William Krueger - Copper River

For Jewell

That beauty which to itself is hid – the sun not risen, the moon behind a lid of cloud -

She shut the notebook without reading further, thinking with a flutter in her stomach, Beauty? Me?

She eased the drawer closed.

Less than an hour later, Olafsson returned. Deputy Baylor-Flo-had come back from her pursuit empty-handed and had made the call that clearly she dreaded. She had explained over the phone what happened and it was clear from her silence and her grim face the tone of Olafsson’s response. When he strode into the office, he gave her a withering look, but said nothing.

“What happened at the Copper River Club?” Jewell asked.

“Didn’t get past the gate,” he answered. “No legal reason to compel them. That Stokely, he’s one tough son of a bitch.”

“I imagine they pay him pretty well for it,” Ned said. He sat down and sniffed the white bag on his desk. “Smells good.”

“Dinner,” Jewell said. “From Kitty’s. There’s a cheeseburger left in there, and some fries. You’re welcome to it.”

“Great. I’m hungry. Split it with you, Terry?”

Olafsson dismissed the offer with a surly wave.

“What are you going to do now?” Cork asked.

“Except for his friendship with Delmar Bell,” Olafsson said, “nothing I’ve been told so far connects Calvin Stokely to anything. And except for possibly the Rohypnol, nothing at the moment connects Bell with the girl’s death. It’s all speculation. Until I have something concrete, there’s not much I can do. With those people up at the Copper River Club, I’m going to need to be on real firm legal ground every step of the way.” He rubbed the back of his neck and eyed Ren. “You have any idea where Charlene might have gone?”

Ren looked down and shook his head.

Olafsson turned to Jewell. “She was at your place today, right?”

“Yes, but I doubt she’ll head back there.”

“Hodder, you mind checking that?”

“Sure.”

“Flo and I’ll have a look at her father’s trailer on our way back to Marquette.”

Before he left, Olafsson had one last try at Ren. “Son,” he said in what sounded like his most officious voice, “if you know where your friend is and you don’t tell me, it could be very bad for you.”

“Leaning on him awfully hard, aren’t you, Detective?” Cork said. “He already told you he didn’t know.”

He gave them all a parting squint. “I’ll see what I can do about talking to this Calvin Stokely tomorrow. In the meantime, you hear from Charlene Miller, I expect to be told. Am I clear?”

When Olafsson and the deputy had gone, Ned said, “He’s not a bad guy. And he’s dealing with a lot right now.”

“Is there any reason to stay?” Jewell asked.

Ned shook his head. “Guess not. I’ll come along to your place, check it out for Charlie.”

“If she’s there, you’ll what? Turn her over to Olafsson so he can lock her up in juvenile hall?” Dina said.

“Her safety’s the issue,” Ned told her.

“If we find her, I guarantee her safety,” Dina said.

Ned looked truly apologetic. “I wish I could say that’s good enough. Let’s go, folks.”

He turned the lights out as they went together into the night.

R en didn’t sleep. He lay awake thinking, worrying, the weight of so much concern pressing on his chest. There was Stash, almost dead because of him. And Charlie, alone and on the run again. And he’d lied to the Marquette policeman, and later to his mother and Cork and Dina when they’d questioned him about where Charlie might be hiding. He was in trouble-the man named Olafsson had made that clear-and it was only going to get worse.

An hour after he heard his mother go to bed and Dina lie down on the sofa in the living room, where she insisted on sleeping to help protect them, he threw back the covers and dressed in the dark. He folded a blanket and put it in a knapsack he pulled from his closet. From under his bed, he took a package of bologna and what was left of a loaf of bread, which he’d sneaked from the kitchen earlier that night, and he put these in the knapsack, too. It wasn’t gourmet but it would keep Charlie from starving. He grabbed a flashlight from his desk drawer and tugged his jacket on. He opened his bedroom door and listened. He could hear Dina making small snoring noises as she slept. As quietly as he’d ever moved, he crept past her, turned the dead bolt, and eased the front door open. A moment later, he’d slipped into the night.

Clouds had rolled in obscuring the moon. The night was tar black. Ren couldn’t even see the ground at his feet. He switched the flashlight on and headed toward the Killbelly Marsh Trail. He moved quickly, afraid that his mother or Dina, if they woke, might look out and see the beam, and understand. He’d lied to them already; if his mother called to him, he didn’t want to compound his sin with disobedience, though he would if it came to that. Charlie needed him.

The night wasn’t only dark; it was dead still. The crunch of autumn leaves thundered under his boots. Whenever he stepped on a fallen branch, the dry snap was like a gunshot. To anything in the woods that might be interested, his presence was being broadly announced.

Black trees walled the narrow corridor of the trail. Whenever Ren heard a sound and swung the beam right or left, the trunks seemed to leap at him. The sounds, he told himself, were only part of the normal noise of night, the scurrying of small critters for whom sundown meant safety from predators. It was no different from that night after his father died when he’d forced himself to stay in the woods in order to overcome his fear of the dark.

But that night a year ago there had been no hungry, wounded cougar to worry about. Too late, Ren realized he should have brought something along to discourage the big cat if they met. He spent a few minutes scouring the woods near the trail for a broken-off branch suitable to use as a club.

Well before he reached the Copper River he heard the rush of fast water. When he joined the main trail, he turned west toward the Hurons and made his way along the rocky bank. He remembered the scat Cork had found, and the speculation that because the animal was wounded it used the trail.

Please, God, he prayed silently, don’t let it be here.

He’d been on the Copper River Trail hundreds of times over the years, and if anybody had asked him he would have said he could walk it blindfolded. Stumbling along in the dark with only the thin, wobbly finger of the Coleman beam pointing the way, he realized what a dumb boast that would have been. At night, everything felt different-or this night, anyway, with so much hidden by the dark and with every clumsy step giving him away. He knew deep down how lame the stick in his right hand would be if the cougar caught his scent and was desperate to feed.

What moved him forward step by faltering step was thinking that Charlie had faced the same problems making her way to the one place she believed was safe.

He rounded a bend a quarter mile from the old mine and came alongside a place where the river ran flat and smooth and everything was quiet. From far behind him came the sound of something heavy hitting the ground in a tremendous crackle of the brittle leaves that blanketed the trail. He held his breath. The only sound then was the soft gurgle of the river. He swung around. His flashlight beam created a tunnel thirty or forty yards long in which he saw nothing but empty trail. He flipped the light off and stood another minute, listening intently, focusing all his senses on the enormous circle of black at whose center he stood.

His father had once told him that although an artist might work in images on paper or canvas, good artists were in touch with all their senses and knew how to use them creatively.