William Krueger - Trickster's Point

“Isaiah and Indian casinos?”

“Couple that with a lifelong love of Winona Crane, and maybe so.”

“And you really think Lester Bigby would kill to protect his investments?”

“Again, couple that with a deep desire to raise his esteem in his father’s eyes, and maybe so. And one more thing to keep in mind about them both. Neither of them would shed a tear if I went to prison for the deed.”

“I don’t buy that,” Jenny said. “I don’t think either of them killed Jubal Little.”

“You think I did it, then?”

“Don’t joke about this.”

He sat back and studied her. In the weak light, with her hair the color of a moonbeam on a dark lake and her eyes like chips of blue glacial ice, she reminded him of her mother. He’d often sat with Jo in just this way, discussing a case that had him puzzled. He still missed her, still felt the ache of her loss, but the current of life had carried him on to a new place, and he’d discovered that he could be happy there, too.

“I found blood at Winona Crane’s house,” he said.

“Somebody was hurt?”

“Looks like. Probably not Winona. She talked with Willie tonight and didn’t say anything to him about it, at least while I was there.”

“What do you think it means?”

“Maybe nothing. I don’t know.”

“So,” Jenny said. “What now?”

“I’ve turned over all the rocks I can think of. Now, I guess, we wait.”

“For what?”

“To see if anything crawls out.”

“Coming from you, that sounds awfully passive.”

“The truth is I don’t know what else to do, except hope that tomorrow something breaks.”

As it turned out, that’s exactly what happened.

He rose early, long before the media might arrive at his door, dressed, put a note on the kitchen table explaining things to Jenny and Stephen, and left the house. He didn’t call Borkman; the guy needed his sleep. He hoped the early hour was reasonable protection for his family, and he planned to be back before it got too late.

Another November overcast had moved in, and Cork drove under a sky still inky from night and promising nothing better than a day capped with clouds the color of despair.

He’d awakened that morning with an uncomfortable thought, a thought about Winona Crane, and he needed to talk it over with Henry Meloux. The morning was cool, almost cold. Before starting down the path to Crow Point, he zipped his leather jacket up to his chin, pulled his gloves on, and settled a red stocking cap over his ears.

Half an hour later, he broke from the trees and saw, against the gray sky that backed the meadow, smoke vining upward from both Meloux’s cabin and Rainy’s. The meadow grass was long and dry, the color of apple cider. Against the walls of the two small cabins, cords of split wood lay stacked, banked in anticipation of a winter just over the horizon. The wood made the walls look unnaturally thick, and the image reminded Cork of those wild animals who, in the fall, grew their coats huge to protect them from the brutal cold that was to come. Behind the branches of the bare aspens along the shoreline, Iron Lake was a great slab of fractured gray slate. The only sound was the cry of the crows that perennially used the trees as a rookery and, in that way, had given the point its name.

He headed to Rainy’s cabin first. He knocked; she didn’t answer. He went on to Meloux’s, where he found them both having breakfast. Rainy gave him a kiss, then gave him coffee and offered to fix him something to eat. He settled for a couple of hot biscuits with homemade blueberry jam.

When they’d finished their meal, Meloux sat back in his old birchwood chair. He appeared well rested and refreshed, something Cork envied.

“You look like an animal of burden, Corcoran O’Connor, given too much to carry.”

“Are you going to tell us about the bullet through your windshield, Cork?” Although she tried to speak casually, there was a note of irritation in Rainy’s voice.

“Jenny told me you called. Sorry, Rainy. The battery on my cell phone was dead.”

“It could have been you instead of that battery,” she replied.

“Niece,” Meloux said gently. “He did not come for a scolding.” His eyes, brown as old pennies, settled expectantly on Cork.

“Henry, I want to talk to you about Winona Crane and Jubal Little.”

“Then talk.”

“If I told you I thought that she might have killed Jubal Little, would you say I was crazy?”

“Crazy is trying to tickle a bull moose, Corcoran O’Connor. I would not say you are crazy.”

“Winona loved Jubal, and I know Jubal loved her. But I’m wondering if it was the other side of love that might have made her kill him.”

Rainy said, “You think that, in the end, she hated Jubal?”

Cork shook his head and nodded toward Meloux. “Your uncle once told me that the other side of love isn’t hate but fear. Here’s the deal, Henry. In those three hours I spent with him before he died, Jubal told me a lot of things he clearly wanted to get off his chest. Some of it I’ve told the sheriff’s people, but some I’ve kept to myself. One of the things Jubal told me was that he came north this time to tell Winona good-bye for good. He said he’d made a decision never to see her again.”

“Why?” Rainy asked.

“She’d become a liability to him.”

“He was preparing to reach the mountaintop,” Meloux said.

“You know about Winona’s vision?” Cork asked.

“It came to her here, long ago.”

“After Donner Bigby died, when you worked to heal her?”

“And Jubal Little. They both needed healing, but there was more to it than just that. There was something unusual about them. They were two pieces of the same broken stone. Winona had the vision then.”

“What was the vision?” Rainy asked.

Cork said, “She saw Jubal alone on a mountaintop, holding the sun and moon in his hands, and the stars singing around his head.”

“Did you tell her what the vision meant, Uncle Henry?”

Meloux shook his head. “It was her vision. She believed she knew what it meant. Who was I to say she was right or she was wrong?”

“What did she think it meant?”

“That Jubal Little was destined for greatness. That he would have to achieve it alone.”

Cork said, “So when she ran away from Aurora right after that, she was somehow trying to fulfill the vision?”

“Maybe,” Meloux allowed. “Or maybe it is simply a hard thing to accept that someone you love will someday abandon you.”

“But her vision wasn’t fulfilled,” Rainy pointed out. “Jubal Little died before he reached the top.”

The old man shrugged. “A vision is not necessarily what will be. It is more like a light showing the way toward what could be. And sometimes it is a warning.”

Meloux’s old dog, Walleye, got up from the corner of the cabin where he’d been lying with his head cradled on his paws. He came to the table, to Rainy, who scratched his head. Then she frowned at Cork. “What did you mean when you said that Winona had become a liability to Jubal?”

“He was going to be in the public eye in such a way that everything he did would be watched. His relationship with Winona would be too risky. If it’s true that he had his eye ultimately on the presidency-and knowing Jubal, that’s exactly where his ambition would push him-he had to make sure that he appeared to be squeaky clean.”

Rainy didn’t look convinced. “If all her life Winona’s known that Jubal would have to abandon her, for the mountaintop, as you put it, why believe that she killed him just as he was poising himself to get there?”

On his fingers, Cork counted off the reasons. “One: Sam Winter Moon taught her to bow-hunt and still-stalk. Two: She knows the area around Trickster’s Point well. And three: I tend to agree with the guy who said that hell has no fury like a woman scorned.”