle would round the curve and drop down into the flat of the marsh and whoever it was that was coming would clearly see him. But there was no way to move without being seen from the mission. He was trapped.

It was the crow who saved him. The black bird suddenly let out three shrill caws that broke like thunderbolts through the stillness of the meadow. The doe’s eyes darted toward Cork and she lurched away with the two yearlings leaping wildly after her. The figure at the mission watched the deer intently as they fled. In the moment before the animals disappeared again into the woods, when the eyes of the watcher were turned farthest from Cork, he threw himself and the Winchester over the snowbank and sunk facedown into the soft snow on the far side. He lay unmoving as the vehicle—an old truck, he guessed from the deep sound of the engine and the rattle of the undercarriage—followed the road into the low-lying marsh area, came up the rise, and passed on the other side of the snowbank. He heard it pull to a stop at the mission and heard the sound of its old doors squeaking open and slamming shut. He heard voices briefly, but didn’t want to look for fear of being seen.

Several minutes passed before he finally risked a peek. There was no one to be seen at the mission. The vehicle that had come along the road had parked on the far side of the building and wasn’t visible to him. He grabbed the Winchester, made a dive over the snowbank, and rolled onto the road. Crawling to the shelter of the snowbank’s shadow, he crouched, shivering violently. He was wet from lying in the snow, and he knew he had to do something quickly. He could head for the Bronco and warm up, but if he did he might miss a chance at uncovering something important at the mission.

He moved toward the building, staying below the snowbank and in its shadow as much as possible. As he approached the mission, he saw that both Lazarus and Father Tom Griffin’s old Kawasaki motorcycle were parked behind it. Cork dashed to the side of the building, where he stood in a thigh-deep drift and pressed himself against the old white wood planking. The shades over all the windows had been pulled. He leaned near the glass of a front window and listened.

Inside, someone whimpered as if being hurt.