William Krueger - Trickster's Point

Cork said, “This is way beyond the range of any bow hunter. There was no real reason to look up here.”

“And yet you did,” Holter said suggestively.

“I saw the trail; Ed’s people didn’t. But they’re not trained in tracking.”

Holter flashed a smile, entirely disingenuous. “You must be pretty good.”

“I’m okay. There are others much better than me. Jubal Little, for one.”

“Do I detect a little envy?”

“I discovered a long time ago that it was useless to be envious of Jubal. He was better than everyone at everything.”

Holter studied him, and Cork wondered if the BCA agent was going to ask him a lot of questions about what had happened the day before, cover the same territory that had already been well covered by Larson and Dross. In the end, Holter simply said, “I think that’s enough here. Mr. O’Connor, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t discuss any of this with anyone. Either of you.” He gave Stephen a good, stern look.

Cork could tell that his son was disappointed at being sent away, and probably a little upset by Holter’s dismissive treatment of them. They made their way down the ridge slope to the base of Trickster’s Point, where the vehicles from the sheriff’s department were gathered, and where Stephen had parked the Land Rover.

“Mind driving us out?” Cork asked.

“Okay,” Stephen said without enthusiasm.

The trail to Trickster’s Point had been created for hikers and was narrow, so the going was slow. Bare tree branches and the branches of underbrush scraped the sides of the Land Rover with little screeches, as if protesting the presence of metal and rubber where only the passage of flesh and blood were allowed. Stephen was sullen and quiet. Cork wasn’t sure if it was the general effect of all that had happened that day or if it was something more specific.

“Still pissed at Holter?” he finally asked his son.

“Not really. He doesn’t know you. But I don’t understand why the sheriff and Mr. Larson didn’t stand up for you more. I mean, they’re your friends.”

“It’s because of our friendship, Stephen. They don’t want me to be arrested for Jubal’s death any more than you do. And if they clear me, they’ve got to make absolutely certain that there are no questions about the integrity of their work or their team’s work. Do you see?”

“I suppose,” Stephen allowed, but he seemed to do it grudgingly.

They continued the rest of the way in silence, and Cork lost himself in thinking about the question Stephen had asked on the ridgetop but to which he’d received no answer: Who would want Jubal Little dead?

To Cork, the most obvious answer was Indians.

Minnesota, like most states, was in the midst of economic chaos. The budget was a mess of red ink. No one wanted new or higher taxes, but neither was anyone willing to sacrifice their sacred programs or projects. One of Jubal Little’s proposals during his campaign was to build six state-run casinos in order to generate revenue that would be dedicated solely to public projects designed to put Minnesota’s multitude of unemployed back to work. The populace was largely in favor of the idea; the Indians, of course, were not, and it was clear that they considered Jubal Little, nee Littlewolf, half Blackfeet by blood, to be a traitor. He’d received threats but had defended his proposal as one approach whose benefit was broad and egalitarian, and whose ultimate purpose-which was not just about income and employment but also about funding a desperately needed upgrade of the state’s entire crumbling infrastructure-was forward-looking. With regard to the Indian casinos, he maintained that the profits benefited only a small portion of the entire Native population and that, ultimately, state-run casinos would benefit everyone, including the Ojibwe, Lakota, and Dakota, because the income would generate thousands of public works jobs and the standard of living statewide would be raised. He’d laid it out with graphs and charts, but mostly he’d sold it with his oratory and his down-to-earth charm. Sold it to all but the Indians, who’d spent a good deal of money trying to ensure that Jubal Little wasn’t elected, and who were prepared to spend a good deal more to see that his plan was never implemented. It would be far cheaper, Cork thought, simply to eliminate Jubal Little before he had a chance to get that particular ball rolling.

There were others who probably wouldn’t mourn Jubal’s passing. He’d run as an independent, so neither side of the political aisle would shed a tear. He’d pledged to tax the very rich, so they’d probably popped a champagne cork when they heard the news of his death. He’d indicated he was in favor of opening some of the wilderness areas of northern Minnesota to additional mineral exploration, a stand that had pissed off environmentalists but had won the hearts of many people on the Iron Range who’d seen nothing but economic hardship since the great mines there began shutting down operation years earlier.

The people Jubal scared he scared a lot, but they were a decided minority. He appealed to the masses, as populist a candidate as the state had ever seen. Cork’s own feelings about his old friend had, over the years, become terribly mixed. But one thing seemed certain to him as he and his son negotiated the trail away from Trickster’s Point. If Stephen was right and the dead hunter had been there to kill both men if the arrow failed to hit its mark, then Jubal Little, in dying, had saved Cork’s life.

T hey avoided the house on Gooseberry Lane and went straight to Sam’s Place. Because it was Sunday and the weather was gray and the season was late, the parking lot was almost empty. Jenny’s Subaru was parked beside Judy Madsen’s Focus. The only other vehicle was a silver Escalade with tinted windows. A couple of kids in hooded sweatshirts were at one of the serving windows, but the coast looked clear of reporters. Stephen parked, and they got out and started toward the Quonset hut.

The door of the Escalade opened, and a tall, well-dressed black man built like a wedge of granite stepped out and moved to cut them off.

“Mr. O’Connor,” he called in a deep, melodious voice.

Even if the guy turned out to be a reporter-though Cork had never seen reporters dressed so well or so well muscled or driving such an expensive set of wheels-Cork decided that, because there was only one, he’d talk to him, if only to say “No comment.”

“Kenny Yates,” the man said as he approached.

Which was a name Cork knew.

Yates offered a hand that greatly dwarfed Cork’s. Although the grip was restrained, Cork sensed the immense power behind it.

“My son, Stephen,” Cork said.

“How do you do?” Yates shook Stephen’s hand politely, then said to Cork, “Mrs. Little would like to see you. Her brothers are with her.”

“At the lake house?”

“Yes.”

“Give me a few minutes inside.”

“Fine, I’ll wait.”

“No need. I know the way.”

“I’ve been instructed to run interference for you, if necessary.”

“The media?”

“Yes.”

“All right. Hungry?”

The tall man studied the wooden placard on the side of Sam’s Place that displayed the offerings. “Is the Sam’s Super any good?”

“The best burger in the North Country,” Stephen replied.

“I’ll take two. And a chocolate shake.”

Yates reached to the inside of his black leather jacket, probably for his wallet, and Cork said, “It’s on me.”

“Thanks.” Yates’s enormous hand dropped back to his side. “I’ll wait here.”

As they continued to the door, Stephen leaned to his father and whispered, “That guy looks like a football player.”