Red knife

THIRTY-NINE

Cork ran early Saturday morning and he ran alone. When he began, the streets were empty and the houses dark. Iron Lake, when he reached the shoreline, was a cauldron full of black water and gray mist. He ran north until the rising sun threw a warm glow into the sky and turned the tops of the pine trees orange, then he turned and ran back. By the time he returned to Sam’s Place and began the final leg, the sun was up fully and the lake was dotted with boats.

Fishing opener in Minnesota.

At home, Cork found that Stevie was the only one awake. The little guy had poured himself a bowl of Cheerios and milk, set up a television tray, and was watching a cable wildlife program while he ate. He barely noticed his father coming in. Cork showered, groomed, and quietly dressed. He wrote a note to Jo, which he slipped under an empty coffee cup that he put on the kitchen table, and he left.

He drove to Allouette, on the reservation. In the back room of LeDuc’s store, he met with George and the others who, with goofy grins, continued to refer to themselves as the Red Menz. Tom Blessing was there. They drank coffee that Sarah LeDuc brought from the Mocha Moose next door.

At seventy, LeDuc was the oldest, though his vigor rivaled that of any man present. He took one of the two folding chairs, as did Lester Neadeau, also an elder. Cork and the other men sat on overturned crates or stood leaning against a wall.

“What did you say to them?” LeDuc asked.

Blessing, who’d been instructed to sit on several bags of Purina Puppy Chow that LeDuc had stacked in the center of the room, said, “I told them I wanted new terms. I told them that with all the trouble here, it was more dangerous to move the stuff than before. Anything less than sixty percent of the gross wouldn’t cut it.”

“Sixty percent? They must’ve thought you were crazy,” Cork said.

“I told them I was open to negotiation. That’s when they said Ortega would come to discuss the matter.”

“When?”

“He’ll fly out of Chicago tomorrow, arrive around noon. I said I’d meet him at the dock on Black Duck Lake.”

Cork said, “They’ll be planning to say hello to you the same way they did to Alexander and Rayette Kingbird.”

“I’m not afraid,” Blessing replied.

LeDuc folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. “We need to be ready for them.”

They spent another hour planning the reception for the Latin Lords, and when they were all agreed and each understood his part, they broke up and went their separate ways.

Cork returned to Aurora and drove to the sheriff’s department. Cy Borkman, who was on the contact desk that morning, buzzed him through the security door. On the other side, he nearly bumped into BCA agent Simon Rutledge, who had a cup full of coffee in his hand.

“Morning, Cork,” Rutledge said.

“You sound chipper, Simon.”

“And why not? Beautiful day.”

“You a fisherman?”

“Yeah, but I never go out on opener. Like battling the crowds at a department store on the day after Thanksgiving. Peace and quiet is a big reason I’m on the lake. Care for some coffee?”

“I can get it myself.” Cork pulled a cup from a stack of Styrofoam disposables near the coffeepot.

“We’re all in the sheriff’s office,” Rutledge said.

“I’m right behind you.”

Marsha Dross was seated at her desk. Ed Larson stood behind her, looking over her shoulder at some papers she held. They both glanced up when Cork walked in and he had the sense that his presence had caused them to cut off their conversation.

“Sorry I’m late,” Cork said. “A little business to take care of first.”

“Anything to do with finding Thunder?” Larson asked.

“Personal,” Cork said.

He took one of the empty chairs and Rutledge took the other. Larson remained standing at the sheriff’s shoulder. A beam of sunlight the color of a pine plank slanted through the east window, looking solid enough to walk on.

Dross folded her hands and said, rather formally, “Have you made any progress in finding Thunder?”

“Finding him? No. I do know he’s still on the rez.”

“I suppose that’s something.” She exchanged an enigmatic look with Larson before continuing. “And you’re still convinced he’s responsible for the Kingbird killings?”

“I may have to revise my thinking on that.”

Larson said, “DEA believes strongly it was a drug-related hit. I agree.”

Cork shrugged. “Who am I to argue with DEA?”

“So basically you have nothing new?” Dross said.

“Basically,” Cork said. “How about the Reinhardt shooting? Anything new there?”

“You mean aside from Will Kingbird’s confession?” Larson said.

“You believe his confession, Ed?”

“Why shouldn’t I? We didn’t exactly beat it out of him.” Larson gave him a piercing look. “Unless you know something we don’t.”

They all sat eyeing one another while dust slid down the plank of sunlight.

“I don’t know what that would be,” Cork said.

Dross glanced at her watch. “Then I guess there’s not much more to talk about this morning.” She folded her hands on the desk and stared at Cork until he stood. “Keep us informed, okay?”

“Sure, Marsha.” He nodded to Larson. “Ed.”

Rutledge stood up, too. “I’ll walk Cork to his car.”

Across the street from the sheriff’s department, the park was full of children, giddy on that warm Saturday morning, bathed in the promise of spring. Rutledge stood by Cork’s Bronco eyeing the park and smiling broadly.

“Chase has a track meet this afternoon,” he said, speaking of his teenage son. “I’d love to be there.”

“But you won’t?”

“Duty calls.”

“What’s going on, Simon? Back there in Marsha’s office, I had the feeling we were all playing ring around the rosy. What do you guys know that I don’t?”

“There’s a rumor floating around that you’ve been retained by the Iron Lake Ojibwe, Cork.”

“I’m not going to say that’s true, but supposing it is?”

“How does it go in the Bible, the line about no man serving two masters?”

“Gospel of Matthew, and I don’t think it applies. We’ve all got parallel interests here, it seems to me, Simon. Everyone’s concerned with the same truths.”

“Same truths, maybe. Not necessarily the same outcomes.”

“All the Ojibwe want is justice.”

“And what exactly is that, Cork? Seems to me a little like the story of the blind men and the elephant. Everyone has a different interpretation.” Rutledge had been grinning affably, but now he stopped. “Remember one thing. We’re the cops. We can hold stuff back. You hold something back from us, it’s different.”

“I know the rules, Simon.”

“I’m sure you do.” He shook Cork’s hand cordially in parting and took a last wistful look at the park.