William Krueger - Boundary waters

He remembered a time-he must have been twelve or thirteen because his father was still alive-when he sat at one of the tables while Marais worked the counter. It was late summer. He was eating a piece of strawberry-rhubarb. Marais hummed to herself, hummed beautifully. Cork, as always, tracked her every move. She was fifteen or sixteen then. Straight black hair that hung to her butt. Dark, East Indian princess skin. She wore cutoff jeans and a tight red jersey top. Three young men came into the shop. Tourists, or sons of tourists. Eighteen, nineteen years old. They asked what kind of pie Marais recommended. She offered several good options. They took the blueberry, Cork recalled.

“What do you do when you’re finished here for the day?” the one who gave her the money asked.

“That depends on what my choices are.” She didn’t smile, but Cork was certain there was an invitation in her gold-dust eyes.

“We’ve got a speed boat,” another one said. “Come for a ride.”

“Or a swim,” the third suggested. “Bet you look great in a swimsuit.”

“Oh, I do,” Marais said. She looked him over briefly and added, “Too bad I can’t say the same for you.”

The other two laughed.

The first one pressed her. “So, what do you say?”

She gave them the pie and change. “Got a cigarette?”

“Sure,” the second one said. He reached into his shirt pocket and brought out a pack of Marlboros.

He was holding the pack out to Marais when Ellie Grand burst from the kitchen, a pie server gripped murderously in her hand.

“Out,” she cried. “Get out of my shop. All of you.”

“Hey, wait a minute-” the first one began.

Ellie Grand pushed Marais aside and leaned over the counter, the pie server only inches from the heart of the kid who held the cigarettes. “I said get out. And don’t ever let me see you in my shop again.”

They backed away, glanced at Marais, who offered them only slight sympathy with a shrug of her shoulders; and left the shop.

“They only asked if I’d like to go for a boat ride,” Marais explained casually.

“Men always start out asking small, but in the end they want everything.” Ellie Grand aimed the pie server at her daughter. “Don’t you be fooled, Marais. Don’t ever let them use you. You do the using. Understand?”

“Yes, Mama,” Marais said.

When Ellie Grand returned to the kitchen, Marais looked to Cork, laughed silently, rolled her eyes, and said, “ Giiwanaadizi, nishiime.” She’s crazy, little brother.

When Marais Grand had been a star on television, the town council had voted to put up a sign at the town limits declaring it the HOME OF MARAIS GRAND. Ten years after her death, when annexed land extended the town limits, the old sign, full of rusted holes from a. 22 target pistol, had been removed.

Cork continued his run, veering from Center Street where it became once again the state highway, and following a county road that paralleled the lake. He was a mile or so outside of town when a black Lincoln Town Car drew alongside him and the charcoal-tinted rear window slid silently down.

“O’Connor?”

The man whose face filled the frame of the car window looked to be in his late twenties, maybe early thirties. He had thick black hair, a rich man’s tan. His left ear had been pierced, and he wore what appeared to be a diamond stud. Cork had never before set eyes on him.

“Yeah?” Cork put his hands on his hips and stood at the side of the road, breathing hard.

“Mind getting in?” the tanned man said with a smile. He had very white teeth. Although they were unnaturally even, the smile they formed seemed easy and genuine. However, Cork’s mother had taught him early the danger of getting into a stranger’s car. It was a rule that had stood him in good stead for over forty years. He didn’t see a particularly compelling reason to disregard it now.

“I’m in the middle of something here,” he pointed out.

“I’d like to talk to you about Shiloh,” the man said.

That was one pretty compelling reason. Then through the window of the Lincoln, the man aimed a very large handgun right at Cork’s nose. That made two pretty compelling reasons. The door swung open and Cork got in.

The other man in the car, the one behind the wheel, appeared to be in his midthirties, blond, a neck full of more muscle than most people had in their whole bodies. Cork thought he could outrun the big man if he had to, but if the guy ever caught him, he’d take Cork apart like his bones were nothing but soda straws.

The handsome man smiled and put the gun on the seat between them.

“Sorry. This is really a friendly visit,” he said. “I just had to get your full attention. This won’t take long; then you can finish your run.”

“You said you wanted to talk about Shiloh.” Cork glanced at the gun. He could have reached for it easily enough, but he decided he wanted to hear what the man had to say.

“There are some things you need to know. For your own good.” The handsome man tapped the driver’s shoulder. “Take off, Joey. We don’t want to attract attention.”

Good luck, Cork thought. In Aurora, a Lincoln Town Car would be as inconspicuous as a nun in a G-string.

Joey drove north along the lake.

The man in back was clean-shaven and smelled of a good, subtle aftershave. He wore calfskin boots, tight jeans, a red chamois shirt under a dark green sweater.

“My name is Angelo Benedetti. You probably already know my family’s name. You spoke with the FBI about us? Last night, I believe.”

“And if I did?”

“Then they told you a lot of lies, mostly about my father.”

“Vincent Benedetti?” Cork said. “What kind of lies do you believe they told me?”

“That my father killed Shiloh’s mother. Look, they’ve been after my father, my family, a long time. Isn’t that right, Joey?”

“Long time,” Joey said into the rearview mirror.

“They never get anything, but that doesn’t stop them,” Benedetti said. “They’re like flies. They hang around and make a nuisance of themselves.”

“If they’re only a nuisance, why are you here?”

“To help you. And to help Shiloh.”

“Yeah,” Joey said, turning his thick neck and speaking over his shoulder, “you’re in deep shit.”

“Shut up, Joey.” He lightly slapped the back of Joey’s head.

“Sure thing, Angelo.”

“The feds told you about Libbie Dobson, I’ll bet.” Benedetti waited for Cork to confirm but went on when Cork only stared at him. “I’ll bet they didn’t tell you about Dr. Sutpen. Shiloh’s psychiatrist.”

“What about her?”

In the front seat, Joey made a noise, a boy noise, the kind Cork often heard from Stevie in his play when he pretended something was exploding. Joey laughed to himself.

“She’s dead.” Benedetti allowed a dramatic moment before he went on. “Killed in a gas explosion at her Palm Springs office that burned the place down and destroyed all client records. Authorities are listing it officially as accidental.”

Joey swung the car into a turnaround and headed back in the direction from which they’d come.

“You don’t think it was an accident,” Cork said.

“Highly coincidental, don’t you think? I don’t know about you, Cork, but I don’t believe in coincidence.”

“Only my friends call me Cork.”

“That’s what I’m here to tell you. In this, you won’t know who your friends are.”

“You claim the FBI lied to me. Why would they?”

“My father believes they’re protecting someone. Someone big.”

“Who?”

“He doesn’t know. He believes whoever it is, they were responsible for the murder of Shiloh’s mother. Back then, Marais Grand had a powerful friend, someone who pulled a lot of strings for her. My father never knew who it was, but he thinks Marais was killed to keep that friendship from being exposed. Now they’re trying to kill Shiloh.”