Iron Lake

7

TRADITIONALLY THE ANISHINAABE were a quiet people. Before the whites came, they lived in the silence of great woods and more often than not, the voices they heard were not human. The wind spoke. The water sang. All sound had purpose. When an Anishinaabe approached the wigwam of another, he respectfully made noise to announce his coming. Thunder, therefore, was the respectful way of the storm in announcing its approach. Spirit and purpose in all things. For all creation, respect.

The storm that bent the pine trees and the tamaracks, that drove the snow plows from the roads and froze and snapped the power lines was not an angry spirit. In its passage, it created chaos not because of anger but because it was so vast and powerful and those things it touched, especially those things human, were so small in comparison. In a way, it was like the bear that Cork had once hunted with Sam Winter Moon, huge and oblivious. If the storm, in fact, was responsible for the disappearance of the boy, Cork knew it was not a thing done maliciously. In his experience, only people acted out of pure malice.

When he finally reached Darla’s house, the porch light was on and he saw an ancient Kawasaki snowmobile parked near the steps. As he approached the machine, he knew without actually seeing that under the engine oil was staining the snow. He knew it because the machine belonged to Father Tom Griffin and was the oldest of its kind in Tamarack County. It always leaked oil.

He rang the bell, and a moment later Darla opened the door.

“Cork,” she said, and gave him a nervous look and stepped back.

The priest was beside her out of sight for a moment, but Cork could see his shadow on the wall, a tall, lanky silhouette. Then Tom Griffin stepped into view, a steadfast smile on his lips and a huge black patch over his left eye.

“Evening, Cork,” the priest said, and reached out to shake hands. He had a strong grip that he used gracefully to guide Cork out of the storm and into the house.

Tom Griffin was dressed in black and wearing his cleric’s collar, an unusual thing for the man. Except for formal occasions and when performing the formally religious duties of his position, the priest preferred to wear blue jeans and flannel shirts and hiking boots. He had come to Aurora a year and a half earlier to help the aging Father Kelsey manage St. Agnes and to minister to the Catholic parishioners who lived on the Iron Lake Reservation. He was nearing forty, a man of enormous goodwill and energy. In summer he could be seen cutting along the back roads of the reservation on a huge, old Kawasaki motorcycle. In winter, he generally used the Kawasaki snowmobile. As a result, he was affectionately known on the reservation as St. Kawasaki.

“I’m glad you called somebody, Darla,” Cork told her.

“You didn’t find him,” Darla said.

“Maybe you should sit down.”

“What is it?”

Cork looked to the priest for help.

“Maybe we should all sit down,” Tom Griffin suggested.

He led the way into the living room and sat on the arm of the sofa. Darla sat beside him. Cork settled on the radiator, reluctant to wet the furniture with the drip of the melting snow off his coat.

“Judge Parrant is dead,” Cork told them.

“The judge?” the priest said. “How?”

“It looks as if he killed himself. The sheriff’s there now. We couldn’t find any indication that Paul had been there, so this probably hasn’t got a thing to do with him.”

“I know that,” Darla said.

Cork looked at the priest, then back at Darla. “What’s going on?”

“I was out at the reservation this morning. We buried Vernon Blackwater, you know,” the priest said.

“So?”

“Word on the reservation is that Joe John is back.”

“Has anybody talked to him?” Cork asked.

“Not as far as I know.”

“Not even Wanda?”

“I was out there a little while ago. She hasn’t seen him or spoken to him, but she’s sure he’s around.”

“He’s got Paul?”

“Paul’s gone, Joe John’s back. I’d say that’s hardly coincidence, wouldn’t you?”

Cork felt relieved. At least it was Joe John. Not the storm or something worse. “The sheriff will want to know that,” he said.

“The sheriff?” Darla looked unhappy.

“He’s sending a man over here.”

“I don’t want any trouble,” she said.

“It’s Joe John,” the priest told Cork. “Can’t we do this without the law coming into it?”

“It’s out of my hands now,” Cork explained. He stood up. “It’s late. I’d best get going. I’ll stay in touch. And let me know if I can help in any way.”

“Thanks, Cork.” Darla managed a smile.

“Let me see you out,” the priest said.

As he put on his gloves at the door, Cork asked, “Lots of folks at Vernon Blackwater’s burial?”

“Most of the reservation. He was an important man.”

“He was a son of a bitch,” Cork said, drawing his cap out of his coat pocket.

“He was that, too,” the priest agreed.

“You were there when he died, weren’t you? Gave him last rites?”

“I did.”

Cork tugged the cap down over his ears. “Heard his final confession?”

“Yes.”

“That’s something I would’ve given my left nut to hear.”

“I’d think twice before giving away body parts, Cork,” the priest said with a smile and a quick gesture toward the patch over his eye.

Before he reached for the door, Cork asked the priest quietly, “Can I talk with you soon?”

“About what?”

“I haven’t been in church in over a year.”

“Finally worried about your soul?”

“Please,” Cork said.

“Of course we can talk. When?”

“Tomorrow. Late afternoon maybe. Say five o’clock?”

“Make it six,” the priest suggested. “My office.”

“I’ll be there,” Cork promised.

* * *

In the brief time Cork was inside, his Bronco had become snow-covered again. He started the engine, then stepped out to brush the windows clean. The wind blew so hard the snow came at him levelly out of the darkness and he squinted against the flakes that the wind made bitterly piercing. It was late. The only light he could see came from Darla’s house. Across the street was a stand of tall birch and aspen where the wind screamed through and the bare branches rubbed together with a crying sound. Suddenly Cork stopped. Turning, he scanned the darkness at his back and listened to the crying of the trees.

“Who’s there?” he yelled.

He got no answer. Near him nothing moved but the snow. He couldn’t see a thing in the swaying trees.

“Is anybody there?” he tried again.

No voice answered except the bitter howl of the wind. Cork finished clearing the snow and got into his Bronco. As an afterthought he locked the doors. He waited a moment before driving away, trying one last time to see if anything moved among the trees.

Because he could have sworn someone there had called his name.