Northwest Angle

TWENTY-SEVEN

Kretsch sat at his desk in his office, a telephone pressed to his right ear. The features of his lean, boyish face were drawn taut, as if he were battling a bad headache.

“No, sir, there wasn’t a body.”

He listened and picked up a lure from his desktop and dug the hook into the wood.

“Yes, Chickaway sometimes drinks, and he’s been in fights before, and I suppose that could explain why his place was torn up and maybe even the blood, but—”

Cut off, he dropped the lure, sat back, took a deep breath, and listened some more.

“No, nobody’s reported anything. But, hell, that storm yesterday’s got everything and everyone tied up. I mean—”

He nodded and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Yes, sir, I called several of the Ojibwe on Windigo and Little Windigo to see if Chickaway might have shown up there looking for medical assistance. No one’s seen him. And that’s my point. If he was hurt—”

He balled his hand into a bloodless fist.

“Okay, so even forgetting about Chickaway, what about the baby and Lily Smalldog?”

Kretsch’s face, as he listened, grew redder and redder.

“I know it’s out of our jurisdiction,” he finally exploded, “and I do intend to talk to the provincial police in Kenora, but, sir, we have a baby on our hands and a mother who, as nearly as I can tell, was tortured to death, and it seems to me we ought to be beating the bushes for Noah Smalldog, and, honest to God, I can’t do that by myself.”

He shut up, and the red drained from his face, and he relaxed.

“You’re right, sir. We don’t have a body there either. And now that the cabin has burned, no evidence of a crime and no way of knowing if Smalldog was involved. I understand. I’ll inform our Canadian counterparts and let them handle things.”

He was just about to hang up when something more came through the receiver of the phone, and he jammed it once more to his ear.

“No, I understand your situation, sir. I can appreciate that you have your hands full down there.”

He hung up and stared at Cork and Bascombe. Then he looked out the window at the big lake, which was all waves in the strong afternoon wind.

“Did you know, Cork, that the Angle tried to secede from the United States?”

“No,” Cork replied.

“Was a few years ago. Angle folks were all pissed off because Canada wouldn’t let the guests in our resorts take fish from their waters, and our resorts were suffering. We complained, but nobody gave a shit about us. Which is the way it’s always been. So we decided maybe we’d see about joining Manitoba. We finally convinced our U.S. congressman to introduce a constitutional amendment that would have allowed us to vote to secede.”

“Didn’t go anywhere,” Bascombe reminded him.

Kretsch shook his head. “Nobody took us seriously.” He gave the phone a dour look, then lifted his eyes to Cork. “You told me you were a county sheriff.”

“Nearly a decade. A deputy for six years before that. And before that I was with Chicago PD.”

“You ever work a murder investigation?”

“Several.”

Kretsch turned his blue eyes on Bascombe. “What about you, Mr. ATF? You ever work a homicide?”

“I saw the aftermath of a couple while I was an agent,” Bascombe replied. “Never worked the investigations, but I’ve got all the instincts, Tom.”

Kretsch was quiet a moment, then hit the desk with his fist and said, “Fuck ’em. We’re getting to the bottom of things.”

And he stood up.

They tracked down the others at Lynn Belgea’s, and found Mal and Stephen and Tony Ebnet at Jerry’s Restaurant across the road from Young’s Bay Resort, where each had finished off a monster of a burger that Stephen swore was the best he’d ever tasted. They had a sack of burgers and lots of fries. They divided themselves between the two launches, Bascombe’s and Ebnet’s, and headed back to Oak Island, with Tom Kretsch along. Ebnet left them at Bascombe’s dock, saying he was always available if needed, then boated away.

They gathered in the small dining area of Bascombe’s lodge. The big man pulled out beer for those who wanted it and Coke for the others. Cork split up the burgers and fries among those who still hadn’t eaten. The baby was sleeping in his basket, which Jenny had set on the floor near her chair. They all looked to Kretsch, who shrugged and looked at Cork and said, “Where do we begin?”

Cork laid out the facts as they knew them, then spent a minute thinking, slowly turning his beer bottle on the table as he considered the elements of the situation. “Okay, let’s assume that Chickaway’s been murdered and, like the girl’s, his body’s been disposed of somewhere else. What connects these two people in a way that would get them both killed?”

“Noah Smalldog,” Kretsch said.

“That’s one possibility,” Cork agreed. “But did he kill them?”

“Why would he?” Anne asked. “His own sister?”

“And a guy who’s supposed to be his good friend,” Mal put in.

“I don’t know Smalldog, except from what people have told me,” Cork said. “Is he the kind of man capable of these things?” He glanced at Bascombe, then Kretsch.

Bascombe spoke first. “He’s a hard one to figure, but I’d say, given the right motivation, it’s something he might do.”

Kretsch shook his head. “I don’t think so. I don’t pretend to know him—I don’t think anybody on the Angle does—but it would take someone more cold-blooded than anything I’ve heard about or seen from Smalldog to do what’s been done here in the last couple of days.”

“Who around here might be capable of such things?”

“Christ, nobody in their right mind,” Kretsch said.

“I don’t think we’re dealing with a psychotic killer, Tom,” Cork said. “There’s a reason behind the murders and why they were so gruesome.”

“You think Chickaway was tortured, too?” Bascombe asked.

“There was an overturned chair and some rope in the middle of the pool of blood in Chickaway’s cabin. Same thing was true when we found Lily Smalldog. So let’s assume for the moment that he was tortured and killed in the same way she was. Why would someone do that to both of them?”

“Someone wanted to know where the baby was,” Jenny said.

“Why?” Cork asked.

Jenny looked clueless and shrugged.

Quiet followed, then Anne said, “Who took her from Stump Island and put her in that isolated cabin, and why?”

“It seems obvious to me it was because of the kid,” Bascombe said.

Anne frowned. “Why not leave her on Stump Island, where she and the child had a better chance of good care? And was she taken before or after she gave birth?”

Rose said, “Does it matter?”

“I don’t know,” Anne replied. “I’m just asking.”

“My vote is for before,” Bascombe said. “Noah Smalldog’s the father, or maybe Chickaway, and neither of them wanted her delivering the baby among white people. They snatched her, one or both of them, and took her to the cabin on that island. She delivered like Indians have been delivering for hundreds of years.”

Cork said, “So why is she dead now and why Chickaway?”

Jenny looked down at the child asleep in the basket. “It all comes back to the baby.”

“Did folks on the Angle know she was pregnant, Tom?”

“Once we all heard about Chickaway and all that baby formula he loaded on his boat, word got around pretty fast. Speculation about the father has been a popular topic since then. But I don’t think anybody knew anything before that.”

“The people on Stump Island had to know, right?” Cork said.

“If they did, they never mentioned it.”

“Who reported the girl missing?”

“Gabriel Hornett. He’s the head of the camp,” Kretsch replied.

“Did you investigate?”

“Sure. Well, as much as I could.”

“Did you talk to her brother?”

“Couldn’t find him.”

“What about Chickaway?”

Kretsch nodded. “Claimed he didn’t know anything. I asked all around the Angle and the islands and came up with zip. Then the Seven Trumpets people found a sweater that belonged to her washed up on the shore of Stump Island. Honestly, I figured that sooner or later we’d find her floating in the lake, like her mother.”

“Maybe we should have another talk with the folks on Stump Island,” Cork suggested. “They were the last to see her before she disappeared.”

“I’m game,” Kretsch said.

“Can I go?” Stephen asked.

Cork looked around the table. “Anybody else?”

Mal said, “My ankle’s killing me. I’ll stay back.”

“Seth,” Rose said, “if you’ll give me free rein in your kitchen, I’ll see about having some dinner ready when you come back. And maybe Annie would be willing to give me a hand.”

Bascombe grinned hugely and waved in the direction of the kitchen. “Be my guest.”

“I’m staying here with the baby,” Jenny said.

Aaron said, “And I’m staying with you.”

Cork eyed the baby asleep in the basket, then he eyed Jenny. “As soon as we can, we turn this child over to the authorities. For his safety and ours.” He waited for her to object, but she said nothing. “All right.” He tapped the tabletop, as if adjourning a meeting. “Let’s see what the folks on Stump Island have to say.”