Desolation Mountain: A Novel
4/5
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About this ebook
Edgar Award-winning author William Kent Krueger delivers another heart-pounding thriller filled with “dynamic action scenes” (The New York Times) as Cork O’Connor and his son Stephen work together to uncover the truth behind the death of a senator on Desolation Mountain and the mysterious disappearances of several first responders.
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
To Stephen O’Connor, Hamlet’s dour observation is more than just words. All his life, he has had visions of tragedies to come. When he experiences the vision of a great bird shot from the sky, he knows something terrible is about to happen. The crash of a private plane on Desolation Mountain in a remote part of the Iron Lake Reservation, which kills a United States senator and most of her family, confirms Stephen’s worst fears.
Stephen joins his father, Cork O’Connor and a few Ojibwe men from the nearby Iron Lake reservation to sift through the smoldering wreckage when the FBI arrives and quickly assumes control of the situation. As he initiates his own probe, Cork stumbles upon a familiar face in Bo Thorson, a private security consultant whose unnamed clients have hired him to look quietly into the cause of the crash. The men agree to join forces in their investigation, but soon Cork begins to wonder if Thorson’s loyalties lie elsewhere.
Roadblocked by lies from the highest levels of government, uncertain who to trust, and facing growing threats the deeper they dig for answers, Cork, Stephen, and Bo finally understand that to get to the truth, they will have to face the great menace, a beast of true evil lurking in the woods—a beast with a murderous intent of unimaginable scale. Krueger delivers yet another “punch-to-the-gut blend of detective story and investigative fiction” (Booklist, starred review).
William Kent Krueger
William Kent Krueger is the New York Times bestselling author of The River We Remember, This Tender Land, Ordinary Grace (winner of the Edgar Award for best novel), and the original audio novella The Levee, as well as nineteen acclaimed books in the Cork O’Connor mystery series, including Lightning Strike and Fox Creek. He lives in the Twin Cities with his family. Learn more at WilliamKentKrueger.com.
Read more from William Kent Krueger
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Reviews for Desolation Mountain
123 ratings15 reviews
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Stephen O’Connor’s vision is a frightening one of an eagle shot from the sky, an egg dropped, and horrific, menacing danger. Troubled by his inability to understand the vision, Stephen seeks out Henry Meloux, an Ojibwe elder and healer. When a plane crash on Desolation Mountain kills a senator and her family, it’s not long before several of the first responders to the crash mysteriously vanish. Stephen joins his father, Cork O’Connor, and several others in a search for answers. Thwarted at every turn by government investigators who seem to have their own agendas . . . ones not necessarily related to discovering the truth . . . they soon discover that nothing, even Cork’s old friend Bo Thorson, is as it seems.The seventeenth Cork O’Connor story in the series brings together many of the expected familiar characters. With its strong sense of place, its intriguing plot, and characters so real they seem ready to jump off the page, readers will find much to appreciate in this tale of intrigue and mystery. The unfolding story builds suspense; the unexpected twists keep the pages turning.Highly recommended.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5This is the 17th in this excellent series about Cork O’Conner. I have read and enjoyed them all from the beginning: Great writing, a wonderful sense of place, Native American Ojibwe culture, a bit of mysticism, evolving family dynamics, and good plots.When a plane carrying a senator crashes on Desolation Mountain, several groups come to search for the flight recorder. Some are from the government, some are not and it is not clear who some of them are. One is Cork’s old acquaintance, Bo Thorsen. When Cork’s Ojibwe neighbors begin to disappear, Cork decides to investigate and forms an uneasy alliance with Bo. Cork’s son Stephen, who wants to become a mide, has a vision that seemed to presage the crash. With the help of Henry, a centenarian Ojibwe healer, he struggles to understand the vision in the hope that it will yield some clues about the crash. I found the ending a little unsatisfying (although it does have an emotional kicker that is a harbinger of a good story to come) but this remains one of my favorite series.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5This series continues to be excellent and each new installment is worth waiting for. The death of a US Senator in a plane crash on the Ojibway Reservation starts a cascade of violence with neonasties and other covert military types into causes and coverups.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Such a good series. The further adventures of Cork O'Connor and his family and friends. If you haven't read William Kent Krueger, I hope you do. This one isn't his best, perhaps, but even his "not best" is a very good read.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5DESOLATION MOUNTAIN by William Kent Krueger is Book 17 in Mr. Krueger’s Cork O’Connor Mystery series.I have read every title and been impressed with each and every one. This new title is no exception.Highlights include Visions, specifically a repeated (very troubling) vision experienced by Stephen; Ojibwe culture, customs and mythology; a plane crash with a notable US senator on board; right wing militias; a fast-paced detective story; dirty politics; friendship; family and tribal ties.The writing is fast-paced and character-driven. There is a grand sense of place. We meet many familiar characters and a new character, Bo Thorson, is introduced. *Note Bo was a main character in an early (stand-alone title by Mr. Krueger). He is very interesting and a conscience-driven character like Cork. I suspect (and hope) that we will see more of him.I would heartily recommend this title. *****
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5When Cork's son Stephen has a vision, one he doesn't understand he turns to the now ancient midi, Henry. Love his character, though he is now a hundred years old. A senators plane crashes, a senator whose agenda angered many. She was sympathetic to those on the Iron Lake reservation who were against the mines being reopened. The runoff from the mine would pollute the crystal clear water that was depended on by many.This is another series of that I have read from the beginning, so it feels like a visit to old friends. I love the mix of the Indian culture, mystery, close family relations, and the setting of the amazing boundary Waters. Mans greed knows no bounds, was the plane crashes an accident or something else? Every government agency is on the ground, an old friend makes an appearance, and when some of the natives go missing Cork is determined to find out exactly what happened. The danger will come too close to home, affecting those Cork loves best. Too close for comfort,and it left me holding my breath. Okay, the ending, I'll just say it left me very emotonal. Such a good series.ARC from Netgalley.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5This is my recent read from my favorite genre which is mystery suspense. It is book 17 in the Cork O'Connor series. If you haven't started this series, you should by reading book 1, Iron Lake. Krueger's writing beautifully captures a sense of place but with a powerful emotional punch. Believable characters well-drawn and excellent plots. Recommended for those who love mystery suspense.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Stretches the boundaries of believability a bit too much for me. However, native Americans are treated well by this author.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5DESOLATION MOUNTAIN by William Kent KruegerI have not read any of Krueger’s Cork O’Conner mysteries, but I am a huge fan or Ordinary Grace. DESOLATION MOUNTAIN did not disappoint. The characters were refined and true to character as the book progressed. The area of Minnesota was so clearly utilized it was almost a character.The plight of the Ojibway Indians and their reservation was clear even though really not a pivotal part of the plot. The mystery leaked out slowly, just enough to keep my interest and the menacing terror growing. Although there were many deaths, this was not a gruesome book. There is minimal foul language. The plot and all its permutations were neatly concluded in a satisfying way.A very good mystery by a very good writer.5 of 5 stars
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5This is the seventeenth book in the series involving Cork O’Connor, the part-Irish, part-Anishinaabe Indian ex-sheriff of the small town of Aurora, Minnesota. While no longer formally serving in law enforcement, Cork is now a private investigator.Cork is thought of as ogichidaa - the Ojibwe word for someone who stands between evil and the people he loves. His 20-year-old son Stephen wishes he were ogichidaa too, but his talent (or curse, as he considers it) is that he sees visions. He can’t always explain them, not even to himself, but generally they portend something evil that is coming.As this book begins, Stephen has had another vision, and it upsets him. The local Anishinaabe Mide - a spiritual guide and Stephen’s mentor, Henry Meloux - is unable to help him, but Henry agrees he can feel there is evil coming. The family not only respects Henry, but has a number of ties to him. Cork recently married Henry’s niece, Rainy Bisonette, and Cork’s daughter Jenny married Rainy’s nephew Daniel, an officer with the Iron Lake Ojibwe Department of Conservation Enforcement. Jenny and Daniel have a five-year-old boy they call Waaboozoons, shortened to Waaboo, Ojibwe for “little rabbit.” They are beginning to suspect that Waaboo has a second sight similar to Stephen’s. But their sometimes idyllic life is threatened by proposed sulfide mining. The Minnesota Senator, Olympia McCarthy, opposed the mine, and was flying out to address a town meeting on the issue. Tragedy struck, however, when the small plane she was in crashed over the Iron Lake Reservation, killing all on board. Soon the town was filled with all kinds of government agents trying to find out what happened, including NTSB, FBI, and Homeland Security, as well as some scary players no one is able to identify.Exactly how or why the plane went down is a mystery. Was it downed intentionally, and if so, why? What were the perpetrators trying to prevent? - something in the Senator’s agenda, such as her opposition to the mine? Could it have been the anti-assault rifle legislation the Senator was about to introduce? What about her opposition to the proposed Manila Accord, favored by the alt-right, the rejection of which would affect the profits of arms merchants? Or was this an action by the Lexington Brigade, a radical anti-government militia group?Nothing is clear, and when members of the reservation who were around to see the plane crash go missing one by one, the stakes become huge. Cork gets involved because it is in his nature that he can’t stop trying to help and protect people; Stephen because his vision drives him, and because he is still fighting to be ogichidaa instead of Mide; and Daniel because he is in law enforcement and wants to make sure he protects his family. There is another person who joins their side, or seems to, at any rate: Bo Thorson, a former secret service agent who worked with Cork years ago, and who has been hired by a private client to get the facts about the plane crash. Before long, all of them are fighting for their lives.Evaluation: Although this is part of a series, it is quite possible to read this one without feeling lost. On the contrary, Krueger manages to pull you into the O’Connor family immediately. Krueger is a good writer, and I love how he integrates Native American culture and an appreciation for the landscape into his stories. He is especially good at finding ways to advocate for the Native American respect for the land, as in this passage from a woman attending the town hall:“The earth isn’t just rock and dirt and trees and water. It’s one thing, one heart, one spirit. It offers us life and beauty and, if we listen, wisdom. And it asks nothing in return, not even gratitude, because giving is the whole reason for its creation.”This particular entry in the Cork O’Connor books is probably best described as a political thriller. Although the story is tied up at the end, there are nevertheless hints of changes to the O'Connor family that ensure fans will want to continue the series.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Asense of the profound wrapped in a good story.Many threads dxtending from the death of Minnesota’s US Senator in a plane crash. Cork, Stephen and the whole family get involved in untangling the threads. New characters are brought in some I expect to stick around. Stephen and Henry continue to bond as Stephen struggles to work out ahd understand his vision which is at the center of the story.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5A good edition to the Cork O'Conner series. This book is mostly about political intrigue and his son Stephan looking for answers to his vision.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5To Stephen O’Connor, Hamlet’s dour observation is more than just words. All his life, he has had visions of tragedies to come. When he experiences the vision of a great bird shot from the sky, he knows something terrible is about to happen. The crash of a private plane on Desolation Mountain in a remote part of the Iron Lake Reservation, which kills a United States senator and most of her family, confirms Stephen’s worst fears.Stephen joins his father, Cork O’Connor and a few Ojibwe men from the nearby Iron Lake reservation to sift through the smoldering wreckage when the FBI arrives and quickly assumes control of the situation. What seems like the end of the O’Connors’ involvement is, however, only the beginning of a harrowing journey to understand the truth behind the Senator’s death. As he initiates his own probe, Cork O’Connor stumbles upon a familiar face in Bo Thorson, a private security consultant whose unnamed clients have hired him to look quietly into the cause of the crash. The men agree to join forces in their investigation, but soon Cork begins to wonder if Thorson’s loyalties lie elsewhere.In that far north Minnesota County, which is overrun with agents of the FBI, NTSB, DoD, and even members of a rightwing militia, all of whom have their own agendas, Cork, Stephen, and Bo attempt to navigate a perilous course. Roadblocked by lies from the highest levels of government, uncertain who to trust, and facing growing threats the deeper they dig for answers, the three men finally understand that to get to the truth, they will have to face the great menace, a beast of true evil lurking in the woods—a beast with a murderous intent of unimaginable scale.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5A Good Solid Mystery - Another mystery featuring Native Americans and outside bad guys, as with the previous work I read, the characters are compelling and make you want to keep reading. In this story, a plane crash has killed a politician and her family. Sinister forces seem to be involved in keeping the investigation into the cause of the crash from taking place.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Another great tale!!
Book preview
Desolation Mountain - William Kent Krueger
CHAPTER 1
He watches the boy on the steep rise above him. He is that boy and he is not. The boy is intent on the sky, a witch’s brew of swirling gray clouds. He is anxious, waiting. The boy. And him. For what, neither of them knows. The air smells not of the evergreen all around but of something foul. Diesel. Fire. A breeze blows across his face carrying a different smell, even more foul. Burning flesh. The boy holds a compound bow, complicated, powerful. An arrow is notched. The boy’s stomach is taut. His body knows something his mind does not, something terrible. The boy watches the sky, and he watches the boy.
The bird appears out of the dark boil of clouds. Wings spread broad, catching the wind. Curling in a wide arc above the hill. The bird—clearly an eagle now—lets out a screech. High-pitched. Then another.
The boy raises his bow.
The eagle circles, near enough that the boy can see details. Golden irises, saffron beak, long, dangerous talons. The eagle cries again.
The boy draws back the bowstring. Calculates trajectory, wind speed. Leads the bird. Takes a breath. Eases it out. Lets the arrow fly.
The great bird twists in an explosion of feathers. Tries to right itself. Begins to plummet.
The boy lowers the bow. Watches an egg drop from the eagle. Watches the eagle in its fall, lost among the evergreens. The boy stands still as death. He feels uncertain, as if there is still more to be done, but what that is he doesn’t know. He turns and stares down the hillside. At the young man who stares back. Him. And not him.
Neither of them understands.
Then the boy on the rise above him sees something, which he senses now at his own back. From the look on the boy’s face, from the way his eyes grow huge, he understands that what is behind him is enormous and terrifying and threatens them both. He feels its breath break against him, hot and hungry. He should turn, face this beast whatever it is, but he’s paralyzed with fear. The boy on the hill opens his mouth to cry out. At the same moment, he opens his.
The sound of their one scream wakes him.
The old man sat on the other side of the fire, listening. Old? He was ancient, with more years behind him than any living thing in the dark of that great forest—turtle, owl, deer, wolf, bear, all were children in comparison. The years, kind to no one, had done their best to weather his flesh, weaken his muscle, erode his bone. His body displayed none of the power and comeliness that had so marked it when the twentieth century was young. Time had etched lines long and deep into his face. His white hair hung over his shoulders in spidery wisps. The weight of ten decades of living had bent his spine, but only slightly. In the firelight, he appeared to be the ghost of a thing, not the thing itself.
And yet the young man who stared at him across the fire perceived only wisdom, only possibility.
Many times you have seen this vision?
the old man asked.
Many times,
the young man answered.
That is all of it?
The young man nodded. All of it.
The eagle is sacred. Killing an eagle, that is a terrible thing.
The fire popped. An ember leapt from the flames, landed on the jeans the old man was wearing. The old man gazed up at the stars and didn’t seem to notice.
Your leg, Henry,
the young man said.
But the ember had burned itself out.
And so,
the old man finally said, as if speaking to the stars. Why now?
The young man didn’t understand the question. Why now what?
The old man’s eyes came back to earth. You tell me.
The young man knew better than to press this elder, his mentor. He considered his reply.
Now, because it worries me. It’s a portent, Henry. Something terrible is going to happen. My visions are always about terrible things. I’ve never had one that’s hopeful.
They have proven helpful,
the old man pointed out. Then he asked again, as if it were a new question, Why now?
If you mean why have I come to you only now, it’s because I thought I could figure this out on my own. But I don’t have a clue. I need help, before it’s too late.
The old man closed his eyes, looked as if he were about to sleep. Then, Too late for what?
If I understood the vision, I would understand that.
Maybe so. Maybe not. Visions are tricky. They can be the thing itself, or the shadow of the thing.
If it’s only a shadow, why does it scare me so much?
The old man took a stick from the fire, the end still licked by tongues of flame. He moved it toward the young man’s face. The flames came nearer and nearer, until the young man could feel the heat on his cheek, the fire only inches from his flesh. But he didn’t flinch.
You are not afraid?
the old man asked.
I believe you won’t burn me. Or if you do, there’s purpose in it.
A vision is like that.
The old man returned the stick to the fire. He stared deeply into the young man’s face, his eyes dark, hard, gleaming in the flickering light. Who is the boy?
I’m the boy,
the young man answered. And I’m not.
What is this beast that frightens you?
I don’t know. It’s behind me. I never see it.
And who is it you are afraid for, Stephen O’Connor?
For the boy,
Stephen answered. And for me.
He leaned toward the old man. And I don’t know why, Henry, but for you, too.
CHAPTER 2
Anyone who knew Tamarack County, Minnesota, and the town of Aurora, in particular, knew Sam’s Place. The old Quonset hut turned burger joint sat on the shoreline of Iron Lake. Behind it was blue water, a vast expanse. South rose a copse of poplar trees at whose center lay the ruins of an old ironworks. Aurora itself was a stone’s throw west, just beyond the raised bed of the BNSF railroad tracks. A short, unpaved road crossed the tracks, connecting Sam’s Place with civilization.
Corcoran Liam O’Connor stood in the parking lot, appraising the sign he had just affixed with sheet metal screws to the side of the Quonset hut. The sign read: TRY OUR NEW WAABOO BURGER! Cork had made the sign himself, at the workbench in his garage, with the help of his five-year-old grandson, Waaboo—legally, Aaron Smalldog O’Connor. The family nickname for the little guy was Waaboozoons, which, in the language of the Ojibwe, meant little rabbit.
It had been shortened to simply Waaboo. The exclamation point was entirely little Waaboo’s handiwork.
It was late afternoon, late September. The leaves of the poplar trees were like gold doubloons. The air was cool, the sun a lazy yellow. There were no customers lined up at the serving windows. They would arrive eventually, Cork knew, closer to suppertime. He appreciated this quiet period, between the hustle of the lunch crowd and what would come.
A green Forester turned up the road, bounced over the tracks and into the lot. The driver parked and got out. She was tall, pretty, with hair the color of corn silk. She opened the back door and helped a child from his seat. They stood with Cork, looking at the sign.
Me,
little Waaboo said with great pride, pointing toward his name.
A hundred people are going to eat you up tonight.
Cork opened his mouth wide as if to take a bite out of his grandson. Waaboo danced back, happily.
Any sign of Stephen yet?
Jenny asked. She was Cork’s daughter, Waaboo’s mother.
Cork shook his head. He’s with Henry. So who knows?
Has he said anything to you yet?
Concern shaded her words.
Whatever it is, I’m sure he’s sharing it with Henry.
Cork stepped to the sign, brushed at a spot of what looked like dripped black paint but turned out to be a spider. When he’s ready, he’ll tell us.
He’s a darkpoople,
Waaboo said.
Darkpoople?
"We’ve been reading The BFG, Jenny explained.
Roald Dahl. Waaboo’s creating his own dictionary of words."
Cork laughed. Darkpoople. You nailed him, little guy.
Waaboo and I can stick around until he shows,
Jenny offered.
Rainy’s going to cover, if necessary.
I want to stay,
Waaboo said. I want to help Baa-baa.
His name for Cork. Not one of his new, made-up Roald Dahlish words. It was what he had always called his grandfather.
For a while, then,
she agreed.
Inside, the place smelled of deep-fry oil and of the meats that had sizzled on the griddle, decades of aromas soaked into the walls. The Quonset hut was divided into two parts. The front was Sam’s Place, with all the food prep equipment, big freezer, storage shelves, stainless-steel sink. The back was an office Cork used for both the business of Sam’s Place and his own work as a private investigator. There was a round table and four chairs, all of sturdy maple, old and worn. A little kitchenette with a small refrigerator, a microwave, a coffeemaker, counter space, sink. A couple of tall, gray file cabinets stood against the wall, one for documents pertaining to Sam’s Place, the other for the files related to Cork’s investigations. He didn’t advertise that side of his business doings anymore. He had a reputation. Those who needed him found their way.
Can I have an ice cream cone?
Waaboo asked, addressing his grandfather, not his mother.
Whoa,
Jenny said. I thought you just wanted to help.
Yes. But I’m hungry.
Just a cone, Jenny,
Cork said. Won’t spoil his dinner.
A small one.
Waaboo sat on a chair at the serving window, licking his cone, a chocolate and vanilla twist. Cork scraped the griddle. Jenny sliced tomatoes.
Are you going to the town meeting tomorrow night?
Jenny asked.
I’m working here, remember? You put together this week’s schedule.
I’ll get one of the kids to cover.
Cork had always hired high school students to staff Sam’s Place in season. For many, it was their introduction to the working world. He tried to be firm in what he asked of them but patient in his oversight.
That’s okay. There’ll be plenty of people attending. Senator McCarthy will get an earful without me.
Jenny said, It’s a chance to see the senator up close.
I’ve seen Olympia McCarthy up close. She’s a fine woman, but still just a woman.
A lot of people are pinning a lot of hope on her. Daniel’s agreed to put Waaboo to bed. Rainy’s going with me.
Then you two make plenty of noise for the rest of us.
An old Jeep rattled over the railroad tracks.
The prodigal son,
Cork said. You and Waaboo are free.
A few minutes later, Cork heard the Quonset hut door open and Stephen appeared. He smelled of woodsmoke and evergreen sap. He shed his gray hoodie, hung his backpack on a hook. The backpack looked heavy, and Cork knew it was full of college textbooks.
Sorry I’m late. Hey, Waaboo!
He tousled the boy’s hair. In appearance, Stephen more resembled his nephew than his father or sister. His Anishinaabe genes dominated—dark hair, almond eyes, broad, bold facial bones. He was twenty years old and walked with a limp that was becoming less and less noticeable with time.
How’s Henry?
Cork asked.
Old.
Stephen bent toward Waaboo. You gonna eat that whole thing?
Yes.
I haven’t eaten all day. I could sure use a lick.
Uh-uh.
Come on.
Stephen lunged toward the cone.
Waaboo swung away, protecting the treat with his free hand. No-o-o-o.
Grinch.
Darkpoople.
Darkpoople?
Grab…
Waaboo hesitated. Grabgrubber.
Don’t know what you’re saying, but it doesn’t sound good.
How about a Waaboo Burger?
Cork suggested.
Waaboo Burger? I saw the sign. What is it?
Patty made of ground bison instead of hamburger.
Named after me,
Cork’s grandson said proudly.
When did we start offering that?
Today. Jenny and I have been talking about it for a while. Being a college man now, you’ve just had other things on your mind. What do you say? You can’t sell customers on it until you’re sold on it yourself.
Sure.
Cork dropped a patty on the griddle, buttered two bun halves.
We’re out of here,
Jenny said. Come on, kiddo. You can finish that cone on the way home. I’ve got to get dinner going. Joining us, Dad?
No, I’ll stay here and close tonight.
I think I’m supposed to close,
Stephen said.
I’ll take it.
Stephen didn’t argue.
When the others had gone, Stephen stood at an empty serving window, staring toward the copse of poplars to the south. Stephen had been doing a lot of staring lately. Something had set a hook in him, snagged his senses. College, perhaps. Stephen was in his first semester at Aurora Community College, taking classes to fulfill his general requirements in preparation for an eventual degree in criminal justice studies. The same route Cork had taken long ago when he started on the road to becoming a cop. But he hadn’t seen any real enthusiasm for the coursework, and in truth, he wasn’t at all certain his son was cut out to wear a badge. So was it a girl, maybe? For a couple of years, Stephen had been in an on-again, off-again relationship with a young woman on the rez, Marlee Daychild. During the past month or so, it had been in the off mode. Cork didn’t know if this was Stephen’s doing or Marlee’s. His son had always been private, hesitant to reveal a lot about himself, and that had been especially true lately. What Cork had sensed, what all the O’Connors had sensed, was a growing restlessness in Stephen, which Cork told himself was natural in a young man. One of the thoughts he’d had was that maybe it was time for Stephen to leave Aurora. Maybe if he was away from all that was familiar, at least for a while, it might be easier for him to see the path he needed to travel. It was possible this was what Stephen had been discussing with Meloux, seeking the old man’s advice.
But there was another possibility. Stephen saw things others did not. He had visions. And so Cork understood that what was weighing on his son, what held Stephen’s attention while he stared at what appeared to be nothing, might well be something his eye couldn’t see.
CHAPTER 3
All the buzz on the rez is about the town meeting tomorrow night,
Rainy said as she undressed. Everyone at the clinic, everyone who comes in, Senator McCarthy is all they’re talking about.
Rainy Bisonette, Cork’s wife, worked at the tribal clinic in the town of Allouette on the Iron Lake Reservation. Trained as a public health nurse, she was also a member of the Grand Medicine Society, a Mide, a healer in the traditional way. They’d been married only since the previous April, not even six months. Still on honeymoon, Cork often thought, especially whenever he watched her shed her clothing.
She’s a safe raft in a stormy sea,
Cork said. He was already in bed, his back against the headboard.
Rainy stepped out of her jeans and unbuttoned her blue work shirt. She was full-bodied, but not heavy, having spent the last several years before her marriage seeing to the needs of her great-uncle, Henry Meloux, living in a cabin without running water or electricity, with only a wood-burning stove for heat, fed with wood she’d chopped herself. She knew hard work. When she drifted her hands across Cork’s body, he could still feel the calluses.
She’ll listen,
Rainy said. Everyone believes we’ll be heard.
And that she’ll carry that message forward. Good thing to believe.
She’d slipped off her bra and had reached for her nightshirt, but she paused and studied him in the light of the lamp on the nightstand. You don’t?
I believe she’ll listen. I’m not sure I believe it’ll do any good.
She’s a U.S. senator. She has influence.
The other side has more. And they hit harder and they don’t play fair.
She slipped the long nightshirt over her head and down her body, then joined him in bed, where she leaned against him. You sound like you believe the battle is already lost.
Not lost. But I’ve been in battles like these before. There are always casualties.
He changed the subject abruptly. Talked to Stephen lately?
I’ve tried. He’s burrowed deep inside himself.
He’s like a sleepwalker. I tell him something, and, poof, it’s gone from his head.
Rainy flipped her long black braid so that it hung at an angle between her breasts. Her fingers slowly traced the strands of the plaiting, in a way that made Cork think of rosary beads. I’m wondering if he’s seen something.
I’ve wondered that, too. But it could be just that he’s getting used to college. Or maybe it’s Marlee. There’s nothing like a woman to addle a guy’s brain.
I’m going to ignore that remark,
Rainy said. He hasn’t gone out with Marlee Daychild in weeks. And he just seems so unsettled. More and more I’m thinking he’s had another vision, Cork. And I think this one scares him.
They both knew Stephen had a right to be afraid. Before the bullet that caused his limp was fired, Stephen saw the man who would shoot him in a vision. He saw his mother’s death years before it happened. He saw the threat from a monster, a murderer of young women who’d called himself Windigo and who’d tried to kill Cork and Jenny. It hadn’t escaped their notice that Stephen’s visions had always foreshadowed terrible things.
Cork said, I wish he’d share what he’s seen.
It would be an unburdening,
Rainy said.
Practically speaking, it might help us get ready for whatever’s coming.
Something to do with the proposed pit mine, you think?
For years, a large corporation had been at work to secure the permits necessary to begin a huge open-pit mining operation that would extract copper, nickel, and a number of heavy metals from an area adjacent to both the Iron Lake Reservation and the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness. In Tamarack County, a region once wealthy because of the iron ore that underlay everything, the issue had been divisive. With the iron mines having closed or closing and good-paying jobs evaporated, there was a considerable element applauding the possibility of the return of industry. On the other side were the Iron Lake Ojibwe and many other groups who feared that the mine would ruin the pristine wilderness and the clean water. Their fears weren’t unfounded. While iron mining had brought wealth, at least for a time, it had made much of the North Country resemble the barren surface of the moon.
I’m thinking something more personal.
Cork put his hand over hers as she worked her braid, stilled it. He talks to Henry. Could you talk to Henry?
I can try. But what’s between Uncle Henry and Stephen will probably stay between them, unless Stephen indicates otherwise.
Maybe a sweat?
Until Stephen is ready to share, he’ll be as hard to crack as a walnut.
A sweat couldn’t hurt.
I’ll suggest it. You smell good, by the way. Like French fries. How’d the new Waaboo Burger do?
A winner. Everybody loved the bison patty, and everyone who knows our grandson loved the name.
Doesn’t surprise me a bit. The world loves Waaboo.
Rainy picked up a book from the nightstand and prepared to read. It was a novel titled Downwind of the Devil. The author was Jennifer O’Connor. When she wasn’t helping run Sam’s Place or involved in all she did as mother and wife, Jenny wrote stories. Downwind of the Devil was her first published novel, a fictionalized account of the hunt for a missing Ojibwe girl, in which she and her father and the monster who called himself Windigo were deeply involved. It had done well enough that Jenny was under contract for a second novel. She wouldn’t tell her family what it was about, but they all suspected it would be another telling of a story in which some of them played a part.
Cork picked up the book he’d been reading every night for a week, To Kill a Mockingbird, one of the many American classics he’d never read, but one that both Jenny and Rainy had insisted he should. Within ten minutes, his eyes fluttered closed. He felt Rainy slip the book from his hands, turn out the light, and he was wrapped in a blanket of sleep.
CHAPTER 4
Next morning, well before sunrise, Cork heard Stephen leave the house. He slid from bed and stood at the window, watching Stephen walk away in the blue, early light, and his heart twisted. His son was struggling and Cork didn’t know how to help. Rainy had advised patience. Which was the same advice her great-uncle Henry Meloux might have offered. Good advice, Cork knew, but it didn’t mean he wouldn’t suffer along with his son. He dressed quietly, hit the bathroom, went downstairs to make coffee. A few minutes later, he stood on the front porch, sipping from the steaming mug in his hand and breathing in the cool air of approaching dawn. Gooseberry Lane was quiet, the neighbors still abed.
With the exception of a few years as a cop in Chicago, he’d lived in Aurora, Minnesota, his whole life. His roots on his mother’s side went back to a time long before white men muscled their way into the North Country and began the destruction of the natural order, a ravaging that had never really ended. His Anishinaabe heritage might not show on his face, but it shaped his conscience. As he stood in the cool, evergreen-scented air, in the fresh feel of that fall morning, he understood the calm probably wouldn’t last. He was more and more certain that Stephen had had a vision, seen something, and the things that Stephen saw had always been monstrous.
He picked up the morning paper from where it had been thrown under the porch swing and headed back inside. Rainy was awake and up, pouring coffee from the pot he’d made. He heard footsteps coming downstairs, heavy, probably Daniel English, his son-in-law, ready for work. Daniel was an officer with the Iron Lake Ojibwe Department of Conservation Enforcement. When explaining, he generally referred to himself as a game warden. Like Jenny, he was a writer, a poet. Like his aunt Rainy, he was full-blood Ojibwe, an enrolled member of the Lac Courte Oreilles Band of Lake Superior Chippewa.
That coffee smells good,
he said as he entered the kitchen. He wore his willow-green uniform. Rainy poured him a cup of the brew.
You’re up early,
Cork noted.
A lot on the agenda today. We’ve had reports of a couple of poachers on the rez. We’ve tried tracking them, but they keep slipping away.
Jenny tells me you won’t be going to the town meeting tonight,
Cork said.
I’m on Waaboo duty. Putting our little guy down for the night.
Daniel sipped his coffee and looked satisfied. You’re not going either, I understand.
Somebody’s got to sell the new Waaboo Burger.
Daniel dropped a couple of slices of bread in the toaster. How’d it go yesterday?
Sold like hotcakes.
Waaboo was excited last night. He kept saying, ‘People are eating me.’
Rainy laughed. Everybody could use a little Waaboo in them.
After Daniel had gone, Cork put on his jacket and kissed Rainy.
You haven’t had breakfast yet,
she said. Where are you off to?
To talk to Henry.
About Stephen? I’m not sure he’ll tell you much.
Can’t hurt to ask.
I told you I’d talk to Uncle Henry myself.
When will you see him next? Between your clinic work and the town meeting with the senator, your schedule’s packed.
He kissed her again. Meet you in bed tonight.
He drove north out of Aurora, along a graveled county road that followed the shoreline of Iron Lake. The woods were a mix of broadleaf and needle in which autumn had created great islands of gold and red among the evergreens. The cabins along the lake, mostly resorts and summer homes, looked deserted now, but on weekends they were still alive with activity and would continue that way until the leaves had been stripped from the trees and the color was gone. Come winter, the population of Tamarack County would shrink significantly.
He parked at a double-trunk birch several miles north of town, locked his Expedition, and began the long walk through the forest, following a path familiar to him since childhood. The sun was just about to rise, and the strip of clear sky above the path was a pale red, the color of water mixed with blood. On either side of him, the birds, those who had not yet wisely headed south, cried