Northwest Angle (21 page)

“Didn’t go anywhere,” Bascombe reminded him.

Kretsch shook his head. “Nobody took us seriously.” He gave the phone a dour look, then lifted his eyes to Cork. “You told me you were a county sheriff.”

“Nearly a decade. A deputy for six years before that. And before that I was with Chicago PD.”

“You ever work a murder investigation?”

“Several.”

Kretsch turned his blue eyes on Bascombe. “What about you, Mr. ATF? You ever work a homicide?”

“I saw the aftermath of a couple while I was an agent,” Bascombe replied. “Never worked the investigations, but I’ve got all the instincts, Tom.”

Kretsch was quiet a moment, then hit the desk with his fist and said, “Fuck ’em. We’re getting to the bottom of things.”

And he stood up.

They tracked down the others at Lynn Belgea’s, and found Mal and Stephen and Tony Ebnet at Jerry’s Restaurant across the road from Young’s Bay Resort, where each had finished off a monster of a burger that Stephen swore was the best he’d ever tasted. They had a sack of burgers and lots of fries. They divided themselves between the two launches, Bascombe’s and Ebnet’s, and headed back to Oak Island, with Tom Kretsch along. Ebnet left them at Bascombe’s dock, saying he was always available if needed, then boated away.

They gathered in the small dining area of Bascombe’s lodge. The big man pulled out beer for those who wanted it and Coke for the others. Cork split up the burgers and fries among those who still hadn’t eaten. The baby was sleeping in his basket, which Jenny had set on the floor near her chair. They all looked to Kretsch, who shrugged and looked at Cork and said, “Where do we begin?”

Cork laid out the facts as they knew them, then spent a minute thinking, slowly turning his beer bottle on the table as he considered the elements of the situation. “Okay, let’s assume that Chickaway’s been murdered and, like the girl’s, his body’s been disposed of somewhere else. What connects these two people in a way that would get them both killed?”

“Noah Smalldog,” Kretsch said.

“That’s one possibility,” Cork agreed. “But did he kill them?”

“Why would he?” Anne asked. “His own sister?”

“And a guy who’s supposed to be his good friend,” Mal put in.

“I don’t know Smalldog, except from what people have told me,” Cork said. “Is he the kind of man capable of these things?” He glanced at Bascombe, then Kretsch.

Bascombe spoke first. “He’s a hard one to figure, but I’d say, given the right motivation, it’s something he might do.”

Kretsch shook his head. “I don’t think so. I don’t pretend to know him—I don’t think anybody on the Angle does—but it would take someone more cold-blooded than anything I’ve heard about or seen from Smalldog to do what’s been done here in the last couple of days.”

“Who around here might be capable of such things?”

“Christ, nobody in their right mind,” Kretsch said.

“I don’t think we’re dealing with a psychotic killer, Tom,” Cork said. “There’s a reason behind the murders and why they were so gruesome.”

“You think Chickaway was tortured, too?” Bascombe asked.

“There was an overturned chair and some rope in the middle of the pool of blood in Chickaway’s cabin. Same thing was true when we found Lily Smalldog. So let’s assume for the moment that he was tortured and killed in the same way she was. Why would someone do that to both of them?”

“Someone wanted to know where the baby was,” Jenny said.

“Why?” Cork asked.

Jenny looked clueless and shrugged.

Quiet followed, then Anne said, “Who took her from Stump Island and put her in that isolated cabin, and why?”

“It seems obvious to me it was because of the kid,” Bascombe said.

Anne frowned. “Why not leave her on Stump Island, where she and the child had a better chance of good care? And was she taken before or after she gave birth?”

Rose said, “Does it matter?”

“I don’t know,” Anne replied. “I’m just asking.”

“My vote is for before,” Bascombe said. “Noah Smalldog’s the father, or maybe Chickaway, and neither of them wanted her delivering the baby among white people. They snatched her, one or both of them, and took her to the cabin on that island. She delivered like Indians have been delivering for hundreds of years.”

Cork said, “So why is she dead now and why Chickaway?”

Jenny looked down at the child asleep in the basket. “It all comes back to the baby.”

“Did folks on the Angle know she was pregnant, Tom?”

“Once we all heard about Chickaway and all that baby formula he loaded on his boat, word got around pretty fast. Speculation about the father has been a popular topic since then. But I don’t think anybody knew anything before that.”

“The people on Stump Island had to know, right?” Cork said.

“If they did, they never mentioned it.”

“Who reported the girl missing?”

“Gabriel Hornett. He’s the head of the camp,” Kretsch replied.

“Did you investigate?”

“Sure. Well, as much as I could.”

“Did you talk to her brother?”

“Couldn’t find him.”

“What about Chickaway?”

Kretsch nodded. “Claimed he didn’t know anything. I asked all around the Angle and the islands and came up with zip. Then the Seven Trumpets people found a sweater that belonged to her washed up on the shore of Stump Island. Honestly, I figured that sooner or later we’d find her floating in the lake, like her mother.”

“Maybe we should have another talk with the folks on Stump Island,” Cork suggested. “They were the last to see her before she disappeared.”

“I’m game,” Kretsch said.

“Can I go?” Stephen asked.

Cork looked around the table. “Anybody else?”

Mal said, “My ankle’s killing me. I’ll stay back.”

“Seth,” Rose said, “if you’ll give me free rein in your kitchen, I’ll see about having some dinner ready when you come back. And maybe Annie would be willing to give me a hand.”

Bascombe grinned hugely and waved in the direction of the kitchen. “Be my guest.”

“I’m staying here with the baby,” Jenny said.

Aaron said, “And I’m staying with you.”

Cork eyed the baby asleep in the basket, then he eyed Jenny. “As soon as we can, we turn this child over to the authorities. For his safety and ours.” He waited for her to object, but she said nothing. “All right.” He tapped the tabletop, as if adjourning a meeting. “Let’s see what the folks on Stump Island have to say.”

W
hen her father and the others had left, Jenny took the basket with the sleeping baby and went outside. Aaron went with her. They walked to the end of Bascombe’s old wooden dock, where there was a bench, and they sat down. Across the channel lay Birch Island, a broad, unbroken shoreline of birch and aspen, yellow-green in the late afternoon sun. Forty miles north lay Kenora. Somewhere between here and there, Jenny knew, was the place where the child’s mother had suffered horribly and died. Died, she was certain, without saying a word about where her beloved little baby was hidden. Jenny felt a weight on her shoulders and understood that it was a sense of responsibility, not just to the child but to the mother.

She stared down into the basket, and her heart melted. “Look at him, Aaron. He’s so vulnerable.”

Aaron glanced, then looked away. “All babies are vulnerable, Jenny.”

“Not like him. His mother’s dead. Nobody seems to know who his father is. From everything we do know, he doesn’t have a family or anyone who cares about him.”

“The truth is that we don’t know much at all about him, Jenny. When we do, maybe we’ll know about things like family.” He eyed the child again. “And whether there’s hope for that face of his.”

Something inside her shriveled into a hard little ball. “That’s all you see?”

“It’s tough to get past.”

“What if he had a normal face?”

“What do you mean?”

“Would that make a difference in how you felt about him?”

“I don’t feel anything about him, Jenny. He’s not my child.”

“Maybe he could be.”

Aaron stood up, and the whole dock seemed to shiver. “I know where you’re headed here. But, Jenny, you’re going to have to give him over to the authorities at some point. He’ll become the responsibility of the county or the state or someone.”

“I mean, Aaron,” she said, trying to keep her voice even, “suppose we had a child and the child wasn’t perfect.”

“Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“I think it would be too late then.”

“Jesus, Jenny.” He threw his hands up, as if scattering something—crumbs, maybe—across the lake. “I love you. I want to marry you. And I’ve been thinking about this whole issue of children. Okay, I admit it scares me. It’s not something I’ve wanted in the same way as you. But I do want you, and if children will make you happy, then I’m fine with that.”

She gave him a curt little clap of her hands. “Bravo, Aaron. So rational. But I don’t want it to be something that comes from your head. I want it to come from here.” She reached out and thumped his chest over his heart.

“What I feel for you does.”

They were quiet after that, painfully so. A flight of white pelicans cut along the channel, so near the crests of the waves that Jenny was afraid their wings would catch and they would crash into the lake. She watched them curl to the west and glide smoothly to rest in the calmer water of a little bay.

“I just . . . I wasn’t expecting this,” Aaron said at last. “We’re apart two weeks, and when I see you next, you have a baby practically stuck to your breast.”

“I didn’t plan it. But I believe it’s like Amos Powassin said. He’s come to rest where he’s supposed to be.”

Aaron eyed the baby with what Jenny perceived as distaste and said, “Listen to me. You can’t keep this kid.”

“I know that.”

“Do you? Because anyone who sees the way you look at him would believe he’s yours.”

“I don’t think I want to have this discussion with you now.”

“Fine. But we’ll have to have it at some point.”

“Will we? I’d like to be alone with him right now.”

“Perfect,” Aaron said.

He walked away, and in the quiet after his leaving, she could hear the soothing spill of waves against the shore and the soft breathing of the baby asleep at her feet.

“I don’t think it’s going well,” Anne said from the window of the lodge, where she’d been watching the exchange at the end of the dock.

Mal said, “What do you think of him?”

Anne crossed her arms and gave the question a good long think. “He’s smart. He’s handsome. He loves Jenny. He seems very nice. What’s not to like?”

Mal bent and gently touched his injured ankle. “That sounds rhetorical.”

Rose came from the kitchen, holding a big package of frozen hamburger. “Not the best of circumstances under which to meet the O’Connors, you have to admit. What about meat loaf for dinner? And I can do up some garlic mashed potatoes, and there’s a big bag of peas in the freezer. Nothing for a salad, unfortunately.”

“You know,” Mal said, “I keep thinking about that girl and her situation and who might have been cruel enough or angry enough to do what was done to her. And this other one, too. This Chickaway.”

“Thinking what?” Rose said. She sat down at the table with her husband.

“I had a man in confession once who told me he had horrible thoughts about killing his girlfriend.”

“Are you allowed to tell us this?”

“I won’t tell you who he was, sweetheart. And it was a long time ago. He and God have already had a face-to-face on this issue.”

“He’s dead?”

“Yes.”

“Go on,” Rose said.

“He was inclined to kill her because she’d betrayed him, slept with another man. Sent my guy into a murderous rage. He was going to kill her, and then he was going to kill the guy she’d slept with.”

“But you talked him out of it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Did he?”

“You mean did he kill her? No. He killed himself instead.”

Anne said, “And the point is?”

“Maybe Chickaway fathered the child and took Lily Smalldog off Stump Island before she began to show and anyone would know. He hid her on that remote island and was keeping her safe there.”

“Safe from Smalldog?”

“That’s what I’m thinking. Because he knows Smalldog and what he’s capable of.”

“But Smalldog gets wind of it because of all that formula, tortures Chickaway until he tells where Lily is, then kills him, hauls the body off, and goes after Lily. Is that it? A murderous rage? I don’t know, Mal,” Anne said.

Mal shrugged. “I’m just thinking out loud.”

“But the baby has a cleft lip,” Rose pointed out. “Lynn Belgea said Noah Smalldog was also born with a cleft lip. So wouldn’t the baby be Smalldog’s?”

Mal considered the possibility, then offered, “You told me
she also said that Indians have a much higher rate of cleft lip than other ethnic groups, so maybe it’s just chance.”

Anne said, “He’s leaving her.”

Rose and Mal swung their attention to Anne, who was still looking out the window.

“What? For good?” Mal asked.

“I mean right now. She’s staying on the dock with the baby. He’s heading back here.”

“I guess we can’t talk about him behind his back then,” Mal said.

“You make it sound awful,” Rose said. “It’s just a family discussion.”

“If you say so.” Mal let out a small groan.

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m worried about that ankle.”

Mal laughed. “With everything else we have to worry about, this ankle’s nothing, Rose. What kind of Catholic would I be if I couldn’t take a little suffering?”

Anne said, “I’m going out to be with Jenny for a while.”

“Go on,” Rose said. “She could use family about now, I bet. And, Mal, would you mind having a little talk with Aaron while I make myself scarce?”

“A little talk? About what?”

“Whatever he wants to discuss,” Rose said.

“If it’s women, I won’t be much help,” Mal said.

Aaron opened the screen door and stepped in. It was clear he was deep in thought, and when he looked up, he seemed surprised to find them there.