Northwest Angle

THIRTY-TWO

Rose had coffee going when Bascombe came into the kitchen. He walked awkwardly, still stiff from sleep. His hair was unbrushed and stuck out in tufts of black and gray. He closed his eyes and stood a moment, his nose raised, as if sniffing the wind.

“Been a long time since I woke to the good smell of strong coffee made by a woman.”

“I’ve pulled out some eggs and cheese and onion for breakfast,” Rose said, setting a wooden cutting board onto one of the counters. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind?” Bascombe laughed. “If you weren’t already taken, Rose, I’d get down on my knees and propose.”

“Hold on there,” Mal said, coming in at his back. “I’m a reasonable man, but there are limits.”

“I’ll arm-wrestle you for her,” Bascombe suggested.

“Tell you what,” Rose said. “Whoever’s willing to make pancakes, I’m all yours.”

“Done,” Mal said and got to work.

The others began to drift into the lodge. Bascombe poured them coffee while Rose and Mal prepared the meal. Jenny was the last to arrive, with the baby in his wicker basket.

“How’s the baby this morning?” Cork asked. To Rose, his concern sounded clinical.

“Doing just fine,” Jenny replied curtly.

“Coffee?” Rose offered.

“Thanks, Aunt Rose.”

Aaron sat at the table, silently observing Jenny and the attention focused on her and the baby. He didn’t attempt to greet her in any special way, Rose noticed, just sipped his coffee without apparent emotion. Rose wondered if it was exhaustion or if he was steeling himself against caring or if it was a cover for all the confusion he might be feeling.

When they were settled around the table, Rose and Anne served breakfast, and they ate and planned.

“So where do we go today?” Stephen said.

“I’d like to have a better look at Stump Island,” his father replied. “See if I can figure out what it is those folks don’t want to talk about.”

“It might not have anything to do with Lily Smalldog,” Bascombe pointed out.

“Maybe. But it’s still a question I’d like answered.”

Kretsch said, “I think we need to track down her brother.”

“Got a suggestion how we do that?”

The deputy shrugged. “Talk to some more Ojibwe over on Windigo Island.”

“You’ve dealt with the Ojibwe before?” Cork asked.

“Sure.”

“And as a police officer, do you find them particularly forth-coming?”

“Not especially,” Kretsch admitted.

“So they’d be more inclined to talk now because?”

Kretsch didn’t have an answer.

“How about we talk to Amos Powassin?” Stephen suggested. “He knows us. And if he can’t tell us anything, maybe he could introduce us to someone who can.”

Cork was quiet a moment, thinking. “That’s not a bad idea, Stephen. Mr. Powassin seemed to take to you. Maybe you should do the talking.”

“Who goes?” Anne asked and glanced in the direction of the baby.

Rose understood the reason for the question. Jenny and the baby needed protection. Someone willing to use a rifle had to stay back on Oak Island. That probably wasn’t her or Anne, though Jenny might be willing.

“Seth’s got to take us in his boat,” Cork said. “Tom should come. It would be best to have an official legal presence. Stephen, because Amos Powassin might be more willing to talk to him. And I’ll go. Mal, Aaron, you guys willing to stay and stand post?”

“Sure,” Mal said.

“You’ll need to keep a rifle.”

“I won’t promise to shoot, but I can hold the damn thing in plain sight. A deterrent, I suppose.”

“Aaron?” Cork said.

“I’ve only shot pheasants.”

“You’re one up on me,” Mal said.

“Okay,” Cork said. “We’ll leave the rifles. Probably best if you all stay together. When we get back, we’ll talk about the baby and where to take him.”

This was directed at Jenny, whose face was stone and who didn’t reply.

Cork took one last sip of his coffee and stood up.

Rose said, “Vaya con Dios.”

And Mal said, “Amen.”

The ride to Windigo Island was a rough one. The wind hadn’t let up at all. Ragged white clouds tumbled across the blue of the sky, and under the hull of Bascombe’s launch, the lake bucked and kicked like a thing alive and wild.

They rounded the southeast end of Windigo, and Amos Powassin’s small dock came into view. It was crowded with boats. As they approached, a group of men came from Powassin’s house. They carried rifles and went to their boats, and one by one they motored away, so that the dock, when Bascombe pulled up, was empty save for one small motorboat. They tied up, and as they disembarked, Cherri Allen, who’d brought them to Powassin the day before, stepped onto the narrow front porch of the blind man’s plain little house, shaded her eyes against the sun, and watched them come.

“Morning, Cherri,” Kretsch said in jovial greeting. “That looked like a posse leaving.”

Cherri didn’t reply but said darkly, “I suppose you came to see Amos.”

“Yes,” Kretsch said. “Could we talk to him?”

“Wait here. I’ll ask.”

She went inside, and a moment later, a small face appeared at the screen door and peered out at them. It was the child who’d been with Powassin on the dock fishing when they’d come the day before. She eyed them wordlessly—suspiciously, Cork thought—then disappeared again into the dark inside the house.

Powassin came to the door, pushed open the screen, and stepped out into the sunlight. He wore a white T-shirt and jeans washed until the blue was practically a memory. His blind eyes didn’t blink against the glare of the morning sun. Cherri Allen came with him and stood a little behind him, in deference to his stature.

“What do you want?” he said.

It was a neutral tone, neither inviting nor threatening. Very Ojibwe, Cork thought.

Cork nodded to Stephen.

“Grandfather,” Stephen began. “We’re trying to find Noah Smalldog.”

“Ah, Makadewagosh,” the old man said. Although his feelings about the intrusion were unclear at the moment, it was obvious he didn’t mind Stephen being there. “I’m afraid I can’t help you with that. Nobody here can.”

Can? Cork wanted to ask. Or will?

“Last night, grandfather, he tried to hurt the baby,” Stephen said.

The news obviously disturbed the old man. More lines appeared on his already heavily wrinkled face. “You saw him?”

“We did,” Stephen answered.

Though that wasn’t technically true, Cork thought. They’d seen someone, and the evidence pointed to Smalldog, but they couldn’t actually say with certainty that it had been him. Cork was tempted to clarify his son’s remark but held himself back.

The old man thought on this for a long while.

In the way of a lot of white people Cork had known, Bascombe seemed uncomfortable as the silence continued to stretch. He finally blurted, “Looked like a hunting party was leaving when we came up. What are you hunting?”

Powassin didn’t answer, didn’t show any sign that he’d even heard. Cork thought it might be because the question came from Bascombe and not Stephen. He was a little pissed at the man for butting in, but it was done. He waited with the others. At the old man’s back, Cherri Allen watched with interest, as if she had no idea how, or even if, he was going to respond.

Finally the old Ojibwe said, “We’re hunting Noah Smalldog.”

“Why, grandfather?” Stephen asked.

“I would like to sit down,” the old man said.

Cherri fetched a wooden chair from inside the house and brought it to the porch. Powassin sat down with a grateful sigh. In the strong sunlight, his long white hair glowed like electrified filaments. His face was dark, both from his heritage and from decades of life lived mostly outside. He folded his big, gnarled hands across his belly.

“We got called yesterday about Sonny Chickaway,” he said.

“That was me,” Tom Kretsch said. “I called.”

The old Ojibwe continued, “Some of our men went to his place and saw it was all tore up and saw all the blood. They started asking around on the islands, couldn’t find Sonny, came up with nothing. That’s pretty strange out here.”

“What do you think it means, grandfather?”

“I don’t know, but it’s not good, I can tell you that.”

“Grandfather,” Cork said, with great respect in his voice, “do you think Noah Smalldog did something to Sonny Chickaway? Is that the reason you’re hunting him?”

Before responding, the old man weighed his words for another long period. “In my life, I’ve tried to understand most of the creatures who call this lake home. Smalldog? He’s still a mystery to me. What Noah Smalldog might do, only Noah Smalldog knows. And that probably makes him the most dangerous animal you could run into out here.”

The old man squinted, as if the strong sunlight finally bothered him. He leaned forward in his chair and spoke quietly. “My advice is to leave. Leave this lake now. Take the child and go somewhere safe. The safest place you know. But do it careful. Do it real cunning. You’re being watched.”

“By whom?”

“This is a small community with a lot of eyes and not much to see. Everyone is watching you. And tongues wag. News of what you do is gonna travel across the Angle faster ’n this damn wind.”

He sat back, and his mouth formed a line from which wrinkles radiated like stitches on a wound.

“Migwech, grandfather,” Stephen said.

The old man raised a hand in a gesture of parting, but spoke no more.

Stephen turned away and the others followed.