William Krueger - Mercy Falls

It was Northwestern that Jenny talked about most.

“No, but Mom and I talked some more about going to Evanston to check out Northwestern’s campus.”

“Sounds like a wise idea.” Then he said, “Some more’?”

Jo said, “We’ve been talking about a short trip to Evanston for a while.”

Cork paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Really?”

“We told you, Dad. Don’t you remember?”

“Sure.” Although at the moment, he didn’t. “When?”

“That’s one of the things we need to discuss,” Jo said.

Stevie, who was seven, put down his glass of milk. He had a white mustache on his upper lip. “I told Roger Turppa that I had a sister in the twelfth grade and he said I was a liar “cuz school doesn’t go that high.”

“It might not for Roger Turppa, if he’s anything like his dad,” Cork said.

“Evanston’s not that far from South Bend,” Annie said.

Everyone knew Annie wanted to go to Notre Dame. There’d never been any doubt. Although only a sophomore, she was already determined to secure an athletic scholarship in softball, and when Annie set her mind on something it usually came to pass.

“We’ll talk about Northwestern-and Notre Dame-later,” Jo said. “When your father’s not so tired.”

After dinner, Jo washed the dishes, Cork dried. He was just hanging up the dish towel when the front doorbell rang.

“Dad,” Annie called from the living room. “It’s for you.”

Simon Rutledge stood at the door, his hands folded patiently in front of him, smiling as he watched Cork come from the kitchen.

“Smells good,” Rutledge said.

“The kids fixed meat loaf.”

“The kids?” Rutledge laughed. “Mine can’t even follow a recipe for ice water. Let’s talk outside, okay?”

Cork stepped onto the porch and closed the door. It was a blue twilight with a few clouds in the west lit with a faint rose glow. The air was cooling rapidly, and by morning, Cork figured, there’d be frost. Gooseberry Lane was empty, but the houses along the street were lit by warm lights from within. During summer, when the evenings seemed to stretch into forever, he loved to sit with Jo in the porch swing and watch Stevie play with the other kids on the block, their laughter a perfect ending to the day. He didn’t have that feeling now.

“I didn’t get a lot on the rez,” Rutledge said.

“I figured.”

“People seem pretty well split in how they think of you.”

“They always have been.” Cork put his hands on the porch railing and leaned against it lightly. “You know anything about my family, Simon?”

“Nope. Only know you.”

“My grandfather was a teacher, opened a school on the reservation in a time when most Ojibwe kids got sent away to government schools. The BIA’s approach was to do its best to rub out the Indian in Indians. My grandfather had friends on the rez and also in politics and he was able to keep a lot of children from being taken from their families. Know why he did that?”

“He appreciated the culture?”

“He was in love. With my Grandma Dilsey, who convinced him to do the right thing. He was a decent man, but it was my grandmother who guided his heart. People on the rez respected my grandfather but they loved Grandma Dilsey.

“My mother chose to marry a white man, too. And a law enforcement officer, to boot. My father was a man of strong beliefs. He tried to be fair, and I think he did a pretty good job of it, but not everybody saw it that way. A lot of white folks called him a squaw man behind his back, like they did my grandfather. The Anishinaabeg called him odeimin. Know what that means?”

Rutledge shook his head.

“Strawberry.”

“Because of his sweet disposition?”

“His ruddy Irish complexion. Now here I am, a little Indian and a lot of Irish. When folks, white or Shinnob, don’t like what I’m doing, often as not they blame it on my blood.” Cork glanced at Rutledge who was looking at the sky. “You find anyone who seemed pissed enough to shoot me dead?”

“You know the Ojibwe. For all the emotion they showed, I might as well have been talking to sticks. Nothing they told me was very useful.” He yawned. It had been a long day for him, too. “We’ve got an agent in St. Paul who’s going to St. Joseph’s Hospital tomorrow to interview Lydell Cramer. We’ll see what he has to say for himself.”

Cork heard the dismissive tone of his voice. “But?”

“I’ve got to tell you, the Indian connection seems pretty strong. Whoever the shooter was, he knew the territory, knew the Tibodeaus’ schedule, and knew it would most likely be you who responded to the call.”

“Could mean it’s just someone who’s a good strategist.”

“You make it sound like a war.”

“I don’t think it’s over. Do you?” Cork said.

Rutledge put his hands in his pockets, hunched his shoulders. “He went to a lot of trouble and didn’t get what he wanted. No, I don’t think it’s over.”

Cork looked up and down the empty street. “Then it is a war. What do we do in the meantime?”

“Follow up on the tire castings and see what ballistics can tell us about the weapon.” He saw Cork scrutinizing the neighborhood. “Worried?”

“He drew me out where there wouldn’t be witnesses. I don’t think he’ll try anything here.”

“Even so, it might be best to confine yourself to your office for a while. No rural calls.”

“I’m not going to hide, Simon.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I won’t be stupid.”

“All right.” Rutledge started down the porch steps. “I’ll be in touch.”

Cork watched the agent get into his car and drive away. Night was pressing hard against the last stubborn light of day. He stood a few minutes longer on the front porch, peering deeply into the places where night and shadow already met. He turned his back to the street, felt a prickle run the length of his spine, the brief anticipation of a bullet, then he stepped inside.

He was following his father through a stretch of pine woods he didn’t recognize, following him at a distance. Liam O’Connor loped ahead, a giant of a man, putting more and more distance between himself and his son with each stride. He broke through shafts of sunlight, flashing brilliant for a moment, all gold. In the next instant he dropped into shadow. Cork tried to call out to him, to bring him back, but his jaw felt rusted shut, and all he could push through his lips was a desperate, incoherent moan. He struggled to run faster, to catch up so that he could throw his arms around his father and hold him forever. From somewhere in the pine boughs above came the harsh taunts of crows. He realized that everything around him had been perfectly still until the birds shattered the silence, and he became afraid. The cawing turned into the rattle of gunfire, and he saw that it was not his father he was chasing but Marsha Dross. As he watched, blood bloomed on the blouse of her uniform and she fell. Cork fought to free his legs, which had sunk deep into a bed of pine needles that held him like quicksand. The gunfire again became the cawing of the birds, and the cawing became the ringing of the phone in his bedroom as he pulled himself awake.

“Sheriff?”

“Yeah.”

“Sheriff, it’s Bos.”

Cork registered that it was Boston Swain, the night dispatcher.

“You awake?”

“I’m here. What time is it?”

“Three A.M. You’re sure you’re awake.”

Cork wiped away tears but was quite sure he was awake. “What is it, Bos?”

“Sheriff.” She paused a moment, perhaps waiting for Cork to affirm that his eyes were open. “It looks like we’ve got a homicide.”