William Krueger - Trickster's Point

“If I only identified myself as Ojibwe when it was advantageous to do so, I probably never would. And you didn’t answer my question. Why do you think it was a Shinnob?”

She was wearing a knitted shawl whose color, in the faint evening light, was hard to tell exactly. She pulled it more tightly around her.

“Because Jubal had to sacrifice someone for the greater good,” she said, rather coldly, “and it was your people he chose for that honor. He’s always received threats, but lately they’ve been more vicious and more specific about the casino issue.”

“I’m sorry,” Cork said.

“No reason to be.” She eyed him pointedly. “Unless you made them.”

He decided it was time to cover other territory. “Camilla, before he died, Jubal told me-”

From the great house, someone called, “Camilla?”

“Just a minute, Alex,” she called back, then returned her attention to Cork. “Jubal told you what?”

“Now,” Alex said in a voice that clearly meant business.

Camilla frowned toward the house. “We’d better go. He’s eager to talk to you.”

She turned and began ahead of Cork up the flagstones. He watched her walk away, appreciating the natural grace that had been part of what had caught Jubal’s eye long ago and knowing, at the same time, that all her graces and all her money would never have been enough to make up for the one thing she could not be: an Ojibwe woman named Winona Crane.

F rom his days as a premier NFL quarterback and the investments he’d made then, Jubal Little had money, but not enough to mount a significant political campaign. He didn’t have that kind of cash until he married Camilla Jaeger, of the meatpacking Jaegers. Great-great-grandfather Jaeger had been a German immigrant from Dusseldorf, an astute and ruthless businessman who’d built an empire slaughtering midwestern hogs. His son had amassed a second fortune as the result of an innovative process for grinding, compressing, and canning all the unsavory animal parts so that they could easily be shipped or stored, creating a product packed in revolting gelatin that he called Pork’m, which was a mash-up of the words pork and ham. In modern times, the name had become a joke, but the product itself continued to enjoy an inexplicable worldwide popularity.

The family no longer had a stake in the company, which had been sold years before to a faceless conglomerate, and the current generation of Jaegers were free to pursue interests that had nothing to do with slaughtering hogs. Mostly, their interest was politics, where generally the only slaughter involved the truth.

Camilla Jaeger’s father had been a senator and had twice made a pretty good run at his party’s presidential nomination. He was an old-school midwestern progressive, a man of good intentions and powerful ego. At the age of seventy, he’d died as the result of a stroke suffered on the floor of the U.S. Senate while delivering an impassioned defense of a bill he’d introduced that was intended to create a system of free day care for low-income women who wanted to work. His sacrifice made no difference. The bill was soundly defeated.

Senator Jaeger had three children. In addition to his daughter, Camilla, there were two sons: Alexander and Nicholas. When Cork accompanied Jubal Little’s wife inside, he found the two brothers waiting in the large den. They were alone. The media team and campaign people had made themselves scarce. The room was comfortably furnished in plush brown leather and smelled of the cherrywood burning in the great fieldstone fireplace. Alex Jaeger stood near the bar, with a drink in his hand. Nick Jaeger leaned against the fireplace mantel. He also held a filled liquor glass. Cork had met the brothers before, but only briefly, when as sheriff of Tamarack County, he’d been involved in coordinating security for Jubal’s appearances there. From what Jubal had told him, Cork had gathered that drinking was another major interest the Jaegers had taken up since they left off killing pigs.

Without a word of greeting or any other normal cordiality, Alex said, “Another body up there, we’ve heard.”

In his mid-forties, Alex was the eldest of the Jaeger progeny. He’d graduated from the Naval Academy near the top of his class and had served a number of years before being assigned to the USS Cole. He’d been aboard ship the day it was torn apart while refueling in the port of Aden, and he was among the severely injured. He’d spent months recuperating and had finally been sent home with a face that would have made a suitable model for a Halloween mask. He’d undergone a number of reconstructive surgeries since, with limited success. His was still a face that, in a crowd, drew the curious eye. Cork knew that Senator Jaeger had hoped Alex might, at some point, follow in his political footsteps, but in a day when being photogenic was a more significant requirement for political office than being astute, Alex Jaeger didn’t have a prayer. That hadn’t stopped him from entering the political arena, but in another way. He’d worked for his father behind the scenes in Washington and at home in Minnesota. He’d become adept at negotiating treacherous political terrain and forging impossible alliances. He could be charming and ruthless in the same moment, and the power you felt when standing in his presence was undeniable. He’d managed the campaigns that had put Jubal Little in Washington as a U.S. representative and kept him there through several terms while he established his political credentials and acumen, and then had run the campaign that had promised to make Jubal governor.

“Yes,” Cork replied. “Another body.”

“New?”

“I’m not sure what you mean by that, but he was probably there when Jubal died.”

“Why didn’t the police find him yesterday?”

“No reason to look where the body was found.”

“But you had a reason?”

“I saw some things they didn’t.”

Nick Jaeger drank from his glass and nodded. “That’s right. You still-stalk. Whenever I hunted with Jubal, he was always going on about what a great goddamn tracker his friend Cork O’Connor was.”

Nicholas was the youngest of the Jaegers, in his late thirties. Cork had the sense that he was an adrenaline junkie. Nick was always off somewhere exotic, doing something dangerous-climbing difficult mountains, hunting big game, enterprises generally reserved for the very rich.

“Who was he, the new dead man?” Alex said in a steel voice. “And what did he have to do with Jubal’s murder?”

“I don’t really know. And that goes for both questions.”

Alex finished the liquor in his glass and studied the ice. “Don’t the police think it’s odd, your connection with both killings?”

“I’m sure they do. Hell, I think it’s odd.”

“A coincidence?” Camilla asked.

She’d seated herself in one of the big leather chairs, and Nick brought her a drink. He said, “I’ll bet our Mr. O’Connor doesn’t believe in coincidence. Am I right?”

Cork shrugged. “It happens sometimes.”

“So. Is that what happened up there?” Alex asked. “Coincidence?”

Cork said, “We’ll all know more when they’ve finished their investigation.”

Alex gave him an unflinching stare, and the room was quiet except for the crackle of the cherrywood in the fireplace.

“Three hours, Cork.” Alex finally said what was really on his mind. “You waited three hours before you went to get help.”

Cork was getting tired of explaining that he hadn’t gone for help at all, so this time he didn’t. He simply said, “Jubal asked me to stay.”

“He didn’t want to be alone?” Camilla looked as if she was on the verge of tears.