William Krueger: Boundary waters

“Ma’iingan,” Agent Sloane said.

Cork was surprised at the agent’s correct pronunciation.

“Means ’wolf,’ in the Ojibwe language,” Sloane said.

Grimes had taken a pack of Juicy Fruit from his shirt pocket. He folded several sticks into his mouth. “You’re a regular encyclopedia,” he told Sloane, speaking thickly around the wad of gum.

Harris gave them both a sharp look, then addressed Cork again. “We’re concerned that whoever killed this woman may be after Shiloh.”

“Got any idea who that ’whoever’ might be?” Cork asked.

“That’s where RICO comes in. The primary suspect in the murder of Marais Grand was a man named Vincent Benedetti. Owns a casino in Las Vegas.”

“The Purple Parrot,” Cork said.

“Yes.” Sloane looked surprised. “How’d you know?”

“Lucky guess. Go on.”

Harris glanced at Schanno, who only looked back blankly, then the special agent in charge proceeded like a man on a ride he couldn’t stop. “Before her death, Marais Grand and Benedetti were romantically linked. At the time of the woman’s death, Vincent Benedetti was under investigation for racketeering. We’ve always believed the two events were related. Now Benedetti’s nowhere to be found. If Shiloh has remembered what happened that night, we’re here to make certain she has the opportunity to testify.”

“Why is it you think I can help?” Cork asked.

“The diary makes it quite clear that Shiloh’s somewhere in the Boundary Waters and that the man who guided her in is an Indian. When we explained the situation fully to Sheriff Schanno, he suggested you might be our best hope for identifying this man.”

“Because I’m part Ojibwe?”

“And,” Harris added pointedly, “because he insists you’re smart and can be trusted.”

“Smart?” Cork smiled at Schanno. “You actually said that, Wally?”

“Well?” said Harris, interrupting. “Can we count on you?”

“Could I see the diary?”

“Give him the photocopies,” Harris said to Sloane.

Sloane lifted an expensive-looking leather attache case from where it sat on a chair, snapped it open, and took out a folder. He closed the case and carefully put it back down. He

crossed to Cork and held out the folder, which was labeled in small, precise, block letters DOBSON DIARY.

The diary entries went back several months. Someone had gone through them already and neatly highlighted in yellow those passages that pertained to Shiloh. Elizabeth Dobson wrote like a romantic. Her script was florid, with big loops above the line and elaborate flourishes that ended each sentence. Her writing leaned heavily to the right. Optimistic. The passages that hadn’t been highlighted talked about mundane things: loneliness, whether she should get a cat, worries-a lot of them-about her mother’s health and the cost of caring for her. He found the reference to Ma’iingan, but, in his cursory look, found little else that was very helpful.

“Before I agree,” Cork said. “I’d like a few minutes alone with Sheriff Schanno.”

Harris shook his head. “This is my case. Whatever you’ve got to say about it, I’d like to hear.”

“Your case, my office,” Schanno pointed out. “If Cork wants to speak with me alone in here, he’ll speak with me alone. You gentlemen can wait outside.”

Harris chewed on the decision a moment, then jerked his head for the others to follow him. When they stepped outside, Cork closed the door.

“Hate these guys,” Schanno said. “Waltz in here like they own the place.”

“You ID them?” he asked

“Yeah, Harris anyway. Why?”

“Doesn’t it seem odd, them showing up here this way, no introduction from the local field office?”

“I thought the same thing. So I made a call to Arnie Gooden, the field rep in Duluth.”

“I know him. A good man.”

“He worked in the L.A. office for a while. Said he didn’t know anything about this investigation, but he did know Harris. They spoke on the phone a few minutes. Gooden promised to help if Harris needs anything. Look, Cork, you put it all together, it adds up pretty well. If this girl is in the kind of trouble they say, I’d hate to leave her hanging.”

Cork stood at the window. Across the street, the bell tower of the Zion Lutheran Church was lit with floodlights, blazing white against the dark evening sky. There was something wonderfully simple in the solid colors and the straight lines, and Cork stared a long time. He wondered if he should tell Schanno about Arkansas Willie Raye.

“Anything else?” Schanno asked.

“I guess not,” Cork answered.

He opened the door. Only Harris and Sloane came back in.

“Well?” Harris said.

“I’ll do what I can,” Cork told him. “But if I’m going to help, I’ll do things my way.”

“Elaborate,” Harris said.

“The people I’ll be talking to are Ojibwe. They won’t trust you. I’ll talk to them alone.”

“I’d prefer one of us accompany you,” Harris insisted.

“You’re strangers,” Cork reminded him. “More than that, you’re federal law. It would be like throwing a skunk at these people-no offense. If I do this, I have to do it alone.”

“He’s right,” Schanno said.

Harris crossed his arms, his hands fisted and sheathed in the bends at his elbow. He looked like a man who’d invited himself to dinner only to discover that the special of the day was a plateful of shit.

“All right,” he finally agreed unhappily. “Just remember, whoever murdered the Dobson woman may be here now. They could be after Shiloh at this moment. We don’t have much time.”

“In that case,” Cork said, “I’d best get started. How do I contact you?”

“We’ve got a cabin at a place called the Quetico. Here’s the phone number.” He wrote it on the back of an FBI business card. “One more thing, O’Connor. We’ve tried to keep a lid on this. But the tabloid that posted the reward for Shiloh has a front-page story on the Dobson death ready to go. By midweek, your little town here is going to be middle ring in a three-ring circus.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Cork said. He held up the photocopied diary of Elizabeth Dobson. “Mind if I hang onto this?”

Harris waved him an okay. “We’ve got other copies.”

At the desk outside Schanno’s office, Deputy Marsha Dross handed Cork a brown paper bag. “Fried chicken,” she said, and smiled. “Sheriff’s orders.”

Outside the county building, Cork found Grimes waiting for him. The man leaned against Cork’s Bronco and watched him approach.

“A word of advice, O’Connor,” Grimes said, stepping out to intercept him.

Cork held up and waited.

Grimes chewed while he talked, moving the wad of Juicy Fruit around in his mouth like it was chaw. “I’ve seen local lawmen screw up more times than I care to remember. Working with them is always like trying to dance a ballet in diver’s boots. You understand what I’m saying? So what do you say you do us all a favor: Just give us what we ask for and try to stay out of the way the rest of the time. Comprende?” Grimes took the wad of Juicy Fruit from his mouth and dropped it.

Cork stared into his blue-white eyes. “Comprende,” he said. “Comprende real good.” He nodded down at the gum on the parking-lot cement. “Careful there. You might end up stepping in your own mess. Comprende?”

He shoved past Grimes, who stood grinning in his wake.

Grandview was a great deal more than just a summer cabin. It was an estate built of yellow pine logs, a huge two-story structure that dominated a southern inlet of Iron Lake called Snowshoe Cove. Marais Grand had had it constructed at the height of her fame; but she’d had little opportunity to use it. Now, it was generally rented in season by wealthy families out of the Twin Cities or Chicago. As far as Cork knew, no one connected with Marais Grand had stayed there since her murder. The place was hidden from the highway by an acre of hardwoods, mostly maple. As Cork approached Grandview, the wind ran through the trees, shaking down crimson leaves that fell into his headlights like drops of blood.