Red Knife (10 page)

T
hey sat in Cork’s office in the back part of Sam’s Place. Marsha Dross and Ed Larson were drinking strong coffee. Cork always made his coffee strong. For Stevie, he’d whipped up some hot chocolate. He’d also put ice in a Baggie, which Stevie applied to the bridge of his nose between sips from his cup.

A small notebook sat open in front of Ed Larson and he’d already filled a couple of pages with notes. He had questioned Cork and now he was questioning Stevie, whose responses were a little nasally due to the swelling. The questioning had an interesting effect on Cork’s son. It seemed to help him forget about his injury, and his answers were clear and considered.

No, he didn’t see anything or anyone.

But he did hear something. When his dad was checking the outside of Sam’s Place with the flashlight, he heard the bump of a canoe against rocks somewhere down the shoreline.

“In the vicinity of the old ironworks?” Larson asked.

Stevie squinted a little. Thinking, not pain.

He wasn’t sure, but most of the shoreline between Sam’s Place and the ironworks was sand or soft dirt. The only rocks were where the dock for the ironworks used to be.

“I don’t suppose you have an idea about the canoe?”

Aluminum. Kevlar or wood wouldn’t make that kind of sound.

“Why do you think it was a canoe? Why not a rowboat or even a powerboat?”

If it was a powerboat, he would have heard the motor. And if you needed to get away fast, especially if you were alone, a canoe would be better than a rowboat, wouldn’t it?

Larson looked to Cork, who simply shrugged. He’d heard nothing.

Dross used a walkie-talkie to contact her people who were going over the area around the ironworks, and she directed them to take a look at the shoreline.

“Any point in getting our own boat out there?” Larson put the question to the sheriff.

“In the dark?” She shook her head. “By now the shooter’s off the lake anyway.”

“That was good work, Stephen,” Larson said.

Stevie flushed just a little at the praise and went back to sipping his chocolate and nursing his injury.

They were just finishing up when Jo swept into Sam’s Place, wearing her long black car coat and still dressed in the navy suit, cream-colored blouse, and heels she’d worn that day in court. Like a dark wind she blew past the others and knelt beside her son. She took Stevie’s face in her hands and studied the damage with her sharp, ice blue eyes. Her hair was a little wild—the long day maybe, or maybe she’d run a hand through it worrying about her son and her husband—and errant strands flew out, glowing white in the light, like hot filaments. She made a sound, a rumble in her throat that Cork knew was an unhappy assessment of her son’s condition.

“Put the ice back on, sweetie. We need to get that looked at.” She stood up and faced Cork. “What happened?”

“I got a call that Sam’s Place was on fire. When we came out, somebody started shooting at us,” he said.

“Who?”

“The question of the day. Marsha’s people are going over the ironworks for anything that might tell us.”

Jo glanced back at the open cupboard where one of the rounds had lodged. The bullet had already been cut out, but the shelf and the counter beneath the cupboard were strewn with shards from the plates that had been shattered.

“The Kingbird business,” she said.

“We don’t know for sure.”

“Oh?” She gave him a long, cold look. “And what else might it be?”

He had no other possibility to offer. From the silence, he guessed no one else did either.

She leaned down to her son and spoke differently, almost playfully. “And how’d your nose end up looking like something that belongs on a clown, kiddo?”

“I hit it on the bumper of Dad’s Bronco. It was my own fault.”

“
Your
fault? I don’t think so. Come on, buster, let’s have somebody look at you.” She glanced at the others. “I’m taking him to the ER, all right?”

“I need to stay here for a while,” Cork said.

“I’m sure you do,” she said.

Stevie got up from his chair. Cork got up, too, and wrapped an arm around his son’s shoulders. “You did good tonight.”

Stevie grinned shyly, then said, “Whoever he was, he sure was a lousy shot.”

Cork laughed and Dross and Larson joined him.

Jo didn’t even crack a smile. “Let’s go,” she said, and ushered Stevie ahead of her.

For a few moments after they left, there was a chilly silence in Sam’s Place.

“More coffee?” Cork said.

Dross waved off the offer and Larson shook his head. “I’ll be up all night as it is.” He studied his notes. “If the shooter was using a nightscope and he was actually trying to hit you, he was, as Stevie so aptly put it, a lousy shot.”

“A warning maybe?” Dross said.

Cork went to the coffeepot and filled his cup. “There’s usually something that goes along with a warning, something that explains to the idiot that he should butt out. A note, a phone call. There’s nothing like that here.”

“Yet,” Larson said.

Cork looked at his watch. It had been nearly two hours since the shots had been fired.

Dross stood up and arched her back as if working out some stiffness. She walked to the door, opened it, and stood looking toward the ironworks. Cork joined her and watched the flashlight beams poking around in the stand of poplars that surrounded the ruins. One of the beams separated and came up a path worn along the lakeshore, a path a lot of joggers, including Cork, used regularly.

Deputy Cy Borkman stepped into the rectangle of light that fell on the ground from the opened door. He was a heavy man, a longtime deputy. He held up an evidence bag that contained a couple of shell casings.

“All we could find,” he said. “Might uncover more in the morning when we can see better, Sheriff.”

“All right,” Dross said. “Why don’t you call the guys in. We’ll give it a shot again tomorrow.”

Borkman handed the evidence bag to Ed Larson, who’d joined them. Larson lifted it to the light and Cork studied it with him.

“Thirty-five-caliber Remingtons,” Cork said. “Good caliber for deer hunting.”

“Two casings,” Larson said. “He probably left the last expended cartridge in the chamber when he ran. Would make sense. I’ll have Rutledge send these down to the BCA lab. If we ever get hold of Lonnie Thunder, maybe we’ll find a rifle that matches the chamber marks or the marks from the firing pin.”

The phone in Sam’s Place rang. Cork went over and checked the caller ID.
Thunder, L.
He picked it up.

“Stop looking for me. Next time I don’t miss.”

“Lonnie,” Cork began, but the line went dead before he could say any more. He put the phone down. “Thunder,” he told the others. “Must’ve used his cell.”

“What did he say?” Larson asked.

“Just what you’d expect. He was warning the idiot.”

Dross said, “I’ll do everything I can to bring him in, Cork.”

“No,” Cork said. “I’ll bring him in.”

She looked at him, surprise evident on her face. Then she nodded, getting it.

“Anything you need, let me know. Come on, Ed. We’ve got paperwork to do.”

They left and Cork stood in Sam’s Place, which was empty now but for him and a determination, cold and deliberate, to make Thunder pay.

It was a busy night in the ER of Aurora Community Hospital. A late bout of flu had hit a lot of folks hard, and both the very young and the very old showed up at the hospital dehydrated. Cork knew the admitting clerk, Sally Owens, who let him pass. Inside, he learned that Jo had just gone with Stevie for some X-rays. He went back to the waiting area and used the public phone to call home. Annie answered.

“Hi, Dad.” She sounded happy. “Where is everybody?”

“Your mom didn’t call?”

“No. Why?”

“There was some excitement at Sam’s Place this evening. Stevie bumped his nose. Maybe broke it. We’re at the hospital right now getting it checked out.”

“Is he all right?”

“He’s fine.”

“What happened?”

“I’ll fill you in when we get home. Just didn’t want you worrying.”

“Should I come?”

“No. We’ve got it under control. We’ll see you in a while.”

He went back to the ER and waited by the bed in the curtained-off area where Stevie and Jo had been before the X-rays. He sat for half an hour, listening to the beeps of monitors, the banter of staff, the low whispers of the ill and those who were with them. Finally Jo and Stevie returned. The bruising had spread from his nose to the area around both eyes. His son was starting to resemble a raccoon.

“How’s it going, guy?” Cork asked.

“Okay.” Stevie sat on the bed and lay back. He looked tired.

“Hurt much?”

“Not much.”

Jo said, “They gave him Tylenol.”

“What did the X-rays show?” Cork asked.

Jo sat down in the chair Cork had vacated. “They’re looking at them now.”

“I called Annie,” Cork said.

“Thanks.”

There was something immeasurably exhausting about sitting in a hospital emergency room, waiting. On more occasions than he cared to remember, Cork had felt that suck of energy. He watched Stevie’s eyes flutter closed.

Jo said quietly, “When I think about what could have happened out there…” She didn’t finish.

“It was a warning, Jo. Thunder called after you left.”

“What did he say?”

“About what you’d expect. Lay off or next time he won’t miss.”

“Won’t miss you? Won’t miss Stevie? Won’t miss whoever happens to be with you?”

“Jo, I told Marsha this morning that I was through helping with the Kingbird business.”

“Apparently Lonnie Thunder didn’t get that message. What did you tell him?”

“I didn’t have time to say anything. He hung up.”

“What would you have told him?”

The doctor came before Cork could answer. He was a new one, a tall kid with wire-rims and stubble who looked like he’d been on his shift too long. His name was Stiles.

“As I suspected, the nose is broken. Setting it will probably require that we rebreak it. I’m going to have you see Dr. Barron tomorrow. He’ll be better able to tell you the specifics. He handles this sort of thing all the time. In the meantime, keep Stephen on Tylenol for the pain and use ice for the swelling.”

Stevie was awake and listening.

“Do I have to go to school tomorrow?”

“Up to your folks, but I’d say it’s probably best to take a day off, see how things go.”

“All right!” Stevie gleamed.

Jo said, “I thought you liked school.”

“Yeah, but I like a day off better.”

At home, Annie greeted them at the back door. Cara Haines was with her. Both girls made a big fuss over Stevie, which he pretended not to like. After Stevie went upstairs with Jo to put on his pajamas, Cork told them the full story.

“We were at the Broiler and heard the police sirens, but we didn’t know they were going out to Sam’s Place,” Cara said.

“Do you think it was Lonnie Thunder?” Annie asked.

“Seems a reasonable possibility,” Cork said.

“Ike Thunder was at the Broiler, Dad.” Annie was talking about Lonnie Thunder’s father. “He came in after we heard the sirens.”

“How did he seem?”

“Stumbling a little, like he was drunk. He was still sitting at the counter talking to himself when we left.”

Cara looked at her watch. “I’ve got to go, Annie.”

Annie walked her to the front door, and Cork headed upstairs. Stevie was already in bed. Jo sat beside him and they were talking quietly.

“You look like the Lone Ranger,” Cork said. Then he said, “Stevie, I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

“I got you right in the middle of things tonight.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Dad. And I wasn’t scared for me. I was scared for you.”

Almost half a decade earlier, Stevie had seen his father shot, a serious wound that had nearly killed Cork. It had taken a while—visits with a therapist, and finally the wisdom, guidance, and healing of Henry Meloux—to make the boy whole again. To a ten-year-old, five years was half a lifetime, and Cork was relieved to see that Stevie had, indeed, grown beyond the old terrors.

“What are you going to do?” Stevie asked.

Jo looked interested in the answer to this one.

“I’m not sure.”

“I think it’s like with a bully,” Stevie said. “You don’t let a bully bully you or else he always will.”

“Where’d you learn that?” Jo didn’t sound happy with Stevie’s position.

“You told me, remember? Last year when Gordie Sumner was being such a pain in the butt.”

“This is different, Stevie,” she countered. “This bully has a rifle.”