William Krueger: Iron Lake

“You’d really do that?”

“Maybe. Maybe I’m lying. But think about it. What have I got to lose? A man who aspires to the White House ought to be able to be ruthless if the situation demands. So, what do you think? Will I really do it?”

Parrant’s eyes were quite clear and unblinking as a snake’s. “Let’s begin again,” he said. “Did you tell anyone else about the negatives?”

“No.”

“Did you talk to anyone else about your suspicions of me?”

“No.”

The sound of the gunshot made Cork jerk as if he’d been struck by the bullet. Jo tried to yank free, almost separating from Parrant as she screamed into the duct tape. From under the table, where it had lain cradled on his lap, Cork swung the Winchester. The safety was off, a cartridge chambered. For the briefest instant he had a shot at Parrant. Not a clear shot, however, for Parrant was struggling to pull Jo back. Cork hesitated. That was all Sandy Parrant needed.

“Drop it!” he shouted at Cork, jamming the revolver into the back of Jo’s head. “She’s not hit. But I’ll kill her, I swear to God.”

Cork saw that although Jo stood tottering, she was unharmed. He lowered the rifle to the floor.

“Brinkmanship, O’Connor,” Parrant explained with a galling note of triumph. “A game I’m rather good at. John Kennedy was a fucking amateur.” Parrant resettled his grasp on Jo, wrapped his arm around her, and once again aimed the gun at her foot. “Next time, I promise you, I won’t miss. Once more, did you tell anyone about the negatives?”

“Schanno.”

“When?”

“I saw him today. We discussed GameTech.”

“Schanno.” Parrant considered this and didn’t appear too upset. “I’ve got things on him. I can get to him.”

“I think you underestimate the man,” Cork said.

“No one else knows about the negatives?”

“No one.”

“Did you discuss your suspicions about me with anyone?”

“The priest.”

“Tom Griffin? In confession?”

“I haven’t made a confession in years.”

Parrant took a deep breath and thought that one over.

“He’s free to talk,” Cork reminded him. “Maybe he already has. You may end up having to kill all of Aurora, Sandy.”

“But he doesn’t know about the negatives?”

“Like I said, no one besides Schanno knows.”

Parrant glanced down as if preparing to fire at Jo’s foot. “I think you’re lying.”

“How can I prove I’m not?” Cork asked quickly. “Look, I’ve already put two men’s lives in danger. What will satisfy you?”

Parrant reached into the pocket of his coat and brought out a jackknife. He carefully extended the blade and moved it toward Jo’s back.

“Christ no, Sandy!” Cork half rose from his chair.

Parrant cut Jo’s wrists free. “Take the tape off,” he told her.

She obeyed and let the pieces from her wrists and mouth drop to the floor. “I’m sorry,” she told Cork.

“It’s okay.”

“Over there beside him,” Sandy said. He shoved her toward Cork, then bent and picked up the loose pieces of tape and put them in his pocket. He took out the roll of duct tape and tossed it to Cork. “Tape her wrists,” he ordered.

Jo looked confused, then understood. “Fingerprints. You want Cork’s fingerprints on the tape.”

“So it looks like I bound and killed you,” Cork finished.

“You’d have to be distraught,” Jo went on. “But distraught over what?”

Parrant reached inside his coat and brought out folded photographs. He tossed them onto the table. “Pick them up,” he instructed Cork.

Cork lifted the pictures. They were photos of Molly and him embracing by the sauna. They’d been taken at night with a night vision lens from somewhere out on the water. Harlan Lytton’s handiwork for sure.

“These are the ones he showed you?” Cork asked Jo.

“Yes.”

“And now they’re covered with your fingerprints, too,” Parrant said with satisfaction.

“My gun, my fingerprints on the tape and the pictures.” Cork nodded as if he admired the thoroughness. “We argue over my dead lover. I freak, kill Jo, and then what, Sandy? I commit suicide? Or do I just disappear like Joe John LeBeau?”

“Just tape her,” Parrant said.

“What do we do, Cork?” Jo asked.

“You do what I say,” Parrant threatened.

“Or what?” Cork asked. “You’re going to kill us anyway.”

The tea kettle on Molly’s stove suddenly jumped and skittered across the burner. Startled, Parrant swung the revolver that way and let off a round that buried itself in the wall. “What the hell?”

“Windigo,” Cork said. “You know what a Windigo is, don’t you, Sandy?”

“A fucking fairy tale.”

“It wasn’t a fairy tale made that pot jump around,” Cork said.

The wind rose outside. The windowpane over the sink rattled. From the dark of the night surrounding the cabin came a long low howl that was not the wind but was wrapped within it. And buried somewhere within the howling was the name of Sandy Parrant.

“The Windigo’s calling you, Sandy. Do you know what that means?”

Parrant eyed the window angrily. “It means there’s a joker out there who’s going to die with you.”

“Can’t kill the Windigo with that gun,” Cork told him. “The Windigo called the names of Russell Blackwater and Harlan Lytton, too. Blackwater knew it and carried a gun and it didn’t matter.”

“I don’t believe that crap.”

“Sam Winter Moon once told me there’s more in these woods than a man can ever see. More than he can ever hope to understand.”

“Shut up!”

Parrant pointed the revolver at Jo’s heart as if to fire, to finally end it all. But the light in the kitchen went out suddenly. Cork pushed Jo to the side and threw himself in the other direction. Parrant fired wildly. In the blindness after the loss of the light, Cork spread his arms wide and charged the place where Parrant had been standing. He caught the man in his arms and they tumbled down. Cork heard the scrape of the. 38 as it slid loose across the floorboards.

Parrant squirmed from Cork’s grasp and was back on his feet instantly, kicking hard at Cork’s ribs. Cork rolled away and brought himself up. Parrant was at him, throwing punches out of the dark, landing blow after blow to his torso. Cork stumbled back, retreating across the kitchen until he was pinned against the sink. Hunched and grunting, he tried vainly to protect himself as Parrant hammered at his sides and head.

A shattering of crockery and Parrant stopped abruptly. Moonlight streamed through the window over the sink. Parrant, in milky white, staggered back, holding his head. Cork tried to move, to attack, but the pain in his ribs paralyzed him.

Jo’s hand was on his arm and her voice urged him, “Cork, quick!” She pushed him through the kitchen door and into the cold night. Tugging, she pulled him toward the sanctuary of the woods.

They’d barely reached the first of the trees when the crack of Cork’s revolver came from the cabin. Jo ran hard, weaving among the trees and thickets, fighting her way desperately through the deep snow and drifts. She ran until she was nearly breathless, then she risked a glance back. Cork was nowhere to be seen. She stopped and turned, frantically searching among the trees for any sign of him. A black form separated itself from a nearby tree trunk and stepped toward her. Jo almost screamed. Then she recognized the old man Henry Meloux.

“Here,” Meloux whispered, and pointed toward a cedar with its branches bent low under the weight of snow.

“Cork-” Jo tried to explain.

The old man ignored her. “In there quick,” and he held aside a cedar bough showing a hollow in the snow, a little sanctuary. He urged her in, surprising her with his strength. “The man is almost here,” he whispered.