Red knife

NINETEEN

They sat in Cork’s office in the back part of Sam’s Place. Marsha Dross and Ed Larson were drinking strong coffee. Cork always made his coffee strong. For Stevie, he’d whipped up some hot chocolate. He’d also put ice in a Baggie, which Stevie applied to the bridge of his nose between sips from his cup.

A small notebook sat open in front of Ed Larson and he’d already filled a couple of pages with notes. He had questioned Cork and now he was questioning Stevie, whose responses were a little nasally due to the swelling. The questioning had an interesting effect on Cork’s son. It seemed to help him forget about his injury, and his answers were clear and considered.

No, he didn’t see anything or anyone.

But he did hear something. When his dad was checking the outside of Sam’s Place with the flashlight, he heard the bump of a canoe against rocks somewhere down the shoreline.

“In the vicinity of the old ironworks?” Larson asked.

Stevie squinted a little. Thinking, not pain.

He wasn’t sure, but most of the shoreline between Sam’s Place and the ironworks was sand or soft dirt. The only rocks were where the dock for the ironworks used to be.

“I don’t suppose you have an idea about the canoe?”

Aluminum. Kevlar or wood wouldn’t make that kind of sound.

“Why do you think it was a canoe? Why not a rowboat or even a powerboat?”

If it was a powerboat, he would have heard the motor. And if you needed to get away fast, especially if you were alone, a canoe would be better than a rowboat, wouldn’t it?

Larson looked to Cork, who simply shrugged. He’d heard nothing.

Dross used a walkie-talkie to contact her people who were going over the area around the ironworks, and she directed them to take a look at the shoreline.

“Any point in getting our own boat out there?” Larson put the question to the sheriff.

“In the dark?” She shook her head. “By now the shooter’s off the lake anyway.”

“That was good work, Stephen,” Larson said.

Stevie flushed just a little at the praise and went back to sipping his chocolate and nursing his injury.

They were just finishing up when Jo swept into Sam’s Place, wearing her long black car coat and still dressed in the navy suit, cream-colored blouse, and heels she’d worn that day in court. Like a dark wind she blew past the others and knelt beside her son. She took Stevie’s face in her hands and studied the damage with her sharp, ice blue eyes. Her hair was a little wild-the long day maybe, or maybe she’d run a hand through it worrying about her son and her husband-and errant strands flew out, glowing white in the light, like hot filaments. She made a sound, a rumble in her throat that Cork knew was an unhappy assessment of her son’s condition.

“Put the ice back on, sweetie. We need to get that looked at.” She stood up and faced Cork. “What happened?”

“I got a call that Sam’s Place was on fire. When we came out, somebody started shooting at us,” he said.

“Who?”

“The question of the day. Marsha’s people are going over the ironworks for anything that might tell us.”

Jo glanced back at the open cupboard where one of the rounds had lodged. The bullet had already been cut out, but the shelf and the counter beneath the cupboard were strewn with shards from the plates that had been shattered.

“The Kingbird business,” she said.

“We don’t know for sure.”

“Oh?” She gave him a long, cold look. “And what else might it be?”

He had no other possibility to offer. From the silence, he guessed no one else did either.

She leaned down to her son and spoke differently, almost playfully. “And how’d your nose end up looking like something that belongs on a clown, kiddo?”

“I hit it on the bumper of Dad’s Bronco. It was my own fault.”

“ Your fault? I don’t think so. Come on, buster, let’s have somebody look at you.” She glanced at the others. “I’m taking him to the ER, all right?”

“I need to stay here for a while,” Cork said.

“I’m sure you do,” she said.

Stevie got up from his chair. Cork got up, too, and wrapped an arm around his son’s shoulders. “You did good tonight.”

Stevie grinned shyly, then said, “Whoever he was, he sure was a lousy shot.”

Cork laughed and Dross and Larson joined him.

Jo didn’t even crack a smile. “Let’s go,” she said, and ushered Stevie ahead of her.

For a few moments after they left, there was a chilly silence in Sam’s Place.

“More coffee?” Cork said.

Dross waved off the offer and Larson shook his head. “I’ll be up all night as it is.” He studied his notes. “If the shooter was using a nightscope and he was actually trying to hit you, he was, as Stevie so aptly put it, a lousy shot.”

“A warning maybe?” Dross said.

Cork went to the coffeepot and filled his cup. “There’s usually something that goes along with a warning, something that explains to the idiot that he should butt out. A note, a phone call. There’s nothing like that here.”

“Yet,” Larson said.

Cork looked at his watch. It had been nearly two hours since the shots had been fired.

Dross stood up and arched her back as if working out some stiffness. She walked to the door, opened it, and stood looking toward the ironworks. Cork joined her and watched the flashlight beams poking around in the stand of poplars that surrounded the ruins. One of the beams separated and came up a path worn along the lakeshore, a path a lot of joggers, including Cork, used regularly.

Deputy Cy Borkman stepped into the rectangle of light that fell on the ground from the opened door. He was a heavy man, a longtime deputy. He held up an evidence bag that contained a couple of shell casings.

“All we could find,” he said. “Might uncover more in the morning when we can see better, Sheriff.”

“All right,” Dross said. “Why don’t you call the guys in. We’ll give it a shot again tomorrow.”

Borkman handed the evidence bag to Ed Larson, who’d joined them. Larson lifted it to the light and Cork studied it with him.

“Thirty-five-caliber Remingtons,” Cork said. “Good caliber for deer hunting.”

“Two casings,” Larson said. “He probably left the last expended cartridge in the chamber when he ran. Would make sense. I’ll have Rutledge send these down to the BCA lab. If we ever get hold of Lonnie Thunder, maybe we’ll find a rifle that matches the chamber marks or the marks from the firing pin.”

The phone in Sam’s Place rang. Cork went over and checked the caller ID. Thunder, L. He picked it up.

“Stop looking for me. Next time I don’t miss.”

“Lonnie,” Cork began, but the line went dead before he could say any more. He put the phone down. “Thunder,” he told the others. “Must’ve used his cell.”

“What did he say?” Larson asked.

“Just what you’d expect. He was warning the idiot.”

Dross said, “I’ll do everything I can to bring him in, Cork.”

“No,” Cork said. “I’ll bring him in.”

She looked at him, surprise evident on her face. Then she nodded, getting it.

“Anything you need, let me know. Come on, Ed. We’ve got paperwork to do.”

They left and Cork stood in Sam’s Place, which was empty now but for him and a determination, cold and deliberate, to make Thunder pay.

It was a busy night in the ER of Aurora Community Hospital. A late bout of flu had hit a lot of folks hard, and both the very young and the very old showed up at the hospital dehydrated. Cork knew the admitting clerk, Sally Owens, who let him pass. Inside, he learned that Jo had just gone with Stevie for some X-rays. He went back to the waiting area and used the public phone to call home. Annie answered.

“Hi, Dad.” She sounded happy. “Where is everybody?”

“Your mom didn’t call?”

“No. Why?”

“There was some excitement at Sam’s Place this evening. Stevie bumped his nose. Maybe broke it. We’re at the hospital right now getting it checked out.”

“Is he all right?”

“He’s fine.”

“What happened?”

“I’ll fill you in when we get home. Just didn’t want you worrying.”

“Should I come?”

“No. We’ve got it under control. We’ll see you in a while.”

He went back to the ER and waited by the bed in the curtained-off area where Stevie and Jo had been before the X-rays. He sat for half an hour, listening to the beeps of monitors, the banter of staff, the low whispers of the ill and those who were with them. Finally Jo and Stevie returned. The bruising had spread from his nose to the area around both eyes. His son was starting to resemble a raccoon.

“How’s it going, guy?” Cork asked.

“Okay.” Stevie sat on the bed and lay back. He looked tired.

“Hurt much?”

“Not much.”

Jo said, “They gave him Tylenol.”

“What did the X-rays show?” Cork asked.

Jo sat down in the chair Cork had vacated. “They’re looking at them now.”

“I called Annie,” Cork said.

“Thanks.”

There was something immeasurably exhausting about sitting in a hospital emergency room, waiting. On more occasions than he cared to remember, Cork had felt that suck of energy. He watched Stevie’s eyes flutter closed.

Jo said quietly, “When I think about what could have happened out there…” She didn’t finish.

“It was a warning, Jo. Thunder called after you left.”

“What did he say?”

“About what you’d expect. Lay off or next time he won’t miss.”

“Won’t miss you? Won’t miss Stevie? Won’t miss whoever happens to be with you?”

“Jo, I told Marsha this morning that I was through helping with the Kingbird business.”

“Apparently Lonnie Thunder didn’t get that message. What did you tell him?”

“I didn’t have time to say anything. He hung up.”

“What would you have told him?”

The doctor came before Cork could answer. He was a new one, a tall kid with wire-rims and stubble who looked like he’d been on his shift too long. His name was Stiles.

“As I suspected, the nose is broken. Setting it will probably require that we rebreak it. I’m going to have you see Dr. Barron tomorrow. He’ll be better able to tell you the specifics. He handles this sort of thing all the time. In the meantime, keep Stephen on Tylenol for the pain and use ice for the swelling.”

Stevie was awake and listening.

“Do I have to go to school tomorrow?”

“Up to your folks, but I’d say it’s probably best to take a day off, see how things go.”

“All right!” Stevie gleamed.

Jo said, “I thought you liked school.”

“Yeah, but I like a day off better.”

At home, Annie greeted them at the back door. Cara Haines was with her. Both girls made a big fuss over Stevie, which he pretended not to like. After Stevie went upstairs with Jo to put on his pajamas, Cork told them the full story.

“We were at the Broiler and heard the police sirens, but we didn’t know they were going out to Sam’s Place,” Cara said.

“Do you think it was Lonnie Thunder?” Annie asked.

“Seems a reasonable possibility,” Cork said.

“Ike Thunder was at the Broiler, Dad.” Annie was talking about Lonnie Thunder’s father. “He came in after we heard the sirens.”

“How did he seem?”

“Stumbling a little, like he was drunk. He was still sitting at the counter talking to himself when we left.”

Cara looked at her watch. “I’ve got to go, Annie.”

Annie walked her to the front door, and Cork headed upstairs. Stevie was already in bed. Jo sat beside him and they were talking quietly.

“You look like the Lone Ranger,” Cork said. Then he said, “Stevie, I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

“I got you right in the middle of things tonight.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Dad. And I wasn’t scared for me. I was scared for you.”

Almost half a decade earlier, Stevie had seen his father shot, a serious wound that had nearly killed Cork. It had taken a while-visits with a therapist, and finally the wisdom, guidance, and healing of Henry Meloux-to make the boy whole again. To a ten-year-old, five years was half a lifetime, and Cork was relieved to see that Stevie had, indeed, grown beyond the old terrors.

“What are you going to do?” Stevie asked.

Jo looked interested in the answer to this one.

“I’m not sure.”

“I think it’s like with a bully,” Stevie said. “You don’t let a bully bully you or else he always will.”

“Where’d you learn that?” Jo didn’t sound happy with Stevie’s position.

“You told me, remember? Last year when Gordie Sumner was being such a pain in the butt.”

“This is different, Stevie,” she countered. “This bully has a rifle.”

Stevie shook his head. “With bullies there’s always something to be afraid of.”

Cork said, “What scared me most was that you might get hurt.”

“I’m not afraid.”

Cork understood that this was true at the moment and he was proud of his son. Jo stood up and kissed Stevie’s cheek. “You need rest. If you have any trouble in the night, you wake us up, okay?”

“Okay.”

Cork leaned down and kissed his son’s forehead. “I love you, guy.”

“I love you, Dad.”

“Light on?”

“Maybe for a little while,” Stevie said.

Jo went to the bathroom, where Cork heard water running in the sink and the sound of an electric toothbrush. He headed to the bedroom and took the small suitcase from the shelf in the closet. He’d half filled it when he heard Jo leave the bathroom. She stopped in the doorway and watched him pack.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to stay at Sam’s Place until this business is finished. I think it’s safest for everyone. If Thunder gets it in his head to pull off a few more rounds, I don’t want any of you anywhere near me.”

Her eyes went cold and her voice was all frost. “You’re going after him.”

“I’m not going to just let this thing lie.” He went to the closet and pulled out a hooded sweatshirt that was hanging on a hook.

“You won’t be happy until one of you is dead, is that it?”

“There’s no way I can make you understand, Jo. I’m not even going to try. This is just the way it’s going to be.”

“Goddamn you, Cork.” She said it quietly so that Stevie, in his bed down the hall, wouldn’t hear.

He snapped the suitcase closed.

“What do I tell him?” she said.

“Tell him I’m squaring off with a bully.”

“This bully has a rifle.”

“With bullies there’s always something to be afraid of.”

She went to him and put her hand on his arm, as if to restrain him. “You were all set to step away from this.”

“Thunder changed my mind.”

“And I can’t change it back.” She dropped her hand. “This is so fucking macho stupid.”

“Lock the doors,” he said, and moved past her.

He took his. 38 police special from the lockbox in the closet and pulled the gun belt with the basket-weave holster from the shelf. He went to the basement and from the locked cabinet took his Remington and cartridges for both firearms. Upstairs, Jo stood in the kitchen, near the back door.

“Cork, please don’t go. Please just let Marsha and Ed and their people handle this.”

“Their people don’t know the rez. Nobody on the rez will talk to their people. You know that.” He understood her fear, he really did. He wished she understood him. He tried one more time. “Jo, can’t you feel it? It’s like we’re standing on an ocean shore watching a tidal wave come at us. Something big and awful is taking shape and it’s going to hit this county and everyone in it. I can’t just stand by and let that happen.”

“You’re exaggerating, Cork.”

“Am I? Two people have been brutally murdered already. The Red Boyz aren’t going to let that slide. Buck Reinhardt wants Lonnie Thunder dead, and to make that happen he’s probably more than willing to go through all the Red Boyz and anyone else who stands in his way.”

“Including you.”

“It doesn’t have to come to that.”

“But it could,” she said.

“Not if I find Thunder.”

“This argument feels hopelessly circular. And I know I’m not going to convince you, so just go.”

“About Stevie tomorrow-”

“I’ll take care of Stevie. Just go.” She put a hand on his chest and gave him a light shove toward the door.

Now he felt pushed out, which didn’t sit well with him. But leaving was what he’d wanted, right? Even so, he hesitated, trying to think of something reasonable to say, something that would relax the tension between them. Jo just stood there and stared at him, resigned and unhappy, and finally he simply turned and left.

All the way to Sam’s Place, Cork felt a vague unsatisfactory anger. At himself, at Jo, at all the stupid people who’d done stupid things lately and all those who were poised on the brink of doing still more stupid things. He pulled into the parking lot and stopped in almost the exact spot where he’d been when the shots were fired. He sat gazing at the old Quonset hut, which was a dull gray in the dim light from the gibbous moon visible behind high, thin clouds, and he couldn’t help feeling that Jo was right. He’d abandoned his family. Again.

He had no idea if what he was doing was the right thing. It had felt right at first, but now he was uncertain. Maybe if Jo had sent him off with hugs and kisses and encouragement, that would have made the difference. Or maybe it was simply that her arguments were reasonable and he saw now that he was just too damn stubborn to listen.

Shit.

He climbed out of the Bronco, grabbed his suitcase and his firearms, and headed inside. Sam’s Place still smelled of the coffee he’d brewed earlier. He got sheets, a pillow, and a pillowcase from the corner cabinet where he kept such items for just such situations as this. He made up the mattress on the bunk. He stripped out of his clothes and took a pair of gray gym shorts and a clean T-shirt from the things he’d brought. He turned on the lamp that sat on the old nightstand, which he’d constructed from lacquered birch limbs. He turned out the overhead light. He turned back the covers, crawled into bed, and lay awake a long time, unable to close his eyes. All that coffee, he told himself. In his head, he reviewed the day, a loop tape that replayed a dozen times, never leading him anywhere certain, anywhere safe.

Finally he grabbed a book from the small selection he kept sandwiched between bookends on the nightstand. A collection of Robert Frost. He turned to one of his favorite poems and began reading:

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood…