Authors: William Kent Krueger
“I’ll pay you,” Willie Raye said.
Two Knives paused. “How much?”
“A thousand dollars.”
“We get an allotment from the casino profits now.” He hefted the saw and plucked at the chain to gauge the tension. “You can take your thousand dollars and shove it up your ass.”
Willie Raye moved forward a step. “I didn’t mean to insult you. I’m just plumb scared, Stormy. I got me a little girl out there, lost as a blind kitten in a kennel full of hounds. I’d give my left nut just to know she’s okay. A man loses his family, doesn’t matter what else he’s got. He’s got nuthin’. There’s no reason you should help me. No reason on earth. Except you’re the only one who can.”
Stormy Two Knives stared at him. “You her father?”
“I’m her father.”
Two Knives’ face was impassive as he stood considering. Louis reached out and touched his father’s arm. Two Knives bent down and the boy whispered.
In the quiet, Cork heard the crack and pop of twigs as someone approached from the direction of the old logging road. In a moment, Booker T. Harris and Dwight Sloane appeared. They walked to where Cork and Raye stood and Harris addressed Stormy Two Knives.
“Is your name Hector Two Knives?”
The skin around Two Knives’ eyes went tight as old leather. “Everyone calls me Stormy. Except cops.”
“Is that your Ranger parked out there?”
“That’s my Ranger.”
“Mr. Two Knives,” Harris said, taking a pair of handcuffs from his coat pocket, “you’re under arrest.”
“
U
NDER ARREST?”
Two Knives’ eyes flashed toward Cork. “What for?”
“Sloane,” Harris said.
Agent Sloane held out his hands. He wore black gloves. Cradled in the palms of his gloves was a big handgun. Cork guessed, from its size and square trigger guard, that it was probably a Ruger Super Blackhawk, .44 magnum. Not an uncommon handgun.
“I found this in the toolbox in the back of your truck,” Sloane said.
“You have a search warrant to look in the toolbox?” Cork asked.
“The lid was up,” Sloane said.
“That’s not mine.” Stormy stood rigid, the saw poised in his hands.
“You can argue that from your prison cell. This is a parole violation, Hector. You’re going back to hard time,” Harris said. “Put that saw down.”
Stormy didn’t move. “You didn’t find that in my toolbox.”
“I will testify under oath that I did,” Sloane said. He put the gun in a plastic evidence bag.
“What’s this all about, Harris?” Cork demanded.
Stormy shot Cork an angry glance. “You know them?”
“FBI,” Cork said. “That’s Special Agent in Charge Booker T. Harris. And that’s Agent Dwight Sloane. They’re looking for the woman, too.”
“Too?” Harris said. “I thought we were working together on this, O’Connor.”
“So did I,” Cork said. “I thought we agreed to do it my way.”
Stormy Two Knives regarded Cork as if he had murder on his mind.
“Read him his rights,” Harris said to Agent Sloane. He stepped toward Stormy with the cuffs in his outstretched hands. “Unless he wants to tell us where the woman is.”
“I don’t know where the woman is,” Stormy said.
“Then how do you explain this?” Harris took from Sloane another plastic evidence bag. Inside was a brown envelope, approximately nine by twelve inches. Harris slipped black leather gloves on his hands, carefully took the envelope from the bag, and held it delicately by one corner as he removed the contents—a stack of hundred-dollar bills and a piece of plain typing paper. “Care to read what the note says? Out loud, if you please.” He held the paper out for Cork to read.
“‘As agreed. For making sure our little wood nymph doesn’t leave the forest. Split it with Stormy anyway you want.’”
“There’s fifteen thousand dollars here,” Harris said, waving the stack of bills in the air.
“Where’d you get that?” Cork demanded.
“The trailer you just left. The door was open. Envelope was on the kitchen counter.”
“How convenient,” Cork responded.
Stormy Two Knives glared at the money. “I don’t know anything about it. And my uncle would never have anything to do with something like that.”
“You have a search warrant for Wendell’s trailer?” Cork asked.
“It was in plain sight,” Harris said. “And we had reason to be suspicious. Even if it doesn’t hold up in court, it’ll still be a long time before Two Knives breathes free air again. Unless he decides to help us find the woman.”
“You’re on reservation land,” Cork pointed out. “Jurisdiction here is local. You have no right to arrest this man.”
“Bullshit, O’Connor. Reservations are under federal authority,” Harris countered.
“Not this one,” Cork said. “Jurisdiction here is in the state of Minnesota. Approved by Congress. Public Law 280, passed in 1953.”
“I’m here on an investigation under the RICO statute. Hauling him in on a parole violation involving a firearm is well within the scope of my authority. Two Knives wants to argue jurisdiction, he’ll have to do it from a jail cell.”
“The hell he will.” Cork stepped between the men and Stormy Two Knives.
Sloane drew a weapon from a shoulder holster under his coat. “We will arrest you, all of you, if we have to,” he said carefully and earnestly. “It would be easier if you just cooperate.”
“I don’t know where the woman is,” Stormy told them. Again.
“Too bad. Sloane.” Harris nodded toward Stormy.
“You have the right to remain silent,” Sloane began.
“I know where she is.”
Everyone stopped and looked at the boy.
“Hush, Louis,” Stormy said.
“No,” Harris said. “Go on, son.”
“Louis,” Stormy warned.
“I don’t want you to go back to jail,” the boy said.
“They won’t—” Stormy began.
“Like hell we won’t,” Harris cut him off. “I’ll slap your daddy’s ass in jail faster than you can say Geronimo, boy.”
Louis looked at the federal agent fiercely. “He was a Chiricahua Apache. We’re Ojibwe Anishinaabe.”
Harris seemed almost on the edge of laughing. “So you are. So you are.” He knelt down to the boy’s level. “Unless we get some cooperation, Louis, I’m going to have to put your father back in jail. I don’t have a choice. You know where the woman is?”
Louis Two Knives nodded.
“Where?”
“Nikidin.”
“What’s that?”
“It means ‘vulva,’” Cork said.
“Vulva?” Harris laughed. “You mean like in vagina?”
“I don’t understand,” Sloane said.
“It’s a place, I imagine. Somewhere in the Boundary Waters,” Cork said.
“A place?” Harris still looked pretty amused. “They named a place vagina. Jesus.”
“Can you show us this place, son?” Sloane asked. “Can you show us on a map?”
The boy looked uncertain, then shrugged.
“Get us a map,” Harris told Sloane.
Agent Sloane holstered his weapon, turned, and hurried back toward the logging road.
Cork said to Harris, “You followed us. How?”
“Technology, O’Connor.”
“A transmitter of some kind? Planted on my Bronco?” Cork looked to Stormy. “I didn’t know. I swear it.”
Sloane came back with a map. He unfolded it and laid it out on a stump.
“Come over and take a look, Louis,” Harris said. He beckoned the boy to him. Stormy Two Knives made a move toward his son, but Sloane stepped in to block his way. Harris put his arm around the boy’s shoulders. “How old are you, Louis?”
“Ten.”
“Know what this is?”
“Sure. It’s a map.”
“A map. That’s right. A map of the whole Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness. Can you read this map?”
Louis took a long look at the map. Finally he shook his head.
“Take your time. I’ll help. We’re right here.” Harris put his finger on a spot near the center on the bottom.
“We never used a map,” the boy said.
“We?”
“Uncle Wendell and me.”
“You’ve been there?”
“Yes,” the boy said.
Cork said, “Louis, do you remember the names of the rivers and lakes you crossed to get to where the woman is?”
Louis nodded. “Aaitawaabik. Zhiigwanaabik. Bakwzhiganaaboo.”
“Hold it.” Harris lifted his hands. “Those don’t look like any places I see on this map.”
“Ojibwe words,” Cork said. “Louis, did Uncle Wendell tell you stories about the rivers, about the lakes?”
“Yes.”
Cork explained. “Wendell Two Knives is, among other things, an
aadizookewinini
. A storyteller. I’m guessing he made up stories about the rivers and lakes, gave them names that fit the stories he told Louis. Maybe they’re real names to the Anishinaabe. Maybe they’re just Wendell’s inventions. It would be hard to know.”
“So you’re saying Louis can’t tell us how to get there?” Harris turned his attention once again to the boy. “How far is it?”
“A long day by canoe.”
“Can you take us there?”
Stormy exploded. “No! My boy’s taking you nowhere. There’s no law can force him to go.”
“No?” Harris looked toward Sloane. “Give me the gun.”
Agent Sloane handed him the bag with the .44 he’d claimed to have found in the toolbox. Harris knelt again, putting himself at the boy’s level.
“Louis, see this gun? We found it in your father’s truck. It’s against the law for him to have this gun and he should go back to jail. But I’ll make a deal with you. If you take me to where the woman is, I give you my word your father will be all right. I won’t tell anyone about the gun.”
“You son of a bitch,” Stormy spat. He yanked the cord on the McCulloch. The saw roared to life and Stormy thrust it toward Harris. “Get away from my boy, or I swear I’ll cut you in half.”
Sloane’s gun was out of his holster in the blink of an eye. “Drop it, Hector,” he hollered over the roar of the chainsaw.
For a long moment, no one moved. Stormy Two Knives held so still, so tense that the veins on his huge arms stood out like rivers on a map. Sloane was like a tragic geometric equation, body vertical, arms horizontal, the barrel of his gun trued on a line directly to Stormy’s forehead. Then Harris made a surprising move. He stood up slowly, looked at Stormy with something very near to sympathy, and asked, just loud enough to be heard over the crying of the saw, “Do you really want your son to see this?”
Stormy glanced at Louis, who stood slightly behind Harris looking terrified. He killed the engine of the McCulloch and put the saw down.
In the relief of the stillness that followed, Cork said, “If the boy goes, his father goes with him.”
Stormy glanced at Cork and nodded almost imperceptibly.
Harris thought it over briefly. “Fair enough.”
“And him.” Stormy gestured his gloved hand toward Cork.
“O’Connor?”
Cork understood. Stormy was already confronted with a system weighted to Harris’s advantage. Once out in the woods, Harris could do anything he wanted, and who was there to challenge him?
“Yes, me,” Cork said. “And him.” He nodded at Willie Raye.
“Christ,” Harris said, noting Raye carefully for the first time. “I’ll be damned if it isn’t Arkansas Willie. I thought you were dead.”
“Those reports were greatly exaggerated,” Raye said without smiling.
“What are you doing here?” Harris asked.
“Shiloh’s my daughter,” Raye said.
Harris gave him a smile without a thimbleful of humor in it. “Is that so? Seems to me I heard once upon a time that when it came to husbandly doings, you were more likely to be doing husbands.”
Arkansas Willie’s face darkened, as if he’d entered a tunnel. He came out on the other side looking mean and hard. “She’s my daughter, you son of a bitch. You’re not going after her without me.”
“No way.” Harris shook his head adamantly.
“Arkansas Willie doesn’t go,” Cork said, “I don’t go. I don’t go, Stormy doesn’t go. Stormy doesn’t go, the boy won’t go. Long way for you to come, to not get where you’re going, Harris.”
Harris regarded them all. “Ah, shit.” He stepped away and turned his back to the men while he considered.
Stormy motioned Louis to his side. The boy obeyed and took shelter under his father’s arm. Raye mouthed a “thanks” to Cork. Sloane had lowered his weapon and was waiting.
“All right,” Harris finally agreed, swinging back around. “But this is how it’s going to be. We give the orders. You do exactly as we say or we’ll nail your asses. Understood?” Harris waved Agent Sloane toward the logging road. “Get on the radio. Put it together.”
“
S
HIT
.”
Jo O’Connor stood in a bright square of kitchen sunlight, glaring down at a cherry pie that flaunted its perfection from the pages of Rose’s opened cookbook on the counter. Flour and dough surrounded the cookbook as if there’d been a battle in a bakery. Jo’s fingers were doughy, her jeans starred with floury handprints. Her conversation earlier that morning with Rose played again and again in her mind, like a bad tune she couldn’t shake.
“You don’t really want to try this,” Rose had said, eagerly offering her sister an out.
“I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want to,” Jo replied.
“At least let me give you a few tips.”
“Tips? I’m thirty-eight years old, Rose. I make a living deciphering legal gobbledy-gook. I can certainly follow the instructions in a cookbook.”
“But—” Rose had tried.
“No buts. This is my pie.”
Rose had started to argue, then shrugged, opened her arms toward her kitchen, and proclaimed darkly, as if inviting an army to ravage that which she best loved, “Fine, then. Be my guest.”
Jo jammed her fists on her hips and eyed the mess she’d made of the kitchen. “Sweet Jesus,” she whispered, and rued her own stubbornness with Rose.
The territories of their interests had been established early. Their mother, an army nurse, moved them a dozen times when they were growing up, and a dozen times they’d faced the obstacle of being new in a place. Rose had been a plump child, freckled, terribly picked on by other children, and possessed of a gentle and uncertain spirit that kept her from fighting back. Jo had done that kind of fighting for both of them. When she was thirteen, she broke the nose of the son of a full colonel at Fort Sam Houston who’d goosed Rose, grabbed her purse, pulled out a tampon, and taunted, “Plug the ugly dyke!” Jo had been afraid her mother, whom she and Rose both called the Captain, would be angry. The Captain wasn’t. The colonel’s son not only apologized to Rose, he asked Jo to the movies. She turned him down.