Northwest Angle

FORTY

Aaron’s call had come near sunset, telling them that Kretsch had brought the boat safely to the south shore of the big water, and that Jenny and the baby and Stephen and he were on their way to Meloux’s cabin. Even so, no one could sleep. Rose and Anne made cookies and coffee, and Mal and Bascombe played cribbage, and they waited deep into the night to hear the sound of Kretsch’s small boat motoring up to the dock. They watched the clock on the wall, and nearly an hour after the stroke of midnight, Bascombe said to no one in particular, “They should have been here by now.”

“Can you raise them on the radio in your boat?” Rose asked.

Bascombe shook his burly head. “Tom wanted to run silent. He didn’t want to take a chance on anyone picking up anything over the air. No telling who might be monitoring transmissions.”

“And there’s no cell phone reception out there?”

Again, Bascombe’s answer was a dour shake of his head.

“The wind’s died down,” Anne noted. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

“Not necessarily,” Bascombe replied. “Means the sound of Tom’s engine’ll carry pretty far in all directions. If someone’s watching for him, he’ll be easier to spot.”

“Who’d be watching for him?” Mal asked.

Bascombe laughed, not a funny sound. “Besides Smalldog? Could be half the Angle for all I know. This whole business has me looking at all my neighbors in a different way. And frankly, I don’t like it.”

Rose said, “They grope in darkness with no light; he makes them stagger like drunkards.”

“What’s that?” Bascombe said.

“From the Book of Job,” Mal replied. “A book about trust in God and patience in the face of adversity.”

Bascombe cast them both a cold eye. “Religion,” he said, as if spitting.

Anne brought the coffeepot around to refill cups. “What do you have against religion, Seth?” she asked.

Bascombe lifted his cup to his thick lips. Before sipping, he replied, “Seen way too much bad to believe there’s anybody up there trying to do any good. Or if there is, they don’t know their ass from applesauce.” He paused, and a modestly contrite look came over his face. “I know you folks are religious, but that’s the way I feel.”

“No need to apologize,” Mal said.

Bascombe drank his coffee and fell into a brooding silence.

Rose picked up her mug and walked to the window of the lodge. Outside, the lake was calm at last and so white under the moon that she thought it resembled a great meadow after a snowfall. In the room at her back, she felt an uncomfortable tension that came from Bascombe. She understood the big man’s despair of religion and his doubt of God, and she thought that maybe she ought to say something to take the thorns out of his thinking, but honestly, she had her own doubts.

Then she heard the sound of an engine, and across the lake appeared a long, dark trail of disturbed water, which Rose discerned was the wake of a boat. Running lights came on, and she turned back to the others. With a clear note of relief, she said, “They’re here.”

* * *

“These folks are deadly serious about End Times,” Mal said after Cork and Kretsch had told their story.

“I don’t understand why Smalldog would be there,” Anne said. “What does he have to do with their beliefs? Is he one of them?”

Cork said, “I’ve been thinking about that.” He had his hands wrapped around a mug of freshly brewed coffee, and on the table in front of him sat a couple of Rose’s good sugar cookies. “Judging from the casings Tom and I found on that firing range, I’m guessing they have some kind of arsenal out there. They had to get the hardware from someone, and from what I understand about Smalldog, he might be just the ticket. A man with a military background, already involved in smuggling.”

“Match made in hell, you ask me,” Bascombe said.

“Is there anything you can do about all those weapons?” Rose asked, directing her question toward Deputy Tom Kretsch.

Kretsch looked uncomfortable. “We didn’t find anything solid, really, and what we did find was because we were trespassing. I don’t imagine any judge would look kindly on that in considering a search warrant. And for all I know, they may have a license for all those firearms.”

A look of incredulity leapt to Rose’s face. “A license for a fifty-caliber machine gun?”

Bascombe said, “The sale of machine guns among private individuals is regulated by ATF, but not banned, provided the weapon in question was manufactured prior to 1986. The process is complicated, but not particularly difficult. So Tom’s right. It’s entirely possible that what they’re shooting out there is completely legal.”

Rose gave a snort of disapproval, to which Bascombe responded, “I understand your personal feelings here, but there’s a constitutional amendment that gives those folks the perfect right to bear arms. I believe strongly in that amendment myself.”

“Surely a fifty-caliber machine gun in the hands of a civilian wasn’t our founding fathers’ intent,” Rose shot back.

“Ma’am, with all due respect, there’s a lot of case law says otherwise.”

Cork broke in on an argument he knew was pointless at the moment. “Tom’s right. We can’t approach a judge with what we have, but I’d sure like another opportunity to talk with the faithful of the Seven Trumpets. See what I might be able to shake loose.”

“How about in daylight this time,” Kretsch suggested. “First thing in the morning?”

“That’ll do,” Cork said. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m bushed.”

“You’ll be able to sleep?” Anne asked, nodding toward the coffee mug that Cork cradled.

“Sweetheart, a stampede of wild horses couldn’t keep me awake.”

“We ought to keep somebody on guard,” Bascombe suggested. “In case Smalldog comes sniffing around again. Maybe switch off at hour intervals. I’ll be happy to take first watch.”

“And I’ll take second,” Mal said.

“I’ll relieve you,” Kretsch volunteered.

“Then I’ll stand the last watch,” Cork said, “which should take us to dawn.”

“I’ll give a hand in any way I can,” Rose offered. “But I won’t carry a firearm.”

“Same here,” Anne chimed in.

“How about you fix us a hearty breakfast in the morning,” Mal suggested. “And keep the bed warm for me.”

Anne said, with a note of disparagement, “Women’s work.”

Rose put her hand on her niece’s arm and smiled. “We asked.”

Despite what he’d told Anne, Cork couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t the caffeine. He just couldn’t get his brain to shut down. He went over the events of the last couple of days in his head again and again, and no matter how he juggled things, nothing made sense. He couldn’t wrap his thinking around a man like Smalldog, a man who may well have abused and then tortured and killed his own sister. A man who hated white people yet smuggled arms to a group of white religious zealots. A man who’d been raised by a father whom the Ojibwe of Windigo Island admired but had, nonetheless, turned into hate on two legs. What caused a man’s soul to be so misshapen? He wished Henry Meloux were there so he could ask his old friend that very question. If anyone could understand Noah Smalldog, it would be Meloux. And if anyone could tell Cork what he ought to be doing about Smalldog, that was also Meloux. But Henry was in his cabin on Crow Point, which was a good thing, because Jenny and Stephen and the baby were there with him, and as long as that was the case, Cork knew they were safe.

He finally got up from his bunk and pulled on his clothes and walked outside. It was Mal’s turn on watch, and Cork spotted his brother-in-law sitting on the bench at the end of Bascombe’s dock. Mal wasn’t alone. Rose was with him, her head laid against his shoulder. In the quiet that had come that night with the end of the wind, he could hear them talking, though so softly that he couldn’t make out words. It was a scene of intimacy, of two people whose separate lives were braided together into a single strand. Cork was happy for them. And at the same time, the sight of them made him feel empty and alone. He stood in the shadow of the cabin cast by the moon and let himself, as he sometimes did, remember his wife fully. He could see her face, which had been beautiful, her eyes, which had been deep blue and sharp with intelligence, her hair the color of corn silk. He could hear her voice murmuring his name in the way she’d sometimes done after they made love, which had been like the whisper of a secret. And he felt her body shaped perfectly to his, as it had often been when he held her in the cool quiet after the heat of their passion.

The truth, he knew in his rational thinking, was that his marriage had not always been so perfect, but at that moment it didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was happy for Mal and Rose, and that he hoped, if Jenny and Aaron chose to work things out, they would find a way to braid their two lives together with love, and that, although he was himself alone now and lonely, he hadn’t always been.

He turned and went back into his cabin and lay down thinking that if he, a man who’d known great love, felt lonely, what must a man like Noah Smalldog feel? Was there any limit to how alone a human being could be?