William Krueger: Trickster's Point

“What about you?” Larson said to Nick. “How do you know him?”

“He used to hunt with Jubal and me sometimes. I didn’t care for him at all. Like Kenny says, the guy was all about hurting things. I finally told Jubal I wouldn’t go on any more hunts if Carlson was going to be a part of them.”

“Good shot?” Cork asked.

“With the right equipment, anybody can be a good shot,” Nick said. “He never joined any of the hunts when Jubal and I shot muzzle-loaders and black powder, so not a pure hunter. But with a Marlin and a good scope, he could put a bullet where it had to go for a kill shot.”

“I don’t understand,” Camilla said. “Why would he be involved in killing Jubal?”

“He wasn’t,” Cork said.

“He was supposed to kill me.”

He explained his reasoning, and when he’d finished, the room was dead still.

“Doesn’t make a lick of sense,” Alex finally blustered. “How would Jubal have explained you getting shot?”

Cork shrugged. “Hunting accident, maybe, but not his doing. All he had with him was a bow and a few arrows. So a stray shot from some careless hunter, who either didn’t know the damage he’d done or vanished because of it. Probably another reason Jubal chose Trickster’s Point, all the incidents of accidental hunting deaths out there. He believed he could sell ice to Eskimos, so I’m sure he figured that whatever he said people would buy it.”

“Carlson’s a loose end,” Larson pointed out. “And kind of a loose cannon, it sounds like. Seems to me a dangerous man for Little to bring into something like this and just hope he’d keep quiet.”

Cork looked toward Nick. “If I were Jubal, I’d plan on another hunting accident, maybe somewhere in the wilds of Canada where there’d be no witnesses. Or maybe he’d just report that they got separated out there and lost and Carlson was never found. What do you think, Nick? Things like that happen, don’t they?”

Nick’s face clouded, and he said vaguely, “I’ve heard.”

“It’s all speculation, of course,” Cork went on. “Jubal took the answers with him when he walked the Path of Souls.”

Alex shook his head fiercely. “His fingerprints on a sheet of paper. That’s all you have. Proves nothing.”

“Not yet,” Larson said. “But it’s a beginning, Mr. Jaeger. And I’m going to make sure that we find out where it leads.”

Camilla’s hands lay folded in her lap, and her eyes rested there, as if holding them in place. She didn’t look up when she spoke. “I’m sorry, Cork.”

“Nothing to be sorry for, Camilla. Jubal always did what Jubal wanted. Not your fault.”

“Hey,” Nick said suddenly. “So who killed Chet Carlson? And who killed Jubal?”

Camilla finally lifted her eyes and looked at Cork. Everyone did.

W hen Cork pulled into his driveway on Gooseberry Lane, the hour was late. The street was empty and the houses were dark. A light shone through his own kitchen window, and when he walked inside, the room was still redolent with the aroma of sweet baking. On the table sat a plate with chocolate chip cookies, and beside it lay a note.

Comfort food, Dad.

The handwriting was Stephen’s.

He shed his coat and hung it on a peg near the door. He poured himself some milk, leaned against a counter, and drank slowly while he ate a couple of the cookies. He listened to the house, the beautiful quiet, and, for the first time in days, felt at ease.

Trixie wandered in, tail wagging in a slow, sleepy way, and put her nose against the hand he lowered.

“Hey, girl,” he said. “Keeping the place safe?”

He rinsed out the glass in the sink and headed upstairs, where the kids had left the hallway light on for him. He stopped in the open doorway to his grandson’s room and stood watching Waaboo asleep in his crib. The little guy was dressed in footie pajamas patterned with tiny moose. He lay splayed on the mattress, arms and legs all akimbo. Cork walked to the crib, lifted the twisted blanket, and gently covered his grandson. When he turned back to the door, he found his daughter smiling from the hallway.

“Within an hour, he’ll have kicked that blanket off again,” she whispered when he joined her.

“Always moving,” Cork said. “Even in his sleep.”

“You’re one to talk. Late night.”

“And not over yet.”

“Oh?”

“I’ll be getting a couple of visitors soon.”

“Should I make coffee?”

“No. We’ll leave right away.”

“Anyone I know?”

“I’ll tell you about it in the morning.”

She studied his face. “You look… peaceful. A good day?”

“An enlightening day. Jenny, if you ever wonder what your life is all about, just pick up Waaboo and hold him. Everything you need to know, it’s all right there.”

“And right here,” she said and leaned to him and kissed his cheek. Then she yawned.

“Go back to bed,” he told her gently. “Everything’s okay now.”

The knock at the back door came just as he returned to the kitchen. When he opened up, Marsha Dross stood on the doorstep beside a hulking Isaiah Broom.

“Holter’s pissed as hell,” she said. “If he doesn’t have answers from you by the time the sun comes up, he says he’ll arrest you for obstruction.”

“He’ll know everything by the time he pours his first cup of morning coffee,” Cork replied. “Promise.”

“What the hell’s going on?” Broom said.

“You’re free, Isaiah.” Cork reached to his leather jacket hanging on the peg beside the door. “And you’re coming with me.”

“Yeah?” Broom threw back, not happily. “Where?”

“You’ll see.”

The big Shinnob frowned, then lifted his broad nose. “Cookies?”

Cork went to the table where the plate still held half a dozen. He picked up a couple and returned to the door.

“For the road,” he said to Dross and handed her one. The other he gave to Isaiah Broom. “Let’s get going.”

In the light that fell through the doorway, Cork saw Dross wince. She was taking a big chance, and he appreciated it. “I’ll be at your office by first light,” he promised.

She took a bite of the cookie he’d given her and said, “I’ll be waiting.”

He drove down the empty streets, through a town deep in its own dreaming. Snow spit from the sky, a few flakes, like moths fluttering in the headlights. For a long time, he drove in a silence that both he and Broom seemed comfortable with.

“Traitor,” Cork said at last, breaking the silence.

“What?”

“That’s what you wrote on the arrow you shot into the door of Rainy’s cabin. Traitor. Why?”

“Why traitor, or why the arrow?”

“Both.”

They’d left Aurora behind, and the dark had swallowed them. The only light came from the back splash of headlights and the glow of the dash. The big Shinnob sat silent and brooding in the night gloom, and was quiet for so long that Cork wasn’t sure he’d get a reply at all.

“I made that arrow for Jubal Little,” Broom finally said. “I meant to shoot it into his heart myself. When I heard it was you who killed him, I figured I’d let you know that I understood.”

“You could’ve just told me. I admit I was more than a little confused by that message.”

Broom stared ahead where the thin scatter of snowflakes drifted white against the black asphalt of the highway. “I was drunk. Celebrating his death, I thought, but later I decided maybe I was just relieved that I didn’t have to go on hating him. I knew you’d be at Henry’s.” He swung his face toward Cork for an instant. “Rainy,” he said. Then he shrugged. “The decisions you make when you’re drunk usually aren’t your best.”