William Krueger - Copper River

“There isn’t. Not until you get to the trestle.”

“Which connects with an abandoned logging camp on one end and a main line twenty miles away on the other. What would it take to come up that line twenty miles?”

Ren crossed his arms and hunched his shoulders. “I don’t know. Something rugged. SUV or ATV maybe.”

“Can you think of a reason someone would make that kind of trip into this kind of wilderness only to dump a body into a river that had the potential to deliver it back to civilization?”

Ren shook his head. “That would be stupid.”

Cork tried to fight his fatigue, but he could feel himself getting drowsy. He wanted to stay with Ren, to guide the boy to the end of this thinking.

“If it’s true these people are trying to get rid of Charlie because she saw the body in the river, then it’s the river that’s important. Besides the summer cottages and the trestle, where upriver is there easy access?”

Cork had to close his eyes again, he was so tired. He waited. Finally the boy said, “The Copper River Club. You think she came from the Copper River Club.”

“You’re a smart kid, Ren. Now I need a nap.”

He didn’t even hear the boy leave, but his sleep was a restless one. At one point he thought he heard a vehicle pull up outside and he thought dreamily, The women. He sank immediately back into his slumber and into a dream in which a cougar was chewing on the inside of his thigh.

A knock at his door woke him, and he climbed to a hazy consciousness.

“Yeah?”

“It’s me. Ren.”

“Your mom home?”

“Can I come in?”

Later, Cork would think how the boy had sounded timid, even a little afraid, but at the moment he was too sleepy to notice.

“Come ahead.”

Cork closed his eyes tightly, this time to clear the sleep from them. He worked his neck and shoulders a little, which were sore from fighting to hold himself on the ATV. He let out a deep breath and pushed himself into a sitting position. Then he realized the boy wasn’t alone.

C ork recognized the man who accompanied Ren into the cabin. He’d been at the old resort the previous day looking for the boy and for Charlie. The newspaperman. Johnson-was that his name?

“I apologize for barging in like this, Sheriff O’Connor,” the man said. Despite the barging in, he’d stopped a discreet distance from Cork’s bunk. “I explained to Ren the necessity.”

“Is it okay?” Ren asked, looking concerned.

“It’s okay,” Cork said. Then he addressed the man, who once again reminded him of some bulky kitchen appliance with powerful legs attached. “You called me Sheriff. What exactly do you know?”

“Mind if I pull up a chair?”

“Might as well,” Cork said. “This feels like it could take a while.”

Johnson-Cork remembered his first name now: it was Gary-took a chair from the table, swung it close to the bunk, and sat down. Despite his size, his movements had the fluid grace of an athlete. Ren hovered in the background, still looking as if he were afraid he’d done something wrong.

“I apologize for prying, but it’s pretty much the nature of my job, eh.” Johnson smiled.

“Just tell me what you know.”

“First of all, let me explain that all this is mostly by accident. On the other hand, what I know about reporting is that if you’re good, you somehow end up in the right place at the right time. See, I thought Charlie might show up here, so I hiked over early this morning to keep an eye out for her.”

“Hiked?” Cork shifted his hurting body and winced. “You came in on the Killbelly Marsh Trail?” He was thinking of the boot tracks.

“That’s right.” The newspaperman rubbed his hands together, fingers thick as brats. “I set up my stakeout behind the shed. As it got light, I noticed the bullet holes in the car parked back there. I took a good look and discovered blood all over the front seat. Believe me, that struck every reporting nerve in me. I didn’t have the patience to wait around hoping for a glimpse of Charlie. I hoofed it back to my office and began making phone calls.

“Sheriff Corcoran O’Connor of Tamarack County, Minnesota, currently suspended from duty for failing to comply with a regulation requiring psychological counseling following involvement in an officer-related shooting.”

He paused for a breath.

“Also very recently implicated in the murder in Winnetka, Illinois, of one Benjamin Jacoby, although according to my sources the police don’t really consider you a suspect. At the moment, however, they’re quite concerned that you’ve disappeared during the course of their investigation. The car with the bullet holes came from a lot in Kenosha, Wisconsin. Honest John’s Quality Used Cars, to be exact, purchased with cash by a man who signed as Liam O’Connell. Three nights ago, police in Kenosha investigated a report of shots fired at the Lake Inn and the disappearance of the man who’d checked into Room 111, a man registered as Liam O’Connell and whose description-medium height, medium weight, thinning red-brown hair-would certainly fit you.” He paused, opened his big hands as if expecting something to be delivered into them, and said, “So who tried to kill you in Kenosha, Sheriff?”

“You’re a pretty smart guy. Why don’t you tell me?”

“Could have been a random act of violence, I suppose. But that would be a pretty big coincidence, eh.” Johnson sat back and the joints of the chair creaked. “From what I understand, this man murdered in Winnetka was from a connected family. The father’s a real hard-ass, blames you for his son’s death. Nobody would confirm this but I suspect, given the man and his connections, that he’s put out a contract on your life.”

“Suppose that were true, think all your poking around has helped my situation any?

Johnson nodded seriously. “I did my best to be discreet, Sheriff.”

“You haven’t done me any favors, Mr. Johnson.”

“Gary. Call me Gary, eh.” He leaned toward Cork again, and again the chair complained. “Look at it from my perspective. I see you here yesterday, limping, with a bulge near your crotch that’s got nothing to do with anatomy. Then I stumble across that shot-up car of yours. Charlie’s missing, her old man’s dead. So I’m trying to put together a lot of disparate pieces of information, thinking that the more I know, the clearer the whole picture will become.”

“What’s going on has nothing to do with that girl’s situation.”

“I know that now.” Johnson nodded toward the bloodied jeans Cork had dropped in a heap on a chair near the table. “You were hit in the Kenosha shootout. You came up here hoping Jewell could fix you. How bad is it?”

“I’ll live. These sources you mentioned, who are they?”

“Colleagues.”

“Chicago reporters?”

The man only stared at him, but Cork sensed that he’d hit the nail on the head.

“Great,” he said. “Now they’re down there asking all the wrong questions of all the wrong people.”

Cork wanted to get up out of the bunk and slug the man, but he didn’t have the strength, and what good would it do now? He heard a vehicle drive up outside. Ren opened the door.

“Mom!” he called.

A minute later the others walked in. Gary Johnson stood up politely in their presence and said, “Hello, Jewell. Ms. Willner. Hey there, Charlie. Come on in and join the party, eh.”

R en stood back, feeling bad, as if he’d failed because he hadn’t protected Cork from the newspaperman. Mr. Johnson had surprised him with the things he already knew, and he’d talked in a convincing way about how he needed to see Cork in person so he could help straighten everything out. Ren liked Mr. Johnson but he couldn’t help thinking now that the newspaperman had tricked him. Ren didn’t believe that he’d been stupid, said anything he shouldn’t. Still, he felt lousy.