William Krueger - Tamarack County

So full of gratitude he could barely speak, Cork said, “ Migwech, Henry. Chi migwech. ”

Hank Wellington, Meloux’s son, was a wealthy man, and rather famous in Canada. He’d been lost to his father for most of both their lives, but a few years earlier, because of Cork, they’d found each other. Wellington was in his seventies and still a handsome man. You could see the father in the face of the son-the broad nose, the prominent bone structure, the eyes that were dark and intelligent and compassionate.

After their greetings, Cork asked, “How did Henry hear about Stephen?”

“He didn’t,” Wellington replied. “We didn’t find out until we arrived in Aurora.”

“Then why did you come?”

“My father had a vision. I didn’t have a choice. I’m sorry for all this trouble, Cork.”

“Thank you.”

“Where’s my father now?”

“Henry wanted to be alone with Stephen.”

Wellington glanced at Anne, who was sitting with Skye on the waiting room couch. “Your daughter filled me in on most of what I didn’t know. If there’s anything I can do to help, you’ve got it.”

“When I figure out what that is, Hank, I’ll let you know. Look, I need coffee. You want some?”

“From a vending machine, or the real stuff?”

“At this time of night, we’ll be lucky if the vending machine isn’t asleep.”

“I’ll pass, thanks.”

“Annie, Skye? Want some coffee?”

They shook their heads in unison, and Cork turned to leave. Before he’d taken a step, Marsha Dross walked in. She was still wearing her parka, and the shoulders were dusted with snow. She was carrying a large envelope. Her eyes immediately settled on the man she didn’t know.

Cork introduced her to Wellington and explained his presence.

“Meloux’s here?” she said.

“With Stephen, at the moment.”

It was clear that she had a purpose in coming, and she wasted no time. She opened the envelope she’d brought and drew out an eight-by-ten photograph, which she handed to Anne.

“Do you recognize that man?” she asked.

Anne studied the photo, then said, “He’s the one. He shot Stephen.”

Cork reached out, and Anne gave him the picture. It was a blowup of a standard mug shot, a police booking photograph. The man didn’t look particularly criminal. He had thin hair, which was cut very short, showing a lot of scalp. His cheeks were puffy, suggesting that he carried a little extra weight. The photo was black and white, so the irises of his eyes had no color, but they were clear, which suggested pale blue. The man stood against a height chart that measured him at five feet ten inches. Cork placed him in his early thirties. The most dramatic feature was a large mole on the guy’s cheek, just left of his nose. Cork knew he was looking at the man who, more than a month ago, had sat in the casino bar, eyed Stella Daychild in a way that scared her, then followed her home to the rez.

“Frogg?” he asked Dross.

“Yes. It’s from his last booking, almost eight years ago.”

“Anything on him since they let him out of Stillwater?”

“No. At least not that we’ve found so far. No violations or arrests in Minnesota.”

“Does he own a registered vehicle?”

“A nineteen ninety-five Ford Ranger. Green.”

“Driver’s license address?”

“DMV has him in an apartment building in Duluth. Pender’s on his way down there now. He’s already in touch with Duluth PD. We’ve got him, Cork.”

“When he’s in cuffs, you’ve got him,” Cork said. Then he said, “Thanks, Marsha.”

“I’m heading back to the department. I’ve got a couch there with my name on it. When I hear from Pender”-she paused and gave Cork a tired smile-“that he’s got Frogg in cuffs, I’ll let you know.” She took the photograph and returned it to the envelope. “Mr. Wellingon, ladies,” she said in parting, turned, and left.

When she’d gone, Cork said, “About that coffee. Still no takers?”

He got a cup from the cafeteria, which was closed except for the vending machines. It was pretty bad brew, but it was hot and caffeinated.

When he returned to the waiting room, Meloux was there. The old Mide looked at him calmly and said, “Stephen would like to see you.”

* * *

He’d come up from a place of dreaming. And there was Meloux, bending over him, and he thought he must still be in a dream.

“Stephen,” the old Mide said. “It is good to see you.”

“Henry?” The word came out a weak croak.

“You have been on a journey. But I think you are coming home now.”

“What . . . ?” He couldn’t manage a full question.

“What happened? You faced our majimanidoo .”

“I don’t . . . I don’t remember.”

“That is not important now.”

Stephen closed his eyes, opened them, and found that Meloux was still there. “It was bright. I heard you call my name.”

“The path you were on is a good one, Stephen.” The old man put his hand gently, reassuringly on Stephen’s shoulder. “A good one. But I think it was not your time. I am glad you heard me.”

Stephen tried to turn his head, but something restrained him. He moved his eyes over what he could see from where he lay, all of it white and sterile looking. “Hospital?”

“Yes.”

Then he remembered something, something frightening. “Annie?”

“She is fine, Stephen. She is with your father and her friend. Would you like to see them?”

Stephen closed his eyes. When he opened them next, his father was beside the bed, and behind him were Anne and Skye.

“Hey, guy,” his father said gently. “How’re you feeling?”

“Tired. Confused.”

“I can imagine.”

Stephen’s eyes drifted to Anne. “You’re okay?”

She stepped up next to her father. “Yeah. How about you?”

He tried to smile, but couldn’t tell if he’d succeeded. “Never better. Still not real sure of things.”

A stranger came into Stephen’s field of vision, a woman dressed all in white, who said, “I need everyone out of here.”

His father said, “We’ll be back, Stephen.”

Anne bent and kissed his cheek. “God heard our prayers,” she whispered.

“Hallelujah,” Stephen said and knew the smile he gave her this time was successful. “Dad, could I talk to you for a minute? Alone?”

“Sure.” Although the others left, the nurse remained until his father said to her, “Just for a minute, please.”

The nurse nodded and vanished.

When they were completely alone, his father leaned close to him and said, “What is it, guy?”

“I didn’t want to say anything while Annie and Skye were here.”

“Say what?”

Stephen looked up into his father’s eyes and tried not to sound too afraid. “I can’t feel my legs.”

Although the hospitalist had arranged for an airlift to Duluth, the weather had turned lousy, bringing heavy snow and a fierce wind. Stephen went by ambulance instead. Cork, Anne, and Jenny followed in the Land Rover. Skye had volunteered to stay behind with Waaboo, who was still asleep in his bed in the house on Gooseberry Lane. Deputy Weber was at the house as well, continuing protective duty. But he wasn’t alone. When Cork had returned home briefly to deliver Skye and to pick up Jenny, he’d found the Studemeyer brothers parked on the street in their truck. As Cork approached them, Wes rolled down his window, letting loose a cloud of cigarette smoke.

“What’s up?” Cork asked.

“Heard about that bastard going after your boy, Cork. Heard that he’s still out there somewhere, and that he might be looking to take a shot at one of your other kids. Figured it might be helpful if we made a show of force here, make him think twice about trying something else.”