William Krueger - Tamarack County

“You know about what’s happened in Tamarack County?”

“I’ve been told that Evelyn is missing and that a bloodied knife has been found in the garage of her home. Her home and the Judge’s.”

Cork was surprised that when LaPointe spoke that last name there was no enmity in it.

LaPointe asked, “Do you believe the Judge has harmed her?”

“That’s a possibility,” Dross replied. “But other things have occurred that make me think something else may be going on.”

She explained to LaPointe all the pertinent recent events in Tamarack County. The man listened intently, his brown eyes tired but filled, Cork thought, with genuine concern.

When Dross finished, LaPointe asked, “How can I help you?”

Cork said, “Otter, tell us about Evelyn Carter.”

“We were lovers,” the man replied without any hesitation. “Briefly. It happened just before I began seeing Karyn Bowen.”

“How did it come about?”

“The same way it came about with Karyn. Evelyn brought her car into the garage to be repaired. She may have been fifty, but let me tell you, she looked good behind the wheel. I talked with her, fixed the car, offered her some advice, and tossed her a line. I was a brash kid. I did that a lot in those days. She caught it, and things developed from there. She was such a lonely woman, and I took advantage of that. Still, it was nice for a while, for both of us.”

“The Judge knew?” Dross asked.

“I didn’t think so. Not then.”

“I spoke with the Judge’s daughter,” Dross said. “She told me that, in fact, her father did know about her mother’s affair.”

“When I saw Evelyn a few days ago, she told me the same thing.”

He coughed, coughed a bit more, then lapsed into a fit of coughing. He held a white washcloth to his mouth and, at the end of the spasm, folded in it whatever his lungs had expelled. He took a long time to get his breath back and to continue.

“Are you all right, Cecil?” the warden asked.

He nodded, managed a faint smile, and said, “Evelyn told me that was why she cut off the affair so abruptly and without ever giving me any idea that the end was coming. She stopped calling, stopped coming by the truck stop. I saw her occasionally after that, maybe driving down the street, but she never looked at me. I figured she’d had the fling with an exotic Indian and was done. When she visited me last week, it was to apologize for having wronged me. She said she was getting ready to leave her husband, to leave Minnesota for good, and she wanted to make amends.”

“Wronged you how?”

“For giving the Judge reason to want me here.” He indicated the infirmary and, by extension, the prison.

“And reason to ensure that Ray Jay Wakemup never told anyone else the truth about that night with Karyn Bowen,” Dross said.

Cork added, “And reason to make certain the parole board never set you free.”

“At first,” LaPointe said. “Then being released became unnecessary.”

“Why?” Cork asked.

“White Eagle began to speak to me. I found my life, found it here behind stone walls and iron bars. For the first time I could ever remember, I felt free. What White Eagle helped me understand is that freedom has nothing to do with walls or bars or chains. It isn’t out there. It’s here.” He raised his hand and touched his forehead. “And it’s here.” His hand went to his heart. “I came to see that I had purpose, and it was to help those who, like me, would spend their lives looking up at the same small patch of sky every day. With White Eagle’s guidance, I’ve tried to offer another way of responding to life in prison, this prison or any other.”

“Prisons not made of stone, you mean,” Gilman said.

“See?” LaPointe indicated the warden with a gentle wave of his hand. “You sow the seeds of truth, and you never know where they’ll take root.”

Cork said, “So you’re fine with life here. That’s why you’ve continued to insist that you were guilty of killing Karyn Bowen, even after Wakemup came forward with the truth?”

“No one will ever know the truth of that night, Cork. If I didn’t kill that young woman myself, I was certainly guilty of bringing her into the situation. And think about this. If a general turns and runs in the heat of battle, what does that say to those he’s led? I have so little time left it doesn’t matter to me where I spend it. But it would matter to those who remain behind, incarcerated, and who believe in what I say, who’ve found hope in what I’ve passed on from White Eagle. I don’t want my case revisited. I don’t need the kind of freedom a court might offer me.”

Dross said, “I’m wondering if the incidents in Tamarack County may be because one of those who believe in you has taken it into his head to avenge you. Is that possible?”

LaPointe looked at her, his brown eyes unblinking. “The spirit of a man long dead speaks to me. Who am I to say something’s impossible? But I’ll say this. If someone has taken to heart what I try to teach, then the kinds of things going on in Tamarack County shouldn’t be part of their actions. I teach acceptance, not revenge. I teach peace, not violence. But I don’t control what goes on in the White Eagle Societies all over the country. I never had a part in creating them. They’re on their own in how they interpret my teachings and how they respond.” This last was spoken with great difficulty. He seemed exhausted and laid his head back against his pillow.

“I think you have what you came for,” the warden said. “It’s probably best we let Cecil rest.”

“Thank you,” Dross said to LaPointe.

Cork took the man’s hand, preparing to leave. “Thank you, Otter. I’m sorry for the part I played in putting you here. I simply didn’t know the truth.”

“To blame you for anything would be pointless,” LaPointe replied. “Our lives are shaped as they were always meant to be, and everyone we meet has a hand in that work. What you did, you were always meant to do. If you hadn’t, I wouldn’t be here, and it’s been a good place for me. So I thank you.”

Cork tried to let go of LaPointe’s hand, but the dying man refused to release his grip. Instead, he said, “It seems to me that, in the end, there are very few reasons to kill. The strongest, I think, is love, because it can be twisted in ways unimaginable. There’s a man who believes he loves me. A man whose heart is very twisted.”

A sweat was about many things: cleansing, healing, connecting, understanding, accepting. To unfamiliar eyes, it might seem a simple ritual; it was anything but. A good sweat demanded a respect for the nature of the process, which required patience, focus, endurance, and vulnerability. A good sweat could be cathartic and enlightening. A great sweat could be transcendent.

Stephen hoped for a good, enlightening sweat. What he received was, in its way, transcendent.

He’d chanted prayers, sweated until the blanket under him had become drenched, lost track of time, gone into a darkness not of his own making, and had emerged, at last, in a landscape that was alien to his experience. It was a barren, unnatural place, not constructed of earth or even of stone but of concrete. There were no trees, no flowers, no grass, nothing underfoot but black asphalt and nothing rising around him but gray walls. Above was an empty sky, not just cloudless but bereft of spirit, and that patch of sky was confined within a false horizon created by the gray walls. The air was not the air of Tamarack County, which even in winter, was fragrant with the perfume of pine. What Stephen breathed was the foul odor of pain, fear, distrust, loneliness, and anger. Especially anger.