Northwest Angle

FORTY-EIGHT

Overturf flew a legendary bush plane, a De Havilland Beaver. Rigged as a floatplane, it had a maximum airspeed of 155 miles per hour. The distance from Windigo Island to Iron Lake was almost two hundred air miles. Under normal circumstances, it would have been a beautiful flight over lovely wilderness scenery and would have seemed relatively brief. But to Cork, every mile felt like ten, and every minute like an eternity.

They’d done as Kretsch suggested, gone to Amos Powassin for help. He’d listened, then had called Overturf and said what he needed. He’d told them where on Windigo Island they would find Overturf’s place. They’d found it without any problem; the De Havilland on the water was a dead giveaway. They’d docked, and as they approached, a young collie who’d been drowsing in the porch shade of the little yellow house had scrambled to his feet and began a furious racket.

“Ojibwe burglar alarm,” Cork had said, and they’d waited in the yard until the front door opened and a man stepped out. He was big and wore a ball cap and wrinkled khakis held up by red suspenders. He had on a green T-shirt with a NASCAR logo across the front, faded but unmistakable. He’d stood very still, studying them. Finally he’d said something to the dog, who’d ceased barking and sat on his haunches. The man had lifted his arm and beckoned and hollered, “You the folks Amos called about?”

He had already gassed the De Havilland, and they’d flown out immediately. He’d taken them high over Oak Island. There were four boats still at the dock, Bascombe’s launch and three others, but of the men who’d stayed behind—Tom Kretsch and Noah Smalldog and Seth Bascombe—or of those who’d come from Stump Island, nothing could be seen. And if there was yet gunfire, it couldn’t be heard over the sound of the De Havilland’s engine.

“Look there,” Overturf had said.

He’d pointed toward half a dozen boats speeding across the lake from the direction of Windigo and Little Windigo. In the blue water, all had left wakes that fanned out behind them like the white tail feathers of eagles flying in formation.

“Amos Powassin spread the word,” he’d told them. “Bunch of our guys are heading over to Oak Island to give Smalldog and that deputy a hand.”

“If they’re still alive,” Anne had said.

“Listen,” Overturf had offered. “If I could choose any man to have at my side in a firefight, it’d be Noah Smalldog. And Tom Kretsch, he’s got heart. The Seven Trumpets people’ll have their hands full, believe me.”

Cork wasn’t himself much inclined toward hope, but he appreciated the man’s sentiment, and the effect his words seemed to have on Anne and the others.

Now they were nearing the south end of the big water. Overturf radioed the Lake of the Woods County Sheriff’s Department. He was told that, in response to a frantic 911 call from Young’s Bay Landing, units had been dispatched to the Angle. Cork got on the radio and explained the danger in Tamarack County. He asked that the sheriff’s office there be notified; it was imperative that armed officers be sent to Crow Point on the Iron Lake Ojibwe Reservation. The dispatcher gave him over to a deputy named Spicer, who listened as Cork once more told the bare-bones facts. Spicer, God bless him, gave a ten-four and promised to make the call to Aurora. He came back on the radio a few minutes later and confirmed for Cork that the Tamarack County’s Critical Incident Response Team was being mobilized. Then he said, “They tried the cell phone number you gave me for Rainy Bisonette. No answer. They’ll keep trying. And listen, O’Connor, you’ve got friends down there. Sheriff Dross personally asked me to let you know she’s got every available officer headed to Crow Point.”

Cork signed off and sat back in the seat next to Overturf.

The pilot leaned to him and said, “I’ll get you there as fast as I can. Believe me, even if all I’ve got to land on at the other end is a puddle of rainwater, by God, I can do that.”

“Thanks,” Cork said. “Guess there’s nothing more we can do except wait.” He tried to sound calm, but the helplessness of his situation nearly killed him.

Anne put a hand on his shoulder. “That’s not true, Dad.”

Rose, as if she’d read her niece’s mind, said, “We can pray.”

Cork wanted to be with them in the way they held to prayer and believed in its power. But he was remembering the death of his wife and how hard he’d prayed for her safety and the uselessness, finally, of invoking the divine. Better, he thought, to believe in the wisdom and cunning of Meloux and the desperate ingenuity of Jenny and Rainy and Stephen and even the clumsy love of Aaron.

Best, he thought, would have been to be there with them at that very moment, holding a rifle.