Manitou Canyon (10 page)

C
HAPTER
18

R
ose put Waaboo down for the night. She sat with him on the edge of his bed and read a little Junie B. Jones. When she was finished, Waaboo said, “Do you think Baa-baa will find the goose?”

“What goose?”

“The one he's looking for in the woods.”

“What do you mean, Waaboo?”

“Bennie's dad says that Baa-baa's chasing a wild goose in the woods.”

“Oh. On a wild-goose chase you mean?”

Rose wasn't surprised that word of Cork's expedition was already abroad. In Aurora, like in all small towns, that kind of information spread with the speed of plague.

“Your grandfather's not looking for a goose, Waaboo. He's looking for a man who's missing.”

“Will he find him?”

“I don't know. But I do know that it's important to him that he do his best.”

“If I was lost, I would want Baa-baa to look for me.”

“What about your mom, or me?”

“Baa-baa's better. He's not afraid of anything.”

She kissed his forehead. “If you say so.”

“Aunt Rose?”

“Yes?”

“Are you afraid of anything?”

“Lots of things.”

“Like what?”

“Spiders.”

“Me, too.”

“And snakes.”

“I don't mind snakes. What about monsters?”

“I don't believe in monsters.”

Waaboo thought about it a moment, then said, “Me, either.”

“I'm glad. Now good night, you little munchkin. Go to sleep.”

She kissed his forehead again, turned out the light, and left the room. But she didn't go downstairs immediately. She stood outside Waaboo's bedroom thinking about his naïve belief that his grandfather was afraid of nothing. She'd known Cork for thirty years, and while he was a good man, a just man, he was not a fearless man. She believed that he'd gone into the Boundary Waters afraid. Not of what might await him there, but of something that shadowed him in. She'd told Waaboo the truth. She didn't believe in monsters, but she thought that Cork did, and the monster he most feared was the one that looked back at him in the mirror every morning and said,
You failed them.

Downstairs, Jenny was at the kitchen table, working on her laptop. “He's asleep?” she said when Rose appeared.

“On his way.”

“Thanks.”

Rose went to the coffeepot and poured herself a mug. “What are you working on?”

“My publisher wants a synopsis of my next book.”

“I didn't know you were working on another book.”

“I'm not. Yet. But since I signed a two-book deal, they want to know what the second book will be.”

“Got any ideas?”

“I think I'm going to write the story of how we found Waaboo.”

“I've always liked that story.”

“You were an important part of it.”

“And I love the way it ended,” Rose said.

The back door opened, and Stephen came in, bringing cold air with him. He hung his coat on a wall peg near the door.

“Do I smell coffee?” he said.

“I just took the last of it,” Rose said. “I'll make a fresh pot. How did the sweat go?”

Stephen went straight to the cookie jar that was shaped like Ernie from
Sesame Street
and that had been in the kitchen of the O'Connor house since he was a child. He took out one of the chocolate chip cookies Rose had made that very afternoon and sat down at the table. “All things considered, pretty awful.”

“Why?” Rose asked. “What happened?”

“Trevor Harris came drunk and puked all over the place. And that Aunt Leah woman invited herself along. Her energy was so dark and thick it would've been hard for anything enlightening to get through.”

Jenny closed her laptop. “Did Henry lead the sweat?”

“Yeah. He was a lot more optimistic about the whole thing. He said sometimes the mess of a situation is the answer you're looking for.”

“What does that mean?”

“Search me. But we've come up with a plan.”

The coffee began to drip. Rose took the cookie jar and set it in the middle of the table. “What plan?”

“Rainy, Daniel, and I are going into the Boundary Waters to check on Dad.”

Jenny sat back, clearly surprised. “When?”

Stephen wiped crumbs from his lips with the back of his hand. “First thing tomorrow. Daniel called and talked to friends he's got in the Forest Service. They're going to fly us out to Raspberry Lake.”

“Through all those clouds? Isn't that dangerous?” Rose asked.

“The clouds are breaking up.”

Jenny didn't look happy. “First Dad, now you and Daniel? Pretty soon the Boundary Waters will suck up everyone I love.”

“We'll come back,” Stephen said with a grin.

“See that you do, and in time for my wedding.”

“What about Trevor Harris? Is he going with you?” Rose asked.

“He said he'd leave it to us,” Stephen replied. “He was looking pretty green. I dropped him at his hotel and promised to keep him informed.”

Rose took a mug from the cupboard and, even before the coffeemaker had finished its work, began pouring. “The puking? What was that all about?”

“He'd been drinking pretty heavily this afternoon,” Stephen said. “He was in no shape for a sweat.”

“So you don't really know anything more about his vision?”

“Nada,” Stephen said. “Or this darkness that's been weighing on me. Henry seemed to think that the way things went was informative.”

“How so?” Rose asked, as she delivered the coffee.

“You know Henry. He gives you nothing on a platter.”

“Tomorrow you'll know more,” Rose said. “Everything will be clearer then.”

“I'll drink to that,” Stephen said and raised his mug in a mock toast.

* * *

Rainy walked the path through the meadow and between the great rocks that hid the fire ring. She carried a flashlight, but didn't turn it on. The clouds had cleared and there was a nearly full moon high in the sky, lighting her way. The North Country had been overcast so long she couldn't remember the last time she'd seen stars, but they were out now, filling the sky like spilled sugar. She went past the char from the last fire in the ring and walked to the edge of the lake. The water was dark, but a mercurial, silver river of reflected moonlight ran toward her across the surface.

Although she hadn't said anything to anyone, the disaster of the sweat that day disturbed her. Henry's take on it had been optimistic. Her own was different, full of foreboding, and she wanted to get down to the source of her fear.

Of course she was afraid for Cork and for Lindsay Harris.
There were troubling aspects to the whole expedition that had nothing to do with Trevor's vision or Stephen's sense of foreboding. The disappearance of John Harris into thin air was a profound mystery. The threat of bad weather that always loomed in that time of year was a concern. And even in the best of conditions, the wilderness could challenge an experienced outdoorsman.

There was something weighing on Cork, too, some terrible heaviness in his heart. “November,” he'd said to her the last time she tried to talk to him about it. But it had been there long before the gray of that month set in. As a trained nurse, she wondered if it was something clinical, depression perhaps. She knew that Rose and Jenny believed it could be traced back to the tragic incidents that Cork had been involved in and felt responsible for in a way—the death of his wife, his friends, the shooting of his son. Responsible not because he caused these things but because, despite his best efforts, he couldn't prevent them. He thought of himself as
ogichidaa
. And maybe that in itself was the real failing. How could anyone stand between all evil and the people he loved? That was too much to expect. Even Henry, the wisest person she knew, didn't lay that sense of obligation on his own shoulders. Henry offered people what he believed they might need to face adversity, but he didn't try to be their shield, their protector. So many people came to him, how could he be?

“We often carry the burden of those who come to us burdened, Niece.”

She turned, and there was the old man, a silver reflection of moonlight on the other side of the fire ring. He hadn't made a sound in coming.

“I thought you were asleep, Uncle Henry.”

A sweat was a ceremony that could drain the strength from even young bodies. Her great-uncle didn't often lead sweats these days, they were so grueling, and whenever he did, she was concerned. But when he insisted, as he had that day, she didn't argue. He'd eaten a bit afterward, and then had laid himself down and gone immediately to sleep. For the night, she'd thought.

“Trouble in the air,” he said. He looked up. “It circles like a turkey vulture. You feel it, too.”

“I can't help being afraid. I don't like it, but there it is.”

“Why do you hold it at such a distance? Better to talk to your fear.” He crossed the little clearing and stood beside her.

She stared at the dark water of the lake. “I wish I could tell Cork that, and I wish he would listen.”

“Sometimes a man walks into the night and does not understand why he cannot see. He blames himself for the dark he is in. I think that is Corcoran O'Connor.”

“I don't know how to help him, Uncle Henry.”

“You have offered him a light. He can take it or not. His choice.”

“I love him,” she said.

“And that is the light,” Henry said.

They stood together, and although the fear didn't leave her, she felt great comfort in the old Mide's presence at her side.

“I wish the sweat had gone better.” She shook her head. “Aunt Leah.”

“She is alone and scared,” Henry said. “Just as you were when you came to me. You have learned much in these years. Leah may not know it, but perhaps that is why she has come. Maybe it is her turn now.”

Which startled Rainy. “You think she might be here to stay?”

“That will be her choice.”

“Is it what you want?”

“I try not to want. I try instead to accept.”

Rainy thought that if Leah came to Crow Point for good, it would drive her crazy. Or it would drive her away. This was way too much for her to think about at the moment. She turned back to the most important consideration at hand.

“Cork,” she said. “We'll know more tomorrow, won't we?”

Her great-uncle studied the moonlight that fell across the water like a long, quivering finger. He said quietly, “Tomorrow may have a mind of its own.”

C
HAPTER
19

T
he moonlight was a gift. And there was another.
Jiibayag niimi'idiwag.
The northern lights. His grandmother Dilsey had told him that the dancing lights were reflections of the fires of Nanaboozhoo, who was both a trickster and a hero in the stories she told him, kindled far to the north. Cork had known better even when he was a child, but he still liked the idea that a great spirit was behind all that beauty.

For hours, he'd watched from the top of the ridge as the people on the shoreline of the lake below him prepared for and gave in to night. They'd allowed themselves a fire, which Cork figured was because they felt they were a safe distance from Raspberry Lake. There were no official BWCAW campsites on Mudd Lake, and they believed they were alone. They cooked over the fire. Even far up on the ridge, he caught the scent of stew. It was probably something rehydrated, but it smelled wonderful and reminded him how hungry he was. They'd shared their meal with Lindsay Harris but had spoken with her very little. He wished he could see her face, get a sense of what she was feeling. Was she scared? Angry? Discouraged? Certainly tired. He watched them lay out their sleeping bags. They'd bound Lindsay's hands with duct tape and put her in a sleeping bag—probably the one that had belonged to the dead man—nearest the water, blocking any escape in that direction. They located themselves roughly in an arc between her and the woods, a kind of barrier should she be tempted to try to slip away in the night. The tall man had banked the fire so there
would be coals in the morning, then they'd all crawled into their bags to sleep.

Cork envied them their rest. He would have loved nothing better than to lay his head down and give himself over to sleep. The night grew cold. Although his layered wool kept him warm enough, he thought about home, a shower, a hot meal, a soft bed. He thought about all that was behind him at the moment, comforts he'd taken for granted, people he loved and took for granted, too. Rainy, especially, was heavy on his mind. The night before he left, she'd offered him a sweat to help him clear his spirit and his thinking. She'd offered him her bed as well. He'd turned her down on both counts. The gift she wanted to give him was more than a sweat and a bed. It was the gift of her whole heart, and it scared him.

His wife had been killed. Stephen had been shot, crippled. He wished desperately that he'd been able to put himself between Jo and the bullet that had felled her, between Stephen and the bullet that had lamed him. That was what a man who thought of himself as
ogichidaa
should have done. It was what his father had done, put himself between a bullet and an innocent old woman.

It wasn't until after his father's death that Cork first heard that word,
ogichidaa
. He'd been angry with his father for a long time, angry not only because he felt abandoned but also because of the way it had happened, protecting a woman who'd already lived her life. Meloux had explained about
ogichidaa,
about how Cork's father, although he was not Anishinaabe, had been born to it. He'd looked long at Cork with those eyes from which nothing could be hidden, and he'd said, in a way that had sounded deeply concerned, “You are
ogichidaa,
too.” The anger didn't go away immediately, but as he grew into his own manhood, Cork came more and more to understand. And he began to see as well that men like his father and like him walked under a dark cloud and those near them were in danger of being struck by lightning. Long ago, he'd left his job as sheriff of Tamarack County because of the threat to his family. Nothing had changed. He'd finally come to accept that it wasn't
the way he lived his life that was to blame. It was who he was, something which had been passed down to him and from which he couldn't turn away, something that would always threaten him and those who loved him and were loved by him.

Rainy was one of those now. And that's what scared him.

More immediately, there was Lindsay Harris, who'd entrusted him with her safety. And what had he done so far but let her down?

When the fire was nothing but a few red coals and those around it were deep in their sleep, he finally rose. His body, prone for hours on the cold ground, ached in every muscle. He stretched, and the crack of his joints was absurdly loud in the quiet of the woods. By the light of the moon, he made his way carefully down the ridge to the rush of the Asemaa River. He crept to the flat at the edge of the lake where the others had made their camp. The noise of the river as it spilled into Mudd Lake was a big help in covering the sound of his approach. The moonlight helped him make out the black forms in their bags. He stepped carefully between them, around the smoldering coals of the fire, and knelt beside Lindsay Harris.

At his touch, she came awake instantly. Her eyes were wide, her mouth thrown open as if to cry out. But she recognized him immediately and relaxed. He put a finger to his lips, then motioned for her to show him her hands. He pulled the Barlow knife from his pocket and cut the tape that bound her wrists, then he put the knife back. She rummaged at the bottom of her sleeping bag and brought out her boots. She slid from her bag and tugged them on. She'd been using her rolled coat as a pillow, and she slipped into that and stood up. Cork led the way. He felt her hesitate, and he turned back and saw her standing, as if paralyzed, fearfully eyeing the unmoving shapes in the other sleeping bags. He reached out and took her hand to guide her through.

They were almost clear when she stumbled. She made an involuntary sound as she went down, and Cork saw the others instantly begin to shed their bags. He drew Lindsay off the ground
and cried to her, “Run!” then turned back to face the other three as they came at him.

The tall man was first. Cork lowered his shoulder and lunged and hit him midtorso. They went down together. Cork sprang up quickly, and the kid was on his back. He spun, trying to throw the kid off, but it was like fighting an octopus. The next thing he felt was something like a tree stump shoved into his stomach, and he doubled over and went down.

“Move and I'll kill you,” the tall man snapped.

Cork stared up into the barrel of the rifle and went slack. The kid let go his hold and stood up, panting.

“Got her.” The woman came into Cork's vision, Lindsay in her grip. “Just shoot him,” she said.

“Get up, O'Connor,” the tall man said. Then he said to the kid, “There's duct tape in my pack.” The kid returned with the roll and the tall man said, “The knife, O'Connor.”

Cork handed over his Barlow.

“Hands behind your back. You, too,” he said to Lindsay.

They bound them both, and the tall man said to the others, “Try to get some sleep. Dawn's not far away.”

“I'll watch him.” The woman held out her hand for the rifle.

“No,” the tall man said. “I'll watch.”

In the moonlight and the flare of the northern lights, Cork could see the disappointment on her face and the hatred as she eyed him once more before turning in.

The kid helped Lindsay off with her boots and into her bag, then he slid back into his own sleeping bag.

“Sit.” The tall man nodded toward the coals.

Cork sat down awkwardly beside the smoldering fire and could still feel some of its warmth. The tall man sat cross-legged near him, the rifle resting across his lap. He stared silently at Cork for a good long while. The northern lights were at the tall man's back, but gradually they faded and he was framed by only the night sky, the stars, and the descending moon.

“You could have left her,” he said.

“That was one of my choices,” Cork replied.

“What is she to you?”

“My client.”

“That's it?”

“And a woman in trouble. What is she to you?”

The tall man's face was stone in the moonlight. “Hope,” he said.

They spoke no more as they waited for the morning light to come.