William Krueger - Trickster's Point

“It’s not funny, Dad.”

“I wasn’t trying to be funny, Stephen. I’ve always believed that things happen for a reason, and the reason is always part of some greater design. And so the question here is, What’s the big picture?”

“You sound like Henry Meloux.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. And the question still stands.”

Cork spotted a lone figure threading his way among the aspens on the crown of the ridge, and he quickly recognized John Berglund. Dross saw the officer, too, said something to Holter and Larson, and they all turned to watch him come.

Cork said to Stephen, “Let’s mosey over and see what he has to say.”

No one tried to stop them as they crossed the ridgetop, and they reached the sheriff and other officers just as Berglund arrived.

“Agent Berglund, I’m Agent Holter, BCA.” Holter extended his hand. “This is Captain Ed Larson. Sheriff Dross, of course, you know. She’s already filled us in.”

Berglund shook hands around and gave Cork a nod in acknowledgment. Then he asked Holter, “Any idea who he is?”

“Driver’s license says he’s William Graham Chester, from Red Wing,” Holter replied. “That’s all we know at the moment.”

“What did you find, John?” Dross asked.

“Two sets of tracks. They came from different directions, but their paths joined about a mile from here. One came from the lake, the other from an old logging road farther north. It’s barely a road anymore, so overgrown you’d have trouble identifying it as such, and I couldn’t find it on any of my maps. But a vehicle’s parked there. My guess is that you’ll find the keys to it somewhere on your dead man. When your people are ready, I’ll be happy to show them where it is.”

“Thank you,” Larson said.

“One came from the lake?” Cork said.

“Any sign of a canoe?”

“Gone, but I found where he’d beached it.”

“So two came in, but only one left,” Dross said.

They stood a moment, digesting the information.

Into that meditative silence Cork offered, “He looks like a hunter, but if he is, where’s his blaze orange? Stephen believes he wasn’t a hunter and that the guys were working together. The plan was to kill Jubal and make it look like I’d done it. But killing someone with a bow is pretty risky, so our guy on the ground over there was backup. If the arrow failed, Jubal Little would have been shot to death. And probably me along with him, to eliminate the witness.”

Holter chewed on that a bit, then asked, “Okay. If they were in on it together, why is one of them lying there dead?”

“They had a falling-out,” Stephen offered, but not boldly, clearly not prepared to defend his thesis.

Dross nodded, as if giving Stephen’s speculation due consideration. Then she said, “Maybe there’s another possibility, Stephen. What’s the best way for two people to keep a secret?”

The young man thought a moment, then the light dawned. “If one of them is dead.”

“Exactly,” Dross said. “Maybe our killer simply eliminated the only man who could finger him.”

“But who were they, and why would they want Mr. Little dead?”

“That’s for us to figure out,” Holter said, tersely drawing the discussion to a close. “Mr. O’Connor, I think your usefulness here, and that of your son, is at an end. You’re free to go. I’m sure we’ll have further questions, however, so please make yourself available.”

Ed Larson had been staring at Trickster’s Point, as if the great pillar held him hypnotized. Before either Cork or Stephen could move to leave, he asked, “Who chose this site for your hunting outing?” His voice was a little distant, as if he was daydreaming or maybe just very deep in thought.

Cork said, “Jubal did.”

“Did anyone else know you were coming here?”

As if it should have been dismally obvious, Holter said, “Anyone who reads a newspaper knew that Little planned to go hunting here with O’Connor.”

Larson shook his head. “I spent last night reading the major newspaper stories following the election. They all reported Jubal Little’s intention to come north to hunt with Cork, but nowhere in any of the stories was Trickster’s Point mentioned specifically.”

For a brief instant, Holter looked like a kid who’d blown his homework assignment, then he swung his unblinking blue eyes to Cork and said, as in accusation, “Well?”

“At the Broiler yesterday morning, a lot of folks drifted over to wish him luck and tell him they were going to vote for him,” Cork said. “Jubal mentioned to a few of them where we’d be hunting.”

“What about before that?” Larson said. “Because if the killing was planned, they probably had to know in advance where they would do it.”

“I told my kids,” Cork said. “Did you mention it to anyone, Stephen?”

“I told people you were going hunting with Mr. Little. I don’t remember if I said where.”

“I’ll ask Jenny when I get back to Aurora,” Cork promised.

“What about Jubal?” Larson asked. “Who did he tell?”

Cork shook his head. “No idea.”

Larson again eyed the great monolith and asked, as if genuinely mystified, “Why Trickster’s Point?”

“I don’t know,” Cork said, maybe too quickly.

“Do you always hunt here?” Holter asked.

“We never have before.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a risky choice,” Cork replied.

“Risky? Why?”

So Cork explained to the BCA agent about Trickster’s Point.

Long before white men came, the Ojibwe told stories about the strangenesses of the place. They believed it was full of prize bucks, because Nanaboozhoo protected them here. He caused hunters to become confused. Around Trickster’s Point, the Ojibwe couldn’t necessarily believe what their senses told them. They would get mixed up about directions and become hopelessly lost. Or worse. Ojibwe lore was rife with tales of hunters who swore they’d let an arrow fly at a huge buck only to discover that what they’d felled was one of their own, another hunter.

“The best trophy deer I’ve ever seen have come from around Lake Nanaboozhoo,” Cork said. “But within my own lifetime, it’s also been the site of several fatal hunting accidents. Without exception, the hunters involved-those who came forward and admitted their guilt-maintained that they were absolutely certain what they were shooting at was an enormous buck.”

“Those who came forward?” Holter said.

Cork held out a hand toward Larson, who explained, “On two occasions within the last decade, a worried wife has reported that a husband had gone hunting around Trickster’s Point and hadn’t returned. Both times, we instituted a search operation, and both times we found the missing man lying somewhere in the woods out here. In both cases, the men were dead from gunshot wounds. No one admitted responsibility for those deaths.”

“Compasses behave weird out here, and cell phones don’t work either,” Stephen offered.

Holter frowned. “Is that so?”

“People around here know the stories, and most of them who hunt opt to do it somewhere else,” Cork said.

“Which brings me back to my original question,” Larson said. “Why Trickster’s Point? I’m guessing Little knew this area’s reputation.”

“I don’t think he took the stories seriously,” Cork said, knowing he wasn’t really answering Larson’s question.

“A modern Indian,” Holter replied sensibly. “He didn’t believe the mumbo jumbo.”

“Mumbo jumbo?” Cork said.

“You know what I mean.”

With every minute that passed, Cork was liking this man less and less.

“One thing I still don’t understand,” Holter went on. “Why did no one discover this body until you just happened to stumble over it?” Although he’d directed the question at Cork, his eyes shifted in an accusing way toward Captain Ed Larson, whose crime scene team had been responsible for what had-and in this case, hadn’t-been found at Trickster’s Point the day before.