Vermilion Drift

THIRTY-EIGHT

Isaiah Broom lived in a cabin of his own design and making. It stood at the end of a short stretch of dirt track in a small clearing a couple of miles east of Allouette. Where the track split from the asphalt of the main road, Broom had pounded a post and hung a sign from it: Chainsaw Art.

As Cork drove into the clearing, he spotted Broom in front of the cabin, shirtless, a big Stihl chain saw in his hands, working on a section of maple log that stood six feet high. The noise of the saw drowned out the sound of Blessing’s truck, and Broom didn’t notice Cork’s approach until the vehicle pulled to a stop in a shroud of red dust.

Broom shut off the chain saw and watched Cork come. He didn’t put the Stihl down. In the heat of the summer afternoon, his powerful torso dripped with sweat.

“Isaiah.”

“What do you want, O’Connor?”

“How’s the head?” Cork asked.

“Huh?”

“Heard from Rainy that you were a little hungover the other day. I know how that feels. You okay now?”

“My head’s fine,” Broom said.

“Aren’t you going to ask about mine?”

“Why should I?”

“Somebody whacked me good yesterday. Right here.” Cork pointed toward the back of his head. “Still a little tender, but I’m okay. Thanks for your concern.”

Broom finally lowered the chain saw to the ground, where it sat amid chips and sawdust. “What’s your game, O’Connor?”

“Looks like it’s going to be twenty questions. What did you do with the things you raked up at your uncle’s cabin?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I was out at Indigo Broom’s yesterday morning. Just wanted to see the place for myself. Or what remained of it, which wasn’t much. I stumbled onto a couple of items that made me believe some of the things I’ve been thinking lately about your uncle are true. Then I get hit on the head, and when I come to these things are gone, along with anything else that might incriminate your uncle.”

“I wouldn’t go spreading rumors about my family if I was you, O’Connor.”

“See, right there, that’s the point.”

“What point?”

“I can’t think of anybody who’d care what I said about Indigo Broom except you. And I know you were no fan of the man. So the only thing that makes sense to me is that you’re trying to protect your family and your family’s name. You don’t want it associated with the kinds of things your uncle did. Considering the monster he was, if I was you, I wouldn’t want that either. Family’s important, Isaiah, and should be protected. I get that.”

Broom’s hands drew themselves into fists. “Get out of here, O’Connor.”

“So the first thing I want to say is that my head’s all right, and, all things considered, there’s no need for you to apologize.” Cork gave him a quick smile, then went on. “Now we come to the part that’s more troublesome. I just had a long talk with Jesse St. Onge. I know you put him up to the graffiti in the mine. I know you showed him the way in and you cut through the wall in the Vermilion Drift and led him to the place you wanted him to put his throw up.”

“His what?”

Cork laughed. “Yeah, sounds funny, doesn’t it? His art, Isaiah. Except that it wasn’t really his art. It was yours. Exactly the same design that was on the threatening notes a bunch of folks in Tamarack County got. You sent those notes.”

Broom’s fists relaxed, then balled again, and Cork wondered if the man was aware at all of his body language.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Broom said.

“Oh, I’m certain you do. And when Jesse tells his story to the sheriff’s people, they’ll be certain, too. The thing I don’t understand is why you killed Lauren Cavanaugh.”

“I killed Lauren Cavanaugh? What the hell are you talking about?” Now his hands went limp, as if they’d just let go of something.

“The second set of notes. The ones you sent to Haddad’s wife and put on the windshield of Genie Kufus’s car and stuck to Max Cavanaugh’s door with a hunting knife. See, whoever wrote that second set of notes knew Lauren Cavanaugh was dead. That was something known only to the authorities and to those of us on the inside. And, of course, the killer.”

“Second set of notes? Look, O’Connor, I don’t know anything about a second set of notes. Yeah, I went into the mine with Jesse and we put up the warning. And, yeah, I sent some threats to Haddad and Cavanaugh and that Kufus woman. Just to scare them. But I didn’t have anything to do with those other notes you’re talking about. And I sure as hell had nothing to do with killing Lauren Cavanaugh. Why would I kill her? I didn’t even know her. My only concern in all this is to keep nuclear waste away from our land, to protect Grandmother Earth.”

“Where did you get the font you used for the notes?”

“Off the Internet. You can get any damn thing off the Internet.”

“Mind showing me?”

Broom looked at Cork as if the request was crazy.

“The police will be asking you to do the same thing, Isaiah, after Jesse talks to them. If I get a jump on things, maybe I can help protect your family’s name.”

Broom eyed Cork, made a sound like he’d just forced something odious down his throat, and turned to his house. Cork followed him inside.

Broom was a man who’d never married, and his place showed no evidence of a woman’s influence. It was cluttered with papers and magazines. Broom subscribed to a lot of publications across a broad spectrum of interests. American Indian Culture and Research Journal. American Indian Quarterly. Anishnabeg Mom-Weh Newsletter. The New Yorker. The Wall Street Journal. Time. Mother Jones. National Geographic. And others sitting in stacks around the living room and dining area. The floor hadn’t been swept since the Ice Age, and from the mess he could see through the doorway to the kitchen, Cork was very glad Broom would never invite him to lunch.

Broom went to a desk in a corner of the living room where a computer tower and monitor and DSL modem had been set. On a cart next to the desk was an ink-jet printer. He plopped down in the desk chair and brought the machine out of hibernation. With a couple of clicks of his mouse, he was on the Internet. Cork watched over Broom’s shoulder as he hit the drop-down box in Google search, checked his search history, found a website with the URL http://www.eyepoppingfonts.com, and clicked on it. Once the website came up, Broom navigated quickly to the font called From Hell.

“There.” He shoved away from the desk.

“You did that pretty quickly,” Cork said.

“Any idiot could do it quickly,” Broom said, then gave Cork a cold look and added, “Even you.”

They went back outside and stood near the sculpture, which was barely begun and showed no sign yet of what it would become. Cork touched the rough-cut wood. “What’s it going to be, Isaiah? An eagle?”

“Animikii.” A thunderbird. “What happens now?”

“You’ll get a visit from the sheriff’s people, I imagine. But it would probably be best if you visited them. It would look better. And you’d also have high ground for any activist statements you might want to throw in. But take a lawyer with you.”

Broom bent and lifted his chain saw. His face was like the wood of the sculpture, hard to read.

“Isaiah, there’s no way I can keep your uncle’s name out of this. We both know what he did.”

Broom gave the chain saw cord a yank. The roar of the motor would eat anything more Cork might have had to say, so he simply turned and left.