William Krueger - Copper River

“Who are they?”

“Professionals.”

“You mean like hit men.”

“Yeah, like that.”

“Why do they want you dead?”

“They’ll be paid handsomely for it.”

“Who put up the money?”

“A man who believes I killed his son.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

“Why does he think that?”

“Circumstances.”

“You couldn’t just talk to him?”

“I tried. He wouldn’t listen. It’s complicated.”

“So what now?”

“There are people trying to prove I’m innocent.”

“That could take a while?”

“I don’t know. Look, as soon as I can, I’ll leave.”

She put on latex gloves, pulled an Ethilon nylon suture pack from her bag, tore it open, took out the curved needle and black thread.

“I don’t hear from you in forever, then you show up on my doorstep, shot, bleeding all over everything, expecting me to take you in. Christ, that’s just like a man.”

“You’ve cut your hair,” he said.

“Easier to keep out of my way while I’m working.”

When her hand, which held the needle, descended toward the entrance wound on the outside of his thigh, he looked away. “How are you doing?”

“How am I doing?” She squinted over her work. “I go to the clinic in the morning, come home late, fix dinner, help Ren with his homework, do laundry and what I can around the house, try to go to bed so tired I don’t have to think about anything. So I guess, all things considered, I’m doing pretty shitty.”

“Long time to be grieving.”

“What do you know about grief? Damn.” She shook her head at something she’d done. Cork didn’t look and was glad she’d numbed the area first. “I still miss him. Every minute of every day. You want to know the worst part? Sometimes I hate him. Sometimes I don’t know if I’m grieving or just royally pissed at him. There.” She clipped the thread.

“I didn’t feel a thing.”

“Because I’m good. Hungry?”

“A little.”

“I’ll fix something that’ll go down easy.” She closed her bag, stood up, and headed for the door.

“Jewell, thank you.”

She paused before stepping outside. “You can thank me best by getting better and getting out of here without bringing any more trouble around.”

“As long as no one knows I’m here, you and Ren are okay, I promise.”

“Good. I’ve had enough of people I care about dying.”

In the late afternoon air outside Cabin 3, she stood a moment, breathing out her anger, her despair, still feeling the hurt of a wound that hadn’t healed. In the cabin at her back, Cork O’Connor coughed.

Men, Jewell thought. All they’d ever brought her was trouble.

Bodine, Michigan, was the end of the line. It lay near the terminus of thirty miles of poorly maintained county road that ran northwest out of Marquette along the shore of Lake Superior. It was Anatomy of a Murder territory, a place that despite its beauty was probably best filmed in black and white. For decades Bodine had been fighting a slow death.

To the south and west rose the Huron Mountains, thick with timber. Beyond that lay the Copper Country where the red-brown native ore leached out of the Keweenaw Peninsula and spread its veins through much of the western U.P. Stretching north all the way to the horizon was the vast blue of Lake Superior, which became, somewhere far out of sight, part of Canada. On good, clear days, you could see the Keweenaw curling out of the west, protecting Bodine from the worst of the gales that swept across the lake in late fall, storms that had spelled doom for generations of sailors. Looking east from Bodine, you could almost see the spot where the water had swallowed the Edmund Fitzgerald.

On this late Saturday afternoon, Bodine, population 1,207, was quiet as usual. Ren straddled the ATV his father had purchased for the old resort, and Charlie held on tight behind. For nearly a mile, he drove along the drainage ditch at the side of the road. Then he came onto the asphalt, crossed the iron bridge over the Copper River, and entered town. Legally, he couldn’t drive on a roadway, but in Bodine, a place used to ATVs and snowmobiles and anything else that would lure the tourists, no one paid much attention to that detail. He passed the Superior Inn, a lodge and restaurant of lacquered yellow pine logs, and the Supervalu market, where the parking lot was almost empty, and pulled to a stop in front of Kitty’s Cafe. Charlie sprang off the seat with the flourish of a gymnast and bounced to the cafe door.

“Jesus, you’re like a slug or something,” she called to Ren, and disappeared inside.

They sat at the counter and ordered pasties, chocolate shakes, and fries. Pasties were small pies consisting of meat, vegetables, and gravy completely enclosed in a flaky crust. They were a local favorite, an import brought by Cornish immigrants who’d come to that part of Michigan in the late 1800’s to work the copper and iron mines. While they ate, Charlie made fun of the other customers, some of them locals, some tourists come for the fall colors. The customers, for their part, eyed Charlie-her buzzed head, her piercings, her dirty clothing-as if she were an animal who’d wandered out of the woods.

When they finished, Ren pulled out the money he’d taken from his mother’s purse and paid the bill.

Outside, the sun had settled on the tops of the distant Huron Mountains and the air was cooling fast with the approach of evening. Ren knew he should head back to the resort to help his mother with the man in Cabin 3, but he’d already wasted most of the day sitting by the man’s bed, and he wasn’t eager to return.

At that opportune moment Stash appeared.

“Hey,” he called out, and skateboarded across the street toward the cafe. Stash was never without his skateboard. Taller than Charlie and Ren, older by a year, he wore his dark hair long. He was dressed as usual in baggy jeans that rode low on his butt, a black T-shirt a couple of sizes too large, and Doc Martens. A long, thin chain connected to a belt loop hung against his thigh and disappeared into his back pocket where he kept his wallet.

“Dudes, I was looking for you. I’m heading to the river, thinking of smoking a little weed. Want to come?”

“I’m there,” Charlie said.

“Yeah, okay,” Ren agreed. “Hop on,” he said, indicating his ATV. “You can ride behind Charlie.”

Before they could mount up, three teenagers rounded the corner beyond the cafe and made straight for Ren and his friends.

“Circus must be in town,” the boy in the lead said. “Check out the freaks.”

“Ah, shit,” Stash said. “Greenway and his Nazis.”

“Be cool,” Ren said.

Charlie ignored him. “Make like a bee,” she said to Greenway, “and buzz off.”

The big kid smiled. Goose Jablonski and Kenny Merkin smiled, too. They all wore gold and blue Bodine Bobcats letter-man jackets.

“Yeah, and who’s going to make us?” Greenway said.

“Bite me,” Stash said under his breath.

Greenway turned to him. “What did you say?”

“Nothing,” Stash said.

Charlie stepped forward. “He said fuck off.”

“Whoa. The junior dyke’s flexing her muscles. What do you think?” Greenway said, addressing his buddies. “Maybe she really was born with balls.”

“Leave her alone,” Ren said.

“Shut your hole, Pocahontas. You’ll end up with your head split open just like your old man.”

Ren threw himself at Greenway with all the fury his small body contained. The larger boy stumbled back a step, then held his ground. He wrapped Ren in a powerful hug, flung him to the ground, and sat on him. He gave Ren a couple of hard open-handed slaps before Charlie kicked him in the ribs. Greenway toppled over, holding his side. Goose grabbed Charlie and gripped her in a headlock before she could dance away. He squeezed until her face turned red.