William Krueger - Red knife

“Killing somebody is never the right thing to do,” Cork said.

“You killed people,” Stevie said. It wasn’t an accusation.

“And I pray all the time to be forgiven.”

“Did you think it was wrong?”

He hesitated, then answered truthfully. “I don’t remember thinking about right and wrong when it happened. But I suppose somewhere in my head I must have believed it was the right thing to do.”

“But you just said-”

“I know. Stevie, I hope you never find yourself in a situation where you have to decide whether to kill someone. I hope that with all my heart. Whatever people thought of the Kingbirds and whatever the Kingbirds may have done, killing them wasn’t the answer. It was calculated, cold-blooded murder. It was wrong, absolutely wrong, and that’s all there is to it.”

The troubled look didn’t leave Stevie’s face. Cork had watched his son play at killing, using a stick or a golf club or an old curtain rod as a rifle. He’d never stepped in to stop it. When Cork was a boy-raised on John Wayne westerns-he’d played the same games. He believed that the real killing for which he was responsible as a man didn’t come from the games of his childhood, and taking a stick away from Stevie or any other boy who fought make-believe battles wouldn’t solve a thing.

“Do you understand?” he finally asked his son.

Stevie said, “If somebody killed you, I’d kill them back.”

“Then I guess I’d better do everything I can to make sure I stay alive, huh?”

He ruffled his son’s hair. Stevie didn’t smile.

“Promise?” Stevie said.

“I promise. Going to read for a while?”

“I guess so.”

Cork handed him the book on the nightstand, The Indian in the Cupboard. “See you in the morning.” He kissed Stevie’s forehead and went to his own bedroom.

Jo was almost asleep, nodding over one of her legal files that she’d brought to bed to study. Cork stood in the doorway, thinking Jo had twice asked him to promise that he wouldn’t put himself at risk in whatever trouble seemed to be coming to Tamarack County. He hadn’t been able to do that for her. Yet he hadn’t hesitated in making that same promise to his son. What was the difference, he wondered, and if he told her, would Jo understand?

Hell, why should she? He wasn’t certain he did.

Worse, he wasn’t certain it was a promise he could keep.

Monday morning, Sheriff Marsha Dross was in the common area making coffee when Cy Borkman buzzed Cork through the department’s security door.

“Go on ahead to my office,” she called to him with an empty pot in her hand.

Cork walked into the office that twice before had been his. The first time around, he’d served nearly two terms. The second time, several years later, he’d occupied it for a brief but tumultuous three months. He liked what Dross had done to the place. She’d had the walls painted a soft sand color that reminded him of the desert and provided a pleasant backdrop for all the leafy green of her plants. She’d hung a couple of photographs on the wall. The one behind her desk showed her standing beside her father on a boat dock, both of them grinning wide. Her father had been a cop himself, down in Rochester. In the other photograph, Dross stood with her arm around Ann Bancroft, a Minnesota native and one of the world’s great polar explorers. The photo was signed and was inscribed: “To another sister who braved the ice.”

He stood at the window. The morning was overcast, promising much needed rain. Across the street was a park, a nice square of grass with a playground dead center. The playground was empty, but a small cluster of teenagers was making its way among the swings and slides, carrying book bags and packs, bumping and shoving each other in a playful way as they headed toward the high school on the far side of town.

“Coffee’ll be ready in a minute,” Dross said as she swept in. “Have a seat.” She sat behind her desk, while Cork grabbed one of the two no-nonsense tan plastic chairs available for visitors. “What have you got on Lonnie Thunder?” she asked.

“Nothing at the moment,” Cork said. “But I’m going to see Henry Meloux this morning. Seems Kingbird had been talking to him, so maybe Henry knows something. I figure it’s worth a try.” He hesitated before going on. “But I’m thinking, Marsha, that after I talk to Meloux, I’m finished helping with this investigation.”

She sat back slowly, her face a blank of waiting.

He could have told her about his promise to Stevie and the promise he should have made to Jo. Instead all he offered was, “I’m sorry.”

“You’re under no obligation.”

“Where are you with Reinhardt?”

She shrugged. “He swears he was home at the time of the murders. His wife says the same thing.”

“What do you think?”

“At the moment, I don’t have anything that contradicts them.”

“Try this on for size.”

He explained about not seeing Reinhardt on the road to Skinner Lake the night of the murders. She didn’t seem impressed.

“It’s possible you just missed him,” she said. “It was dark.”

“That roof rack of lights is hard to miss.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” she said dully.

She’d pulled back on him, probably disappointed that the help he’d promised wouldn’t be coming. Maybe even more than a little disappointed.

“One more thing,” he said before getting up to leave. “Just something else to consider. I’d been thinking that if Elise lied, it was done to protect Buck. But it’s also possible that it’s Buck who’s lying to protect Elise. She’s no stranger to firearms, and she has access to that arsenal Buck keeps. Lord knows she had just as much motivation as he did. She could have gone out to Kingbird’s place as soon as I left.”

“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind, too.”

Deputy Borkman poked his head in the office. “Coffee’s ready, Sheriff.”

Cork stood up. “I’ll pass on the coffee, Marsha.”

Dross stayed seated and watched without comment as he left the room.

He drove down Oak Street heading north, out of town. As he passed the Pinewood Broiler, he glanced at the parking lot and saw Buck Reinhardt’s truck alongside a couple of company trucks. He should have let it go, just kept on driving. Not only had he promised to step back from the aftermath of the Kingbird killings, what he was contemplating at the moment-pressing Buck Reinhardt for answers-was none of his business at all.

On the other hand, he still hadn’t had his morning coffee.

“Hey, Cork.” Johnny Papp, who owned the Broiler, greeted him from behind the counter with one of his cordial Greek smiles.

“How’s it going, Johnny?”

“I’d complain, but it never does any good. Coffee?”

“Thanks.”

“Menu?”

“Just the coffee.”

Johnny turned away and headed into the kitchen.

It looked as if there were two or three of Reinhardt’s crews having breakfast that morning, two full tables of men with T-shirts bearing the Reinhardt logo. Cal Richards, father of Allan Richards, the kid Annie had said was giving Uly Kingbird such a hard time, was among them. He was a man difficult to miss. His arms were covered with enough tattoos so that, at a distance, he appeared to have the skin of an alligator. He’d been employed for a good many years by the county to do its tree trimming, but he’d been fired for cussing out his supervisor one too many times. Buck had hired him the next day.

Dave Reinhardt sat beside his father. Dave was in uniform, the Yellow Lake Police Department patch on his right shoulder. He was talking low and hard to his father, but Buck wasn’t paying any attention. Buck’s eyes were full of Cork.