William Krueger - Northwest Angle

“All accounted for,” Kretsch said and filled them in. Boats had been damaged or destroyed, and some of the fishermen had sustained minor injuries, but all things considered, they’d been pretty lucky.

“Now, down on the south shore of the big water, that whole area between Warroad and Baudette’s been pretty well torn apart. I spoke with the sheriff this morning, and he’s got his hands full. Anything happens up here right now, we’re on our own.”

“What about the Canadian authorities?” Cork said.

“Basically in the same situation as our people. Kenora was dead center in that storm’s path, and I’m sure they’re scrambling, trying to keep things civil and ordered. That’s why I’d like to have a look at the island myself before they have to pull people off other duties to come all the way out here to the boondocks to investigate.”

It made sense to Cork. And the truth was that he wanted another chance to look the scene over himself without having to talk his way across a line of yellow crime scene tape.

“First, tell me about this girl,” Kretsch said. “And then we’ll get to the guy with the Weatherby. Can you give me a good description of her?”

Cork said, “Somewhere between sixteen and twenty years old. Long black hair. Not tall, maybe five-three or five-four. A hundred and twenty pounds. Pretty. Ojibwe.”

Bascombe crossed his meaty arms and said to Kretsch, “Lily Smalldog.”

“Don’t go jumping to conclusions, Seth,” Kretsch said. “That description would fit a lot of First Nations girls.”

“Sure, but how many First Nations girls who fit that description have been missing for four months?”

Cork cocked an eyebrow at Kretsch. “The girl’s been missing?”

“ A girl’s been missing,” Kretsch clarified.

“What happened?” Cork asked.

Kretsch ran a hand through his thick brown hair, and his boyish face took on a slightly troubled look, as if debating whether to offer Cork the details. Finally he said, “Four months ago, Lily Smalldog disappeared. She’d been working for some religious folks who own a camp on Stump Island, which is way the hell out there, south of Garden Island. One morning those folks woke up and Lily was gone. Just like that.”

“Somebody took her off the island?”

“That was certainly one of the possibilities. None of the camp’s boats were missing, so Lily didn’t take off by herself.”

“One of the possibilities?”

“There was some speculation that she might have thrown herself in the lake and drowned. They found a sweater of hers floating on the water, but we never did find a body to go along with it.”

“Any reason to think she might have killed herself?”

“According to the folks at the camp, she’d become pretty despondent.”

“Because she was pregnant?”

“They didn’t know that. That speculation began only recently. A few days ago somebody spotted Sonny Chickaway loading a big box full of baby formula onto his boat.”

“Who’s Chickaway?”

“A friend of hers. Bachelor. Lives alone. Because of all that formula, folks started putting two and two together.”

“There’s something else about Lily. She’s kind of a special case,” Bascombe added.

“Special in what way?” Cork asked.

Bascombe said, “I think these days we call those folks ‘challenged.’ ”

“Mentally retarded?”

“Mildly retarded,” Kretsch said. “Sweet as they come, that kid. Someone took advantage of her.”

“Any speculations?”

“Oh, yeah.”

It was clear from the way Bascombe spoke that this was the kind of scandal a small community chewed on with delight.

“Seth,” Kretsch cautioned.

Bascombe pushed away from the wall. “Now, Tom, you know there’s good reason for what folks are saying.”

“Christ, just tell me,” Cork said.

“Her brother, for one,” Bascombe blurted.

Cork looked to Kretsch for confirmation, and the deputy reluctantly nodded. “His name’s Noah. Noah Smalldog. He’s kind of infamous in these parts.”

“Infamous how?”

“Shady. Elusive. Hates whites with a passion. Back in the days when Indians were into scalp taking, Noah Smalldog would’ve had enough to sew himself a winter coat.”

“Criminal record?”

“Nothing serious and nothing recent. Too smart. But most folks are pretty sure he’s big into smuggling. He’s got himself a cigarette boat that can outrun anything on Lake of the Woods.”

“As I understand it, going too fast on that water can be disastrous.”

“Smalldog grew up on this lake,” Kretsch said. “His father was one of the best guides in these parts, and Smalldog did a lot of guiding himself when he was younger. I’m not sure there’s anyone knows Lake of the Woods better.”

Bascombe said, “I heard that when he smuggles he runs at night without lights or GPS.”

“This guy sounds a little mythic,” Cork said. “Like Paul Bunyan.”

“Yeah, if Bunyan had been a son of a bitch.”

“Smalldog got into trouble in his late teens,” the deputy went on. “D and D mostly, that kind of thing.”

“Just that, drunk and disorderly?” Cork said.

Kretsch shook his head. “Other things, too, but like I said, nothing really serious. It was clear that he had anger issues, and if he kept going in that direction he was looking at the possibility of jail time down the road. I guess the First Nations elders gave him the option of channeling his anger or getting run off the rez. So he joined the army and went to war. From what we heard, he was pretty good at it. Fought with the Canucks in Afghanistan. Came back a couple years ago, and pretty much disappeared in Lake of the Woods. We get Smalldog sightings all the time. Like Elvis, you know.”

“But he had this sister, Lily,” Cork said.

“Half sister, really,” Bascombe said. “Same mother, different fathers.”

“He must have had some contact with her,” Cork said. “He must have come out of hiding enough to justify the speculation that he fathered her child.”

“The folks at the camp filed complaints alleging that Smalldog sometimes trespassed at night to visit his sister.”

“Alleging?”

“They never caught him, but somebody was there. Left her little gifts,” Kretsch said.

“Gifts?”

“The camp folks figured they were bribes or payments for letting him have sexual relations with her.”

“Did they ever have her examined by a doctor after one of these visits?”

“Not as far as I know. But from what you found on that island out there, it’s clear something of a sexual nature went on.” Kretsch picked up the Rapala lure and idly touched the hook, as if thoughtlessly checking the sharpness of the barb. “So, what did this guy with the Weatherby look like?”

“My height,” Cork said. “Probably about my weight, one eighty. Long black hair in a ponytail. He had on a tan ball cap that shaded his face, so I didn’t get a good look at his features. But Indian, I’d say.”

“How old?”

“Hard to tell. A lot younger than me, but that seems like everybody these days.”

“Could be Smalldog,” Bascombe said.

“Or any number of First Nations men.” Kretsch put the lure down. “I think it’s time I had a look at that island.”

TWENTY-FIVE

Lynn Belgea stood at the open door to her home, which was nestled among a stand of tall red pine on Angle Inlet, a small community a couple of miles north of Young’s Bay Landing. She watched Rose and Jenny and Babs Larson pile out of Larson’s truck and start up the dirt path through the patch of wild grass and flowers that was her yard. At her feet stood a brown and black dog, a standard poodle, who barked at their approach and eagerly wagged his tail.