William Krueger - Red knife

“I got a job this summer,” Cara said. They were walking past the shops on Oak Street, most of which were closed on Sunday except in the summer-tourist season.

“Yeah? I thought you were going to work with me at Sam’s Place. I already told my dad you would.”

“My uncle has this friend who runs some kind of outfitter thing in Montana, near Glacier. He’s giving me a job.”

“Doing what?”

“I don’t know exactly. But it’s Glacier. I was there a couple of years ago. It’s awesome.”

“So when do you take off?”

“The day after graduation. Unless we make it all the way to the state championship. I’ll stay for that.”

Annie had the sudden, sinking feeling that they were already drifting apart. “It’s all going to change, isn’t it,” she said.

“Don’t go all sloppy on me.”

Annie stopped and stared down Oak Street where the concrete was shaded by all that was familiar: Pflugelmann’s drugstore, the tall clock tower of the county courthouse, the old Rialto theater, Johnny’s Pinewood Broiler, and the dozens of other shops and alleyways and street corners that were already beginning to feel lost to her.

“Sometimes I think all I want is for nothing in my life to change, ever,” she confessed.

Cara turned and gazed down the street in the direction from which they’d just come. “I guess I know what you mean. But we’ll be back. You know, Thanksgiving, Christmas. And, hey, we can party without the whole town knowing every detail.”

Annie laughed. “I’ve seen you when you drink. Girl, you’re so loud the whole frigging state can hear you get crazy.”

From up ahead came music in a familiar style. Annie recognized the pluck and strum of Uly Kingbird on his guitar. She spotted him sitting alone at the top of the county courthouse steps. His eyes were closed and he seemed lost in his music.

“Come on,” Annie said, and started toward Uly.

Cara held back. “Oh, God. You heard what happened to his brother?”

“Of course.”

“Look, I don’t know him. He’s always creeped me out. What am I supposed to say?”

“It’ll be all right. Come on.” She crossed the street. “Hey, Uly,” she called from the bottom of the courthouse steps.

He opened his eyes and stared down at her. His fingers kept working the strings. It sounded familiar, but Annie didn’t recognize the tune. It sounded like it might have been Bob Dylan, whose music Uly loved, partly because of the connection with the Iron Range. Maybe a Dylan tune Uly had rearranged.

“I heard about your brother,” Annie said. “I’m sorry.”

Beside her, Cara said, “Really sorry.”

Uly sang, “And now you’re gone forever and now you’re gone for good.”

“Are you okay?” Annie asked.

Uly sang, “You’ve taken that long lonely walk into that dark wood.”

“Look, if you need to talk or anything-”

Uly strummed a sudden, harsh cord, cutting her off.

“Jeez,” Cara said. “She’s just trying to be nice.”

“I’ll follow you there someday,” Uly sang. “The choice it isn’t mine. I can see the end a’coming like a freight train down the line.”

Cara grabbed Annie’s arm. “You’re not going to stick around for this, are you? Let’s get out of here.”

Annie shook off her hand. “I’ll go when I’m ready.”

“Fine. I’ll walk home alone.”

“Fine.”

Cara spun away and crossed the street in long, angry strides.

Annie turned back to Uly, whose fingers never left the strings of his guitar.

“Is that Dylan?” she asked.

“Does it matter?”

Annie climbed the steps and sat beside him. “You okay?”

He stopped playing and put a finger below his right eye. “See any tears?” He struck a stage smile. “Military family. We don’t cry.” He strummed a couple of chords, then shook his head. “Alex was a lot older than me. We weren’t what you’d call close.” He looked away from her. “You’re welcome to stay, but I don’t really feel like talking now.”

She sat with him and he bent to the music as if nothing existed but the song.

Cork watched a flock of Canada geese wing their way north above Iron Lake. They flew in a shifting V, dark and purposeful against the butter yellow sky where the sun was setting. Along the lakeshore, the poplar and birch were already leafed out. It had been a mild winter; actually, it had not been much of a winter at all. There’d been hardly any snow, the lakes had frozen late, and the ice had gone out early. The resorts, usually buzzing with the activity of snowmobilers and ice fishermen, were empty. April, which folks in the North Country called “mud season,” had been dry as well. There was common agreement that the seasons weren’t what they used to be. Global warming, everyone said, and shook their heads helplessly.

Cork should have spent the day getting Sam’s Place ready for the summer. Sam’s Place was an old Quonset hut on the shore of Iron Lake just outside the official limits of Aurora. Long ago, an Ojibwe named Sam Winter Moon had converted it to a burger and shake joint that had become popular with both locals and summer visitors. When Winter Moon died, he’d passed the place to Cork, who’d been like a son. Normally, Cork opened in May, on the day of the fishing opener, and didn’t close until mid-November. In that time, he grilled thousands of burgers and hot dogs and served up a sea of shakes and soft drinks. His children worked with him, and that was the aspect of the operation he loved most. This year Annie would be there from the beginning-working on weekends and around her school softball schedule-with some of her friends hired to help. Come June, Jenny would be home from college for the summer and she’d work, too. Stevie often helped out as well, though much of his time was spent hanging out on the old dock with Trixie, fishing for bluegills and sunnies.

At the moment, Cork’s mind wasn’t on Sam’s Place. It was working in the old mode, the cop mode, asking questions and probing dark corners for answers.

He passed the Buzz Saw and didn’t see Buck Reinhardt’s truck in the parking lot. He didn’t see it at Tanner’s or at the casino. When he came to the turnoff to Skinner Lake, he took it and headed toward Reinhardt’s home.

Elise answered the door. She looked different from the night before. Not happy exactly, but less aggressively angry. She was wearing makeup again. From behind her came the sound of music. Soft jazz. She had a drink in her hand. From the smell and the lime wedge among the ice cubes, Cork guessed it was a gin and tonic.

“Still looking for Buck?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Not much point in it now, is there? Kingbird’s dead. Doesn’t matter anyway. Buck’s not here. Check the bars.”

“I passed the Buzz Saw. Didn’t see him there, either.”

“He told me they kicked him out last night. Buck’s a grudge holder. It’ll be a while before he gives them his business again.”

“What time did he get home last night?”

She stiffened up and her face seemed to prepare itself for anger. “The sheriff’s people asked the same question. Look, Buck got home maybe fifteen minutes after you left. He came straight home from the Buzz Saw. After that he was here with me all night. So if you’re thinking he killed the Kingbirds, think again.” She took a drink from the glass in her hand.

Cork said, “You know that it wasn’t Alex Kingbird who sold the stuff that got Kristi high.”

“He wasn’t just an innocent bystander, either.”

“Rayette was.”

“She chose her man.”

“As did you.” They stared at each other. Cork said, “Suppose the Red Boyz go hunting for a little justice of their own now, Elise. You want to be right there beside your husband when the bullets start flying?”