William Krueger: Boundary waters

He carried the rifle with his right hand only. Although he attempted to keep his left side as immobile as possible, every step was like twisting a knife in his shoulder. He tried to formulate a plan as he went, keeping his mind on his calculation rather than his pain. All he could come up with, however, was to reach the launch before the man drove away. In the back of his mind, he knew that even if he missed Charon/Milwaukee, the man would have a hard time making a clean getaway in Tamarack County. The main roads were few, and as soon as Schanno got word, he’d lock those roads up tight using his own men and the state highway patrol.

That brought Cork to a sudden stop.

Charon/Milwaukee had been ahead of him in his thinking all along. Some of that was Arkansas Willie’s doing, but more, it was because the man anticipated well. He knew his adversaries and knew how they thought. He’d know the roads would be watched closely and that his description would be out over every police radio in northern Minnesota. He wouldn’t risk the roads.

Then a detail flashed into Cork’s thinking. As hed moved past the canoe racks at Wendell’s shed, he’d noted, without really thinking about it, that the rack was empty. When he’d been there two days ago with Arkansas Willie, there’d been one canoe left.

For a man like Charon/Milwaukee, a man who knew how to survive in the wild, heading into the protection of the great North Woods was a perfect choice. Within a few days, he could be across the border into Canada. Or ease his way west or south until he was beyond whatever net the law had thrown across the roadways to snag him.

Cork turned toward the wide, sparkling blue of Iron Lake.

The shoreline near Wendell’s place was a ragged edging of small, rocky inlets dotted with pines. Stepping quietly, his rifle readied, Cork made his way to the water. He paused a moment, listening. The lake was calm, lapping very gently at the rocks. Just north of where he stood, in the direction of Wendell’s trailer, rose a big slab of gray rock about the size of a pickup truck. From the other side came the almost imperceptible bass note of a canoe hull tapped lightly with a paddle. Cork eased to the rock, and around it, until he saw Charon/Milwaukee leaning over the canoe. The man stood bent, caught in a netting of shadow cast over him by the branches of a big red pine. He appeared to be securing a pack under the stern thwart. Cork stepped up behind the trunk of the red pine and leaned himself against it to help his left arm support the weight of the rifle as he brought it to bear. A fire raged in his shoulder. He prayed he wouldn’t have to hold the rifle that way for long.

“Put your hands on your head and don’t turn around.”

The man paused. “O’Connor,” he said, as if Cork were not unexpected at all.

“Hands on your head. Now.”

Charon/Milwaukee complied, pressing his palms to the back of his head.

“Turn around slowly.”

As the man came around, Cork could see he wore an affable grin. “I guess I should have killed you.”

“With your left hand, using only your thumb and index finger, take your weapon from its holster and drop it on the ground.”

When the handgun lay flopped on a bed of pine needles, Cork asked, “That’s Willie’s twenty-two. Where’s your weapon? The automatic. What was it? A Sig Sauer?”

“In the pack.” He gestured with a jerk of his head toward the canoe behind him.

“Sure it is.”

“Care to frisk me?” Charon/Milwaukee gave a very small, very real laugh. “A little tough holding that rifle. And with a bum shoulder.”

“We’re going back to the trailer.”

“You’ll be dead before we get there.”

A slight wind made the water roll and the bow of the canoe went up and down like a little head nodding in agreement.

“You make the tiniest move and I’ll shoot you,” Cork warned.

“How quickly can you swing that rifle and aim with a dislocated shoulder?” Charon/Milwaukee asked. “That’s a bolt action. You’ll be lucky if you even get one good shot, because I’ll be moving. I can imagine the pain you’re in, O’Connor. The pain’s already eaten into your normal ability to aim, to react. It would be the same for any man.” He lifted his hands from his head, only a few inches, a gesture of reasonability. “Look, you’ve fought a better battle than anyone I’ve faced in a very long time. Let’s call it a truce, you and me. Go back to your wife. I’ll fade away into the darkness I came from. We’ll never see one another again.” Something sharp and pointed entered his words as he finished, “I’ve given you your life once already.”

“Let’s go,” Cork ordered.

Charon/Milwaukee didn’t move. His face lost any trace of reasonableness. He narrowed his gaze and a deep line appeared between his eyes like a sudden streak of war paint. “If you don’t back down now, this is what will happen. I’ll kill you, and after I kill you. I’ll return to that trailer and kill everyone in it. Is it worth that risk to you?”

Cork was silent.

“I thought not.” Charon/Milwaukee smiled, but almost sadly, as if the victory had been a cheap one. “Then it’s good-bye, O’Connor.”

He took a step backward, still smiling. He turned toward the canoe. As he pivoted, he made his move quickly, diving left, rolling on the soft pine needles that covered the ground along the shoreline, reaching for the automatic stuffed in his belt under his vest. Cork didn’t fire until the moment the man called Milwaukee and Charon came up to one knee and braced to shoot.

The bullet from Wendell’s rifle blew off most of Charon/Milwaukee’s left hand. It plowed a wide, messy path through his chest and exited his back along with large splinters of his shoulder blade. The force knocked him backward. He lay on the ground, his arms spread wide, his face turned toward the sky. The automatic had fallen near his feet, unfired. With difficulty, Cork worked another round into the chamber of Wendell’s rifle. Carefully, he approached the downed man.

Charon/Milwaukee’s eyes were open. The hard brown, Cork saw, was flecked with gold. He was still breathing, small gasps that sounded like hiccups. Cork bent to him and said, “I’ve hunted all my life. One good shot is all you ever get.”

Charon/Milwaukee tried to speak, but he seemed to be addressing someone behind Cork, above him. Cork almost turned to see who it might be. Then the hiccuping stopped, and the brown eyes became sightless as a couple of marbles.

Cork’s legs gave out and he sat down hard. His shoulder hurt like a son of a bitch. Whatever it was that had sustained him was gone. His ability to focus, to think at all, had fled. If the dead man had risen up like Lazarus from his pine-needle bed, Cork wouldn’t have been able to lift a finger to defend himself. He was empty.

He barely turned when he heard the crackle of twigs breaking underfoot. He saw George LeDuc come from the trees cradling a rifle. George knelt beside him. When he spoke, his breath smelled of spearmint gum. It was like the scent of an angel.

“You okay?”

Cork nodded.

“That him?” George pointed the rifle muzzle at the body.

A thought crept out of the haze in Cork’s mind, a clear wonderment. “What are you doing here, George?”

“Woman came into the store, used the phone to call the sheriff. Seemed like somebody should get here quicker’n they could.”

Cork looked at him dully. “The others?”

“They’re fine. Up at Wendell’s trailer. Jo wanted to come, but I put my foot down. Wasn’t sure what I’d find out here. Come on. Can you walk?” He offered his hand.

As they approached the trailer, the whine of sirens rose from the distance. The trailer door opened and Jo rushed into the sunlight.