Manitou Canyon (11 page)

C
HAPTER
20

T
he promised de Havilland Beaver floatplane awaited them at the marina when Rainy and her nephew pulled up early the next morning. Stephen was at the end of one of the docks, talking with the pilot, a lean middle-aged man with a balding head and an easy smile.

“Bud Bowers,” Daniel said, nodding toward the pilot. “Used to fly F-16s for the Navy.”

He pulled his truck into the marina parking lot, which was empty. The boat slips in the marina were empty, too. With the exception of the floatplane, the lake was deserted and would remain that way until the water had frozen thick enough to support the village of shanties and huts that would go up for winter ice fishing, and the trucks and SUVs that would be parked next to them. As it was, the cold of the night before had left a thin, fragile coating of ice on the lake surface very near the shoreline.

The morning was bright and the sky crystal blue in the way it would often be in the winter ahead. The sun had just risen on the far side of Iron Lake, and the water sparkled yellow and gold as if studded with topaz. Rainy and Daniel met the others on the dock, and Daniel introduced his aunt.

“You're out there on Crow Point with old Henry Meloux, is that right?” Bowers asked.

“That's right.”

“You a medicine woman?”

It was asked with respect, and so she answered simply, “More or less.”

“That Henry, he's one tough old bird,” Bowers said. “So, is everybody ready?”

Before they could answer, a voice hailed them from the direction of the Four Seasons, which overlooked the marina. Trevor Harris came trotting toward them. Rainy was surprised to see the young man up so early, especially considering his condition the day before at the sweat. He was dressed for the cold North Country, in a leather jacket, jeans, and boots.

“Got room for one more?” he asked, nearly breathless when he reached them.

“I remember you,” Bowers said. “Flew you out when we were searching for your grandfather. Trevor, right?” He shook the young man's hand. “It's okay by me. I've got room. Any objections?” he asked the others.

“Not at all,” Rainy said. “I'm sure you're worried, Trevor.”

“Didn't sleep a wink last night,” Trevor Harris said.

Which could well have been true, because the kid looked beat.

“All right, pile in,” Bowers said. “Let's get this show on the road.”

They took their places, Bud Bowers at the controls, Rainy and Stephen behind him, and Trevor Harris in the very rear. Daniel undid the mooring line, stood on the pontoon, and shoved the plane well away from the dock. He climbed in, taking the seat next to Bowers. The pilot fired the engine and swung the Beaver around, nose to the open water. They glided across the lake and took to the air.

“How long to Raspberry?” Stephen called out to him.

“What takes a full day of canoeing and portaging will take this baby twenty minutes. We lucked out with the weather. Cloud cover's been so thick I wouldn't have tried this before today.”

They flew northeast over Iron Lake and the reservation town of Allouette. Out her window, Rainy could see Crow Point, a mottled-­green finger pointing south across the six miles of open water separating it from Aurora. She knew that Henry was there, probably burning sage and cedar and sweet grass, sending up prayers with the smoke. She found that comforting.

A quarter of an hour into the flight, she glanced back at Trevor, who was sound asleep, his head lolled back, his mouth agape. He was drooling.

“There she is,” Bowers called over his shoulder a few minutes later and pointed ahead to a shimmering blue horseshoe set in a vast expanse that was a mix of evergreen and bared deciduous forest.

Bowers brought the plane down gradually. They skimmed over the very tops of the trees and dropped to the water. Rainy felt the sudden drag as the Beaver touched the lake, sending up a fine spray on both sides. Bowers motored toward the shoreline.

“That's where we camped,” Trevor said, wide awake now, although his eyes were still bleary.

“Only two BWCAW sites on this lake,” Bowers said. “And looks like we struck gold. I see a tent there in the trees.”

He eased the plane near the shoreline and cut the engine. Daniel got out onto a pontoon and leaped to solid ground, the mooring line in his hand. He tied it to an aspen a few feet inland. He steadied himself on the pontoon and said to the others, “One at a time. Watch your footing.” He helped them out and oversaw their short hop to the shore. They all made it safely, although Trevor Harris stumbled headlong on landing, and only Stephen's quick grab kept him from falling flat on his face.

They hurried to the campsite, which was deserted. They unzipped the tent flaps and found the sleeping bags and packs still inside.

“The sat phone's here,” Stephen said.

Daniel checked the fire pit. “No one's burned anything for a good long while.”

“Everything seems to be here except the canoe,” Stephen said. “They must be out on the lake somewhere.”

“I can run the Beaver around, and we can take a look-see,” Bowers offered.

They piled back into the plane, and Bowers taxied them down the lake between the shoreline and Raspberry Island.

“I see a canoe,” Stephen called out. “Over there.” He pointed toward the big island.

“That's the other BWCAW campsite,” Bowers said.

He turned the plane in that direction and eased it near the shore where the canoe lay tipped.

“That's ours,” Stephen said.

They got out and secured the Beaver, then stood looking at the trees and the rock ridge that ran the length of the island and listening to the absolute silence of everything around them.

“Where are they?” Trevor asked.

“The Beaver's engine is loud enough that unless they're both stone-deaf they had to hear us,” Bowers said.

“Dad!” Stephen called.

“Lindsay!” Trevor shouted.

When they received no reply, Daniel said, “Why don't we split up?”

Bowers turned left along the shore. Stephen and Harris went to the right. Rainy and Daniel headed directly inland toward the ridge. They followed a path among the pines that led them to where the sudden thrust of gray rock had created the wall. Lying on the ground at the base was a red-and-white striped stocking cap.

Daniel picked up the cap. “Look familiar?”

“I'm pretty sure it's not Cork's.”

“If it's not Lindsay Harris's, the only other name that comes to mind is Waldo.”

He stuffed it into his coat pocket, and they stood staring up the steep wall.

“What now?” Daniel said. “We climb?”

Rainy turned in a full circle, trying to take in everything, not just what she saw, but what all her senses offered her.

“Do you feel it?” she said.

“What?”

“It's like a rip in the fabric of this place. A violation of its spirit.”

Almost immediately, they heard Stephen's distant cry. They took off in that direction, making their way as quickly as they could through the pines and the undergrowth. In a few minutes, they came to the west end of the island, where they found Stephen and Trevor standing side by side, staring at the ground.

Rainy saw it then, too, what had grabbed their attention and now made them stand there, dumb. In the shade beneath the pines, a great stain spread across the bed of needles. It was as dark as beet juice, but Rainy knew it had once been a brighter hue.

Daniel knelt, touched it, then looked up at the others. “Blood.”

“Maybe from an animal?” Stephen said. “A wolf kill or something?”

“There'd be evidence of the carcass,” Daniel said. “Someone bled here, bled a lot.”

“Lindsay?” Trevor said. “Dear God, no.”

Daniel took the brightly striped cap from his pocket. “Is this your sister's?”

“Grandpa John gave it to her. He joked that if she wore it, we'd never lose track of her.” Trevor stared at the cap, then at the pooling of blood, and all the life seemed to drain from him.

They heard Bud Bowers coming through the woods, and in a moment he was with them.

“Jesus,” he said. “What happened here?”

“The question of the day.” Daniel stood, walked around the stain, then moved toward the lakeshore, which lay a dozen yards outside the trees. He studied the ground carefully as he went. “Here,” he said. When they joined him, he pointed to a long, straight line in the dirt. “I'd bet my right arm the gunwale of a canoe left that mark.”

“What's it mean?” Trevor asked.

Stephen gazed out at the empty lake and said in a tense, quiet voice, “It means that my dad and your sister weren't alone here.”

C
HAPTE
R
21

A
t first light, they hit Mudd Lake. The tall man, the woman, and Lindsay took the lead canoe. Cork and the kid followed in the other. They'd cut Cork's hands free so that he could handle a paddle. The tall man had warned him again against attempting to escape. The woman gave him a look that told him she'd love to have him try.

The kid had limped badly that morning. The tall man had looked at the stitches.

“Inflamed. Probably some infection. How's it feeling?”

“Hurts, but I'll make it,” the kid had said.

“No other choice,” the tall man had told him. “We'll get you looked at as soon as we're out.”

On the water now, the kid sat in the stern on his pack and kept his leg stretched out in front of him and didn't lean hard into his work. That was fine with Cork. He was tired from his sleepless night and gave his own effort less than his all. As a result, their canoe slipped farther and farther behind the other.

The sun had risen and cracked the hold of the deep chill the night before. Cork felt warmed and, in a way, buoyed. He hadn't been able to spirit Lindsay Harris to safety, but he knew that he had time now to figure out a different plan. From what he'd overheard of the tall man's sat phone conversation, he understood that whoever was supposed to pick them up and fly them out was, at the moment, behind bars somewhere. Also, he'd heard the tall man mention the RCMP, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. The party was headed
north, and there was nothing north but Canada. Without a plane to fly them out, it would take a lot of paddling and a lot of portaging to get there. He looked at the blue sky and knew time wouldn't be the only thing he'd need. The good weather would have to hold, which, if winter came in the usual way, would be asking a lot.

“I've got a son about your age,” Cork said. “His name's Stephen. What's your name?”

Behind him, the kid said, “Doesn't matter.”

“Is that French?”

He heard the kid laugh.

“O'Connor,” the kid said. “Irish?”

“Some. Anishinaabe, too.”

“Shinnob? Us, too. Odawa.”

“Flynn's death was an accident,” Cork said. “I hope he wasn't related to you.”

“He claimed to be by clan,” the kid said. “Not blood. I don't know if it was true.”

“I'm Ma'iingan,” Cork said. Wolf Clan.

“Makwa,” the kid said. Bear Clan.

“The others? Odawa, too?”

“My uncle. Mrs. Gray and Flynn, Ojibwe, I think, like you. They're from another reserve. I don't know which one. I don't know anything about them, really. Didn't even know his name was Flynn until she said it. Before that he was just Mr. Gray, like she's just Mrs. Gray. Didn't know he was her brother, either. I figured they were married.”

“If you don't know them, why are they with you?”

“Fox brought them in to help.”

“Fox?”

The kid must have realized he was talking too much, and Cork got no answer.

“What do you all have against Harris and his granddaughter?”

Again, the kid didn't reply.

“Kidnapping's a pretty big deal. It'll get you thrown in jail for a long time.”

Cork glanced over his shoulder, and the kid gave him a dark look.

“Ever been in jail?”

“Don't talk anymore,” the kid said. “Just paddle.”

At the north end of Mudd, they portaged along a thread of water nearly a mile to the next lake. Cork tried to remember the lake's name and if it was one he'd been on before. But there were so many in the Boundary Waters, he couldn't pull up any recollection. The portage, however, was a new twist because it was common knowledge that there wasn't an easy way onto or off Mudd Lake. As far as Cork could tell, the tall man in the lead wasn't consulting a map. He seemed to have a good sense of the land and where they were headed.

When the sun was directly overhead, they put in to a little cove and the woman pulled food from one of the packs—beef sticks, nuts, and an orange, which she gave to the kid. They sat on the shore in the warm sunshine and ate, and for a long time no one said a word.

“Quetico by sundown,” Cork said.

“Shut up,” the woman said.

“Quetico?” Lindsay Harris said. “We're crossing into Canada?”

The tall man said, “The border is only a line on a map.”

“
Aandi wenjibaayan?”
Cork said. Where are you from?

The tall man eyed him, and although he didn't respond, Cork knew that he understood.

“You're Odawa,” Cork said. “Anishinaabe like me.”

“You're
wayaabishkiiwed,
” the tall man said. A white man.

“He's
chimook,
” the woman said. White bastard.

“Anishinaabe indaaw,”
Cork said. I am Anishinaabe.

“In your heart?” the tall man questioned. “Would you die for The People?”

“Is that what you're planning on doing?” Cork looked at the kid. “All of you?”

“I'm gonna shut you up,” the woman said and started to rise.

“Relax,” the tall man told her. “The time will come, O'Connor,
when the reason for all this becomes clear. I wouldn't mind having you alive to see that. You might understand. But your life, the lives of us all, don't matter much in the long run.”

“My life matters to me,” Cork said. “I'm sure Miss Harris feels the same about hers.”

“You think we care what matters to you?” the woman said. “There are more important things at stake than your life.”

“Or Flynn's?” Cork said.

“You say his name one more time . . .” the woman began.

“Leave it,” the tall man said. “No more talk.”

“Tell me one thing.” Lindsay Harris said, a demand.

The tall man considered her. “What?”

“My grandfather, is he still alive?”

“Yes. But that might change, depending on you.”

“Me?”

“No more escape attempts. If we come out of this wilderness and you're not with us, your grandfather is dead.”

“Why?” Her voice was strained, taut. “What difference do I make in anything?”

“You know the bargain,” the tall man said. “Do you agree to it?”

Cork watched her body, saw how rigid she held it, trying to keep her rage in check. “I don't have much choice, do I?”

“Neither do I,” he told her.

The tall man looked at Cork. “The lives of this woman and her grandfather are in your hands. Will you put them in danger again?”

“I won't try to escape,” Cork said. “You have my word.”

“The word of a
chimook,
” the sour woman said.

“All right then. We all understand each other.” The tall man stood. “I'm going to check in on the sat phone.”

He pulled the phone from the pack and walked away from the others.

The kid touched his knee and squeezed his eyes shut. A little moan escaped his lips.

“Are the stitches holding?” Cork asked.

“Yeah, but it hurts.”

“I have a friend who makes a wonderful willow tea for pain.”

“Uncle Aaron gave me some aspirin.”

“Shut up,” the woman snapped.

Cork couldn't tell if the hurt in the kid's eyes at that moment came from the pain of his knee or the harshness of her voice.

Lindsay leaned to Cork. “I haven't had a chance to thank you.”

“What for?”

“Coming back last night. You could have left me.”

“Shut up,” the sour woman said.

Lindsay paid her no mind. “I'm sorry I got you into this.”

“Let it go,” Cork said. “My choice.”

The tall man returned. “Cheval won't be getting out of jail today, but maybe first thing in the morning.”

“So what do we do?” the kid said.

“Keep going. If someone comes looking for these two, the farther we are from Raspberry Lake the better.”

They loaded the canoes, shoved off, and headed north. As he paddled, Cork thought,
Aaron.
Uncle Aaron.
And the woman's alias is Mrs. Gray
. He didn't have any idea at the moment what to do with these pieces of information, but he understood that everything you knew about your enemy was important.