William Krueger - Northwest Angle

“I don’t know what might be possible, Cork. I just know that everything that threatens this family right now isn’t necessarily out there in the dark.”

Cork rose to his feet and glared down at his brother-in-law. “When you have a family of your own to worry about, Mal, then you can start offering me advice on how to take care of mine, okay?”

“Okay,” Mal said without rancor.

“I’m going to check the cabins.”

“I’ll hold down the fort here,” Mal said.

As Cork left, the old dock groaned under his weight. The wind gusted around him, and the lake surged at his back. Wrapped up in his own fury, a rage of uncertainty and worry, Cork was numb to it all.

THIRTY-TWO

Rose had coffee going when Bascombe came into the kitchen. He walked awkwardly, still stiff from sleep. His hair was unbrushed and stuck out in tufts of black and gray. He closed his eyes and stood a moment, his nose raised, as if sniffing the wind.

“Been a long time since I woke to the good smell of strong coffee made by a woman.”

“I’ve pulled out some eggs and cheese and onion for breakfast,” Rose said, setting a wooden cutting board onto one of the counters. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind?” Bascombe laughed. “If you weren’t already taken, Rose, I’d get down on my knees and propose.”

“Hold on there,” Mal said, coming in at his back. “I’m a reasonable man, but there are limits.”

“I’ll arm-wrestle you for her,” Bascombe suggested.

“Tell you what,” Rose said. “Whoever’s willing to make pancakes, I’m all yours.”

“Done,” Mal said and got to work.

The others began to drift into the lodge. Bascombe poured them coffee while Rose and Mal prepared the meal. Jenny was the last to arrive, with the baby in his wicker basket.

“How’s the baby this morning?” Cork asked. To Rose, his concern sounded clinical.

“Doing just fine,” Jenny replied curtly.

“Coffee?” Rose offered.

“Thanks, Aunt Rose.”

Aaron sat at the table, silently observing Jenny and the attention focused on her and the baby. He didn’t attempt to greet her in any special way, Rose noticed, just sipped his coffee without apparent emotion. Rose wondered if it was exhaustion or if he was steeling himself against caring or if it was a cover for all the confusion he might be feeling.

When they were settled around the table, Rose and Anne served breakfast, and they ate and planned.

“So where do we go today?” Stephen said.

“I’d like to have a better look at Stump Island,” his father replied. “See if I can figure out what it is those folks don’t want to talk about.”

“It might not have anything to do with Lily Smalldog,” Bascombe pointed out.

“Maybe. But it’s still a question I’d like answered.”

Kretsch said, “I think we need to track down her brother.”

“Got a suggestion how we do that?”

The deputy shrugged. “Talk to some more Ojibwe over on Windigo Island.”

“You’ve dealt with the Ojibwe before?” Cork asked.

“Sure.”

“And as a police officer, do you find them particularly forth-coming?”

“Not especially,” Kretsch admitted.

“So they’d be more inclined to talk now because?”

Kretsch didn’t have an answer.

“How about we talk to Amos Powassin?” Stephen suggested. “He knows us. And if he can’t tell us anything, maybe he could introduce us to someone who can.”

Cork was quiet a moment, thinking. “That’s not a bad idea, Stephen. Mr. Powassin seemed to take to you. Maybe you should do the talking.”

“Who goes?” Anne asked and glanced in the direction of the baby.

Rose understood the reason for the question. Jenny and the baby needed protection. Someone willing to use a rifle had to stay back on Oak Island. That probably wasn’t her or Anne, though Jenny might be willing.

“Seth’s got to take us in his boat,” Cork said. “Tom should come. It would be best to have an official legal presence. Stephen, because Amos Powassin might be more willing to talk to him. And I’ll go. Mal, Aaron, you guys willing to stay and stand post?”

“Sure,” Mal said.

“You’ll need to keep a rifle.”

“I won’t promise to shoot, but I can hold the damn thing in plain sight. A deterrent, I suppose.”

“Aaron?” Cork said.

“I’ve only shot pheasants.”

“You’re one up on me,” Mal said.

“Okay,” Cork said. “We’ll leave the rifles. Probably best if you all stay together. When we get back, we’ll talk about the baby and where to take him.”

This was directed at Jenny, whose face was stone and who didn’t reply.

Cork took one last sip of his coffee and stood up.

Rose said, “Vaya con Dios.”

And Mal said, “Amen.”

The ride to Windigo Island was a rough one. The wind hadn’t let up at all. Ragged white clouds tumbled across the blue of the sky, and under the hull of Bascombe’s launch, the lake bucked and kicked like a thing alive and wild.

They rounded the southeast end of Windigo, and Amos Powassin’s small dock came into view. It was crowded with boats. As they approached, a group of men came from Powassin’s house. They carried rifles and went to their boats, and one by one they motored away, so that the dock, when Bascombe pulled up, was empty save for one small motorboat. They tied up, and as they disembarked, Cherri Allen, who’d brought them to Powassin the day before, stepped onto the narrow front porch of the blind man’s plain little house, shaded her eyes against the sun, and watched them come.

“Morning, Cherri,” Kretsch said in jovial greeting. “That looked like a posse leaving.”

Cherri didn’t reply but said darkly, “I suppose you came to see Amos.”

“Yes,” Kretsch said. “Could we talk to him?”

“Wait here. I’ll ask.”

She went inside, and a moment later, a small face appeared at the screen door and peered out at them. It was the child who’d been with Powassin on the dock fishing when they’d come the day before. She eyed them wordlessly—suspiciously, Cork thought—then disappeared again into the dark inside the house.

Powassin came to the door, pushed open the screen, and stepped out into the sunlight. He wore a white T-shirt and jeans washed until the blue was practically a memory. His blind eyes didn’t blink against the glare of the morning sun. Cherri Allen came with him and stood a little behind him, in deference to his stature.

“What do you want?” he said.

It was a neutral tone, neither inviting nor threatening. Very Ojibwe, Cork thought.

Cork nodded to Stephen.

“Grandfather,” Stephen began. “We’re trying to find Noah Smalldog.”

“Ah, Makadewagosh,” the old man said. Although his feelings about the intrusion were unclear at the moment, it was obvious he didn’t mind Stephen being there. “I’m afraid I can’t help you with that. Nobody here can.”

Can? Cork wanted to ask. Or will?

“Last night, grandfather, he tried to hurt the baby,” Stephen said.

The news obviously disturbed the old man. More lines appeared on his already heavily wrinkled face. “You saw him?”

“We did,” Stephen answered.

Though that wasn’t technically true, Cork thought. They’d seen someone, and the evidence pointed to Smalldog, but they couldn’t actually say with certainty that it had been him. Cork was tempted to clarify his son’s remark but held himself back.

The old man thought on this for a long while.

In the way of a lot of white people Cork had known, Bascombe seemed uncomfortable as the silence continued to stretch. He finally blurted, “Looked like a hunting party was leaving when we came up. What are you hunting?”