William Krueger - Northwest Angle

“That’s the size of it,” Cork said.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why risk your lives for a child not even yours?”

“We saw what was done to your sister.”

“And you thought it was me and that I’d do something like that to her baby?” Smalldog sounded as if all the pieces were falling into place for him.

“I didn’t know who you were, only that you were hunting us.”

“And when you found out who I was, you still believed I could have done it.” Anger had returned to his voice and tension to his body. “You thought because I’m Indian I would do a thing like that to my own sister? Chimook .” He spat out the unkind Ojibwe word for a white man.

“Anishinaabe indaaw,” Cork said. I am Anishinaabe.

“You’re Shinnob?”

“My grandmother was true-blood Iron Lake Ojibwe.”

“You don’t look Shinnob.”

“And you look like a man who might have killed his own sister. How can either of us be sure?” Cork waited a moment. “It’s clear to me now that you thought we were the ones who killed Lily. Why would we do that?”

“I didn’t know. I only knew she was dead, and there were two strangers out there with her baby. You tell me what you would have thought.”

The tone of the conversation had become more reasonable, Rose believed, but the man still held the knife to her throat.

“Did you think that we were part of the Seven Trumpets people?” Cork asked.

“Or sent by them. You’ve been out to their island a lot the last couple of days.”

“Put that knife down and we’ll talk,” Cork said. “I think we all want the same thing here, the safety of the child, and there’s a great deal we need to know.”

The man didn’t move. Rose continued to feel the trickle of her blood. The room was deathly quiet, and she could hear the pound of her heart in her ears. She prayed silently, Dear Lord, please let this end well.

At last, the blade came away. She felt the jerk of Smalldog’s body as he threw the knife. She watched it somersault in the air, and the blade sank deeply into the floorboard at Cork’s feet. The knife, frightfully large, quivered a moment, then was still.

In the instant that followed, Rose heard the sound of boots fast at her back, and the grunt of Smalldog, and the man dropped beside her. Rose turned. Seth Bascombe stood behind her, his rifle poised in a way that made it clear he’d used the butt to take down the Ojibwe.

“Spotted his boat in a cove the other side of the island,” Bascombe said. “Found his tracks on the trail there, headed this way. Figured he’d try something like this, sneak up and slit your throats. The son of a bitch.” The big man spat. He glared down where Smalldog lay on the floor, unmoving. “Hope I killed him.”

FORTY-FOUR

Smalldog lay unconscious across the cushions of the sofa Bascombe kept in the small open area of the lodge. Anne, who’d received some nursing training during her stay with the Sisters of Notre Dame de Namur in El Salvador, cleaned his wound and said, “We should get him to a hospital and have his head X-rayed. He’s got substantial swelling back there.”

“Ice’ll take care of that,” Bascombe said without sympathy. “I think we should tie him up before he comes to.”

Cork said, “I know your heart was in the right place, Seth, but you may have killed any hope we had of getting through to this man.”

“We don’t need to get through to him,” Bascombe said. “We got him right where we want him. Now all we need to do is call the sheriff and have this piece of crap hauled away. Except I can’t do that.”

“Why?” Mal asked.

“I came in the back way, same as Smalldog. I saw that he cut my phone line. Tom, maybe you better get to the Angle, give your boss a holler.”

Kretsch nodded. “If nothing else, we’ve got Smalldog on assault.”

“He didn’t hurt me,” Rose threw in quickly. “I think he was only concerned about the safety of the child, same as us.”

Cork held up the knife that Smalldog had pressed against Rose’s throat. “He let her go, Tom. He threw this away. To me, that says we need to talk to him and listen to what he has to say.”

Bascombe looked astounded, stared at them all as if he were dealing with a group of imbeciles. “You may be Ojibwe, Cork, but you’re also former law enforcement. Can’t you tell a manipulative, psychopathic liar when you meet one? I say Tom and me haul him to the mainland, call the sheriff, and turn him over.”

“He’s injured,” Anne said.

“Let the sheriff worry about that,” Bascombe shot back. “We need to cuff him and transport him before he wakes up. When he opens his eyes, he’ll be plenty mad and not easy to control.”

“Before we move him, we should let him wake up,” Anne argued. “We should make sure he’s in shape to travel.”

“What if he doesn’t wake up?” Bascombe spoke as if the idea appealed to him.

Cork said, “Tom, maybe you should head to the Angle and bring Lynn Belgea back so she can take a good look at Smalldog. You could call the sheriff while you’re at it.”

“Cuff him first,” Bascombe said.

“Probably a good idea,” Kretsch agreed. He took the handcuffs from his duty belt and clamped them over the Ojibwe’s wrists. He handed the key to Cork. “Until we have a chance to talk to him, we ought to assume the worst, so keep a good eye on him, okay?”

“Will do,” Cork said.

“I’ll go with you,” Bascombe offered.

“No need,” Kretsch told him.

“I want to get someone out here to fix my phone ASAP,” Bascombe replied. “And we’re getting low on food. I’ll pick up a few necessities while I’m there.”

Kretsch shrugged. “All right.”

Sarah stood quietly in a corner, as if trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. Cork had briefly introduced her but hadn’t had time to fill the others in on the reason for her presence.

Bascombe nodded in her direction. “Maybe we should bring her along. Get her safely to the Angle and out of reach of those religious zealots.”

“No,” the woman said. “I want to stay here.”

“Suit yourself,” Bascombe said. “Ready, Tom?”

“We’ll be back as soon as we can,” Kretsch promised.

The two men headed out, and Cork watched them pull away in Kretsch’s boat. At his back, he heard Rose ask, “Would you like some coffee?” He turned and saw that she’d approached Sarah and was smiling gently at the woman.

Sarah looked Rose over carefully and finally said in a soft voice, “Yes.”

Rose went to fetch the pot from the kitchen.

Cork said, “Sarah, why don’t you sit down and tell the others your story, if you’re willing.”

She moved like a ghost, silently and as if she had no substance. She seemed to Cork a woman used to being invisible. She sat in one of the chairs at the table, and Rose set a mug in front of her and filled it from the pot. She picked it up, closed her eyes, and sipped, then drank greedily.

“I haven’t tasted coffee in years,” she said. “Those people, they believe it’s an evil.”

“Those people?” Rose said. “Isn’t one of them your husband?”

Cork said, “Why don’t you tell them everything, Sarah?”

And he listened as she told again the story he’d first heard on Kretsch’s boat. She stared down at her hands and began hesitantly, in a way that made Cork think she was unused to speaking to so many people at once.

“My father, see, he was a pretty hard man, real disappointed in life. My mother died when I was a kid, and my father and me, we just kind of drifted around. He was a drunk. He’d earn a little, drink a lot, get mad at the world, beat me up. He blamed me and everyone and everything else for what he called his misfortune.”