Northwest Angle Paperback - 2012

Summary

Excerpt

ONE

Later, when it no longer mattered, they learned that the horror that had come from the sky had a name: derecho.

At the time, all they knew was that the day had begun with deceptive calm. Rose was up early, though not as early as the men, whoâÈçd risen at first light and had taken the dinghy across the broad channel to fish. She made coffee and sat on the deck of the houseboat and said her daily prayers while a bright lemon sun rose above the lake and islands. She began with a prayer of thanksgiving for all she hadâÈ'especially her husband and her familyâÈ'then, as always, prayed mostly for the people who, in life, despaired. She prayed for those whom she knew personally and for the greater multitude she didnâÈçt. At last, she said her amen and gave herself over to the pure pleasure of the still morning.

Anne was up next and then Jenny, and the three women sat in deck chairs on the forward platform, sipping coffee, talking quietly, watching the sun crawl the sky, waiting for the men.

When she heard the dinghyâÈçs old outboard cutting through the morning calm, Rose got up and said, âÈêIâÈçll start the potatoes.âÈë

Anne stood up, too. âÈêLet me give a hand, Aunt Rose.âÈë

âÈêNo,âÈë she said. âÈêYou and Jenny sit. Talk. ItâÈçs what sisters should do. You almost never see each other these days.âÈë

She went to the galley to prepare breakfast. She planned to roast potatoes with onions and red peppers and tomatoes. She thought she would scramble eggs with chives and cream cheese. She would slice melons and strawberries and toss them in a bowl with plenty of fat blueberries. And there would be, she was almost certain, fresh fish to fry.

She heard the men as they pulled alongside and tied up to the houseboat and clambered aboard. She heard Cork say, âÈêBeer and pretzels,âÈë and she hoped he wasnâÈçt talking about breakfast.

Mal stepped into the galley, smiling hugely, and held up a stringer full of fat yellow perch. âÈêThe hunter home from the hill,âÈë he said.

âÈêYou shot them?âÈë Rose replied. âÈêNot very sporting.âÈë

Mal kissed her cheek and started toward the sink.

âÈêUh-uh,âÈë she said. âÈêThose get cleaned on deck.âÈë She took him gently and turned him toward the door. âÈêWhen you have them filleted, bring them in and IâÈçll fry them up.âÈë

Stephen came in and went straight to the canister Rose had filled with chocolate chip cookies the day before. He took a handful and said, âÈêOkay, Aunt Rose?âÈë

âÈêDonâÈçt spoil your breakfast.âÈë

âÈêAre you kidding? I could eat a moose. Can I have some milk, too?âÈë

He left with the cookies and a plastic tumbler filled to the brim. Moments later, Rose heard him talking with his sisters on deck and laughing.

The rented houseboat had a table large enough for all of them to gather around, and they ate amid the clatter of flatware against plates and the lively symphony of good conversation. Anne and Jenny offered to clean up, and they gave Stephen a hard time until he agreed to help. Mal showered, then Cork, and afterward both men settled down to a game of cribbage. The kids finished the dishes, put on their swimsuits, and dove into the lake. Rose set a deck chair in the shade under the forward awning of the houseboat. She sat down to read, but her mind quickly began to wander.

Nearly two years had passed since Jo had been lost in the Wyoming Rockies. Nearly two years dead. And Rose stilled missed her sister. Her deep grieving had ended, but there was a profound sense of something lacking in her life. She had taken to calling this the Great Empty. The kidsâÈ'âÈêkidsâÈë she thought them, though Jenny was twenty-four, Anne twenty-one, and Stephen almost fifteenâÈ'splashed and laughed in the water, yet she knew that they felt the Great Empty, too. Cork never talked about his own feelings, and Rose understood that the avoidance itself was probably a sign he was afflicted as well. She wished she knew how to help them all heal fully. In the days when heâÈçd been a priest, Mal had often dealt with death and its aftermath, and he advised her that healing came in its own time and the best you could hope for was to help ease the pain along the way.

âÈêAnd does everyone heal in the end?âÈë sheâÈçd asked her husband.

âÈêNot everyone,âÈë heâÈçd said. âÈêAt least, not in my experience.âÈë

She watched the kids in the water and Cork at the table slapping down his cards, and she breathed in the pine-scented air above that distant, isolated lake, and she prayed, âÈêLet us heal, Lord. Let us all be whole again.âÈë

In the early afternoon, Cork said, âÈêItâÈçs time, Jenny.âÈë

She looked up from the table where sheâÈçd been writing, put the pencil in the crease between the pages, closed her notebook, and stood.

âÈêHow long will it take?âÈë she asked.

âÈêLess than an hour, if we go directly. But today weâÈçre going to make a little side trip.âÈë

âÈêWhere?âÈë

âÈêYouâÈçll see.âÈë

Her father liked mysteries, large and small. She understood it was part of what drew him through life, the need to find answers. In a way, it was also what drove her, but they went about it differently. HeâÈçd been a cop most of his life and now he was a PI. She, on the other hand, was a writer.

Stephen came from the galley, one hand filled with potato chips. âÈêCan I go?âÈë

âÈêNot this time,âÈë his father said. âÈêJenny and I have things to discuss.âÈë

Things to discuss, she thought. Oh, God.

âÈêAh, come on,âÈë Stephen said.

Cork shook his head. âÈêOz has spoken. But if you want to help, go fill the motor on the dinghy with gas.âÈë

âÈêI didnâÈçt say I wanted to help. I said I wanted to go.âÈë

âÈêAnd now youâÈçre going to help,âÈë Cork said. He turned to Jenny. âÈêWear your swimsuit and bring your camera.âÈë

âÈêWhy?âÈë

âÈêYouâÈçll see.âÈë

Mysteries, she thought with a silent sigh. But maybe, if they were interesting enough, they would keep her father away from the things he wanted to discuss.

Early September. The air thick on the lake and the sky a weighty blue. The weather, heâÈçd been told, was unusual for that time of year so far north. Hot beyond anyoneâÈçs memory. Usually by the end of August fall was already solidly in the air. But not this year. The intense heat of the afternoon was bearable only because of the wind generated by the dinghy speeding over smooth water.

Though they were in Canada, Cork knew he could just about throw a stone onto U.S. territory. They were on the Lake of the Woods, a body of water roughly eighty miles long and sixty miles wide, containing over fourteen thousand islands. ThatâÈçs what heâÈçd been told in Kenora, anyway. The lake straddled the U.S.-Canadian border. Border? Cork shook his head, thinking how easily that international marker was crossed on this lake. There was no line on the water to delineate one nation from the other. Kitchimanidoo, the Creator, had made the land a boundless whole. It was human beings who felt the need for arbitrary divisions and drew the lines. Too often, he thought, in human blood.

He held the tiller of the little Evinrude outboard, guiding the dinghy southwesterly across broad, open water toward a gathering of islands humped along the horizon. In the half hour since theyâÈçd left the houseboat, he hadnâÈçt exchanged a word with Jenny. Which, he strongly suspected, was just fine with her.

The lake was beautiful and, like so many things of beauty, deceptive. The water that day was like glass. The vast size of the lake suggested depth, but Cork knew that beneath the tranquil surface lay reefs and rocks that in the blink of an eye could slit a hull or chew the blades off a prop. HeâÈçd been using GPS to follow the main channel between the islands and had been keeping a good speed. But south of Big Narrows he swung the boat west out of the channel, slowed to a crawl, and entered an archipelago composed of dozens of islands, large and small. The shorelines were rocky, the interiors covered with tall pine and sturdy spruce and leafy poplar. Cork eased the boat patiently along, studying the screen of the Garmin GPS mounted to the dash, into which heâÈçd downloaded a program for Lake of the Woods. The water was the color of weak green tea, and he told Jenny, who sat in the bow, to keep her eyes peeled for snags that the GPS couldnâÈçt possibly indicate. After fifteen minutes of careful navigation, he guided the dinghy up to the rocky edge of a small island. He eased the bow next to a boulder whose top rose from the water like the head of a bald man, and he cut the engine.

âÈêGrab the bow line and jump ashore,âÈë he told Jenny.

She leaped to the boulder, rope in hand.

âÈêCan you tie us off?âÈë

She slid a few feet down the side of the boulder and leaped nimbly to shore, where she tied the boat to a section of rotting fallen timber.

Cork stepped to the bow, leaped to the boulder, then to shore.

âÈêGot your camera?âÈë he asked.

Jenny patted her belt where her Canon hung in a nylon case.

âÈêOkay,âÈë Cork said. âÈêLetâÈçs take a hike.âÈë

The island was nearly bare of vegetation and was dominated by a rock formation that rose conelike at the center. Cork led the way along the rock slope, following the vague suggestion of a trail that gradually spiraled upward around the cone. All around them lay a gathering of islands so thick that no matter which way Cork looked they appeared to form a solid shoreline. Between the islands ran a confusing maze of narrow channels.

âÈêWhere are we?âÈë Jenny asked.

âÈêSomeplace not many folks know about. Probably the only ones who do are Shinnob.âÈë

He used the word that was shorthand for the Anishinaabeg, the First People, who were also known as Ojibwe or Chippewa. Anishinaabe blood ran through Cork and, therefore, through his daughter Jenny.

âÈêOn a map, this island doesnâÈçt have a name,âÈë Cork said. âÈêBut Shinnobs call it Neejawnisug.âÈë

âÈêWhat does it mean?âÈë

âÈêIâÈçll tell you in a minute.âÈë

They reached the top, which was crowned by a great white stone that looked as if it had been cleaved by an ax. The southern side was rounded and pocked, but the north side was a solid face ten feet tall. It lay in full sunlight, golden, and when Jenny saw that glowing face of rock, her eyes went large.

âÈêPictographs,âÈë she said. âÈêTheyâÈçre beautiful, Dad. Do you know what they mean?âÈë

Cork studied the figures painted in ocher that covered the face of the stone.

âÈêHenry Meloux told me theyâÈçre a kind of invocation to Kitchimanidoo for safety. He said the Anishinaabeg who drew them were being pursued by Dakota and had come to hide. They left the children here, and thatâÈçs why they call it Neejawnisug. It means âÈæthe children.âÈç They left the women, too, and went off to fight the enemy. They trusted this place because there are so many islands and so many channels that itâÈçs almost impossible to find your way here.âÈë

âÈêYou found it easily enough.âÈë

âÈêWhen I was sixteen, Henry brought me. Giigiwishimowin,âÈë Cork said.

âÈêYour vision quest,âÈë Jenny interpreted.

âÈêBy then it was no longer a common practice among the Ojibwe,âÈë Cork said. âÈêBut Henry insisted.âÈë

âÈêWhy here?âÈë

âÈêHe never told me.âÈë

âÈêDid you receive your vision?âÈë

âÈêI did.âÈë

Jenny didnâÈçt ask about her fatherâÈçs dream vision, and if she had, he probably wouldnâÈçt have told her.

âÈêHave you been here since?âÈë

âÈêNever.âÈë

âÈêHow did you find it so easily? I mean, after so many years?âÈë

âÈêI spent a long afternoon coming here with Henry. He made me memorize every twist and turn.âÈë

âÈêThat had to be forty years ago. A long time to remember.âÈë

âÈêYou mean for an old man.âÈë

âÈêI couldnâÈçt find my way back here.âÈë

âÈêIf it was important, I bet you could.âÈë

Jenny snapped photos of the drawings on the stone and, for a long time, was silent. âÈêAnd did Kitchimanidoo hide the children successfully?âÈë she finally asked.

âÈêI donâÈçt know. Nor did Henry.âÈë

He could see her mind working, and that was one of the reasons heâÈçd brought her. Unanswered questions were part of what drove her. He was uncertain how to broach the other reason heâÈçd asked her to come.

âÈêGod, itâÈçs hot,âÈë Jenny said, looking toward the sun, which baked them. âÈêNot even a breath of wind.âÈë

âÈêDog days.âÈë

âÈêNot technically,âÈë she said.

âÈêTechnically?âÈë He smiled. âÈêSo when are dog days? Technically.âÈë

âÈêAccording to the FarmersâÈç Almanac, the forty days from July third through August eleventh.âÈë

He shook his head. âÈêYouâÈçre way too precise in your thinking. Your mom, she was the same way.âÈë

Jenny brought her gaze to bear on her father. âÈêShe was a lawyer. She had to be precise. Legal strictures. IâÈçm a journalist. Lots of the same strictures apply.âÈë She looked away, down at the water a hundred feet below. âÈêMind if I take a dip before we go on?âÈë

âÈêNo. Mind if I join you?âÈë

They descended the cone and retraced their path to the boulder where the boat was secured. TheyâÈçd worn their bathing suits under their other clothing, and they quickly stripped. Jenny slipped into the water first and Cork followed.

The lake had been warming all summer, but even so it still held a chill that was a wonderful relief to the heat of the day.

âÈêSo?âÈë Cork said, in clumsy opening.

His daughter turned her head to the sky and closed her eyes and lay on her back, so that her ears were below the surface and she could pretend not to hear him.

âÈêI just want to know one thing. And I know you can hear me.âÈë

âÈêIt starts with one thing,âÈë she said with her eyes still closed. âÈêIt ends up everything. ThatâÈçs how you operate.âÈë

âÈêOld dog, old trick,âÈë he said, waited a moment, then repeated, âÈêSo?âÈë

She righted herself, treaded water, and gave in. âÈêAll right, what do you want to know?âÈë

âÈêAre you going to marry him?âÈë

âÈêThatâÈçs a complicated question.âÈë

âÈêI think the question is fairly simple.âÈë

âÈêWell, I canâÈçt answer it.âÈë

âÈêBecause of you or him?âÈë

âÈêItâÈçs a decision weâÈçre both involved in.âÈë

âÈêYouâÈçd tell your mother,âÈë he said.

âÈêShe wouldnâÈçt put me on the rack.âÈë

âÈêHave I?âÈë

âÈêYou will if you donâÈçt get an answer.âÈë

âÈêI suppose youâÈçve talked to Aunt Rose.âÈë

She didnâÈçt reply, but her silence itself gave him his answer.

âÈêBut you wonâÈçt talk to me.âÈë

âÈêThere are things women understand, Dad.âÈë

âÈêThere are things fathers should be let in on. Look, I donâÈçt know why you canâÈçt give me a straightforward answer, and thatâÈçs what concerns me.âÈë

âÈêThere are issues we need to settle first.âÈë

âÈêChildren?âÈë

âÈêAh, children,âÈë she said, as if she suddenly understood. âÈêThatâÈçs why you brought me here to show me those pictographs. This is all about children, isnâÈçt it?âÈë

âÈêNot completely. But you indicated there are issues,âÈë he said. âÈêAnd IâÈçm betting thatâÈçs one. He doesnâÈçt want them, does he?âÈë

âÈêMaybe itâÈçs me who doesnâÈçt.âÈë

âÈêIs it?âÈë Again, her silence was his answer. âÈêYouâÈçve been down this road before, Jenny.âÈë

âÈêSee? Right there.âÈë She lifted her arm and pointed an accusing finger at him. Water dripped from the tip in crystal pearls. âÈêThatâÈçs why I donâÈçt talk to you.âÈë

âÈêIt was only an observation.âÈë

âÈêIt was a criticism, and you know it.âÈë

âÈêI didnâÈçt meanâÈ'âÈë

âÈêIâÈçm finished swimming. LetâÈçs go.âÈë

HeâÈçd blown it. In his imagining, the discussion had gone differently, had ended with them understanding each other, touching heart to heart in the way they used to when she was much younger. Instead he watched her breaststroke away from him to the dinghy, leaving him feeling stupid and treading water.

They threaded their way out of the convoluted gathering of islands. Jenny sat rigid in the bow, fiercely giving him her back. As soon as they hit the open water of the main channel, he headed the dinghy again toward the southwest.

When he saw the sky there, he was, for a moment, stunned breathless.

âÈêDad?âÈë Jenny said from the bow. SheâÈçd seen it, too, and she turned back to him, fear huge in her eyes.

âÈêGood God Almighty,âÈë he whispered.

Âû 2011 William Kent Krueger

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