Vermilion Drift (23 page)

Broom seemed angered by Meloux’s knowledge. “I never told anyone.”

“You never told anyone,” Meloux agreed gently. “But your mother knew.”

“No,” he said. Then: “How?”

“That was a thing a small boy could not hide from a mother who loved him. She wanted to kill Indigo Broom, but she vanished.”

“Loved me? You’re a liar.”

“A very long time ago, I tried to guide you to the truth, but your heart was hard, and your spirit was all fire. I could not help you. You are a man now, and I am offering you the truth again.”

Broom looked suddenly sick. He turned, threw open the door, and rushed outside. From the dark came the sound of retching.

Cork took the opportunity to grab Broom’s rifle. He checked the chamber. It was empty, and the magazine, too, which probably meant Broom intended to use the weapon only to frighten. Rainy went to her great-uncle and untied the rope that bound him to the chair.

In the light of the lantern on Meloux’s table, they waited. Broom didn’t return. Cork finally lifted the lantern and went to the door. The big Shinnob lay on his back at the edge of the meadow, passed out.

“What do you want to do with him, Henry?” Cork asked.

“Let him sleep for a while. Then I will talk with him.”

“He may be just as belligerent when he wakes up,” Cork said.

Meloux replied, “He would not have been a problem except my niece was less than hospitable. She spoke to him harshly.”

“Jesus, Uncle Henry, a drunken maniac breaks into your cabin waving a rifle and you treat him like an honored guest.”

“It is my cabin. If I choose to treat him that way, it is my right. And, Niece, until you spoke, he did not point his rifle at anyone.”

“Oh, Christ,” she said and turned away.

Meloux asked her, “Will you build a fire in the ring? Corcoran
O’Connor will help you. If Isaiah Broom wakes, I will bring him there.”

Rainy stormed down the path toward the fire ring at the edge of the lake. Cork took the Maglite from his back pocket.

“I think it would be safer if I stayed here with you,” Cork said.

“I am not afraid of Isaiah Broom.”

“It’s not Broom that has me worried, Henry.” He glanced down the path where the angry woman had gone.

In the dark, he saw the old man smile.

H
e offered his flashlight. She refused.

“I don’t need your help,” Rainy said as she gathered cut wood from a box near the ring. “I know how to build a fire.”

“Fine,” Cork said. “I’ll just stand here and watch.”

The moon gave only a faint definition to things. The tall outcroppings that isolated the ring were the color of pencil lead. The ground was a gray pool of bare dirt, the fire ring a black hole of ash. The lake a dozen yards away was like mercury, a dark liquid silver. The woman, as she moved from the woodbox to the fire ring, was an angry obsidian blur.

Cork said, “He can be hard to understand sometimes, but in my experience, he’s usually right.”

She dropped a load of wood inside the ring. “Jesus, the man was drunk. He was waving a rifle, for Christ sake. And I’m supposed to say
‘Mi casa, su casa’
?”

“Henry’s
casa
actually.”

She bent and spent a minute arranging the wood. Cork could hear the snap of kindling.

“Damn it,” she said.

“What?”

“I didn’t bring any matches.”

“Me either.”

“I need to go back to the cabin.”

“Why don’t you relax for a little bit? That was pretty intense stuff back there.”

She stood a moment, outlined against the dark silver of the lake, then sat on the ground not far from Cork.

He studied the stars and let a minute pass.

“Why did Broom come to Henry?” he asked.

“People come to Uncle Henry all the time. They think he knows everything that happens on the rez.”

“He probably does. Why did you come to Crow Point?”

“I told you. The family’s worried about Uncle Henry.”

“No, I mean why you? Of all the family, why you?”

“For one thing, I’m a public health nurse.”

“Summer off?”

“Funding cut. I’m between jobs at the moment.”

“For another thing?”

“My children are raised and gone. I have no one who depends on me being there every day.”

“Not married?”

“Divorced. A long time ago. Are you always this nosy?”

“Inquisitive. Goes with my job.”

“And your nature, I’d say.”

Cork heard the flap of big wings overhead. Rainy looked up startled.

“An owl,” Cork said. “Should I be worried about Henry?”

Rainy didn’t answer immediately. She continued to look up where the owl had flown and where the stars were legion.

“The shaking? The tiredness? They’re symptoms,” she said. “Of what, I can’t say. There are dozens and dozens of diseases or conditions that could cause it. If it were something like multiple sclerosis, I’d expect to see problems with his vision and maybe numbness or tingling in his limbs. He claims to be fine. If it’s the result of a stroke, then it was a mild one. But even so, I’d expect to see, oh, I don’t know, muscle weakness or numbness or maybe some disorientation. Maybe it’s simply a neurodegenerative situation of some kind. Old age, basically. But he’s not showing any other symptoms, so I don’t know. Whatever it is, he doesn’t seem much concerned.” A loon called from the lake, and Rainy turned her head. “It’s lovely here,” she said.

“Not a bad place for a man to live. And to die, when that time comes.”

“That time will not come soon, Corcoran O’Connor.”

They hadn’t heard the old Mide’s approach, but Meloux stood not ten feet away. He came now and sat with them.

“I thought you were going to build a fire, Niece.”

“I didn’t have matches, Uncle Henry.”

“Just as well,” Meloux said. “I think Isaiah Broom will not wake until morning. And I think I need to sleep. Thank you for your help,” he said to Cork.

“You want me here when Broom wakes up?”

“He will wake in sunshine and hungover. He will not be in the mood for confrontation. He will want to be quiet, and I think he will listen.”

“What will you tell him?”

“What I tell him will be for his ears only, Corcoran O’Connor.”

In the dark, Cork leaned nearer the Mide. “I’ve found a few answers, Henry, but I still have a lot of questions. I think you can help me.”

“Tell me what you know.”

“All right. Forty years ago, it went like this. I think that the Vanishings began with Leonora Broom. I think she confronted Indigo about what he’d done to her son and Broom killed her and put her body in the Vermilion Drift. Maybe he’d killed before or just had the deep desire to kill, I don’t know, but murdering Isaiah’s mother set him off that summer for sure. Next it was Abbie Stillday, a girl everybody knew was leaving the rez sooner or later. And then it was the vulnerable ones, the ones easily preyed on. Somewhere along the way, Broom brought Monique Cavanaugh into it. Or maybe it was just the evil of these two people that somehow brought them together. Broom snagged the victims and he and Monique Cavanaugh both…” Cork searched for the right word.

Meloux supplied it. “They fed.”

“Fed?” Rainy said, aghast. “You don’t mean they cannibalized their victims?”

“Do you know the story of the Windigo, Niece?”

“A monster with a heart of ice. A cannibal.”

“They were both Windigos,” Meloux said. “They did not start out that way, but they did not start out as whole human beings either. They were born with something missing. They did not have souls.”

“Everyone has a soul, Uncle Henry,” Rainy said.

“What is a soul? I believe it is our connection with the Creator and our deep awareness of our connection with all things created by him. And this is what they did not have. Some people who have souls make choices that lead them to evil. These two did not have a choice.”

“
Majimanidoo
. That’s what you called Broom. Evil spirit. He was simply born that way? But why would the Creator do that, Uncle Henry?”

“I have lived a very long time, Niece, and I have seen many things I do not understand. I only know they are so.”

“If Broom and Monique Cavanaugh didn’t start out as Windigos, Henry, what happened?” Cork asked.

“A small evil is like a shadow. It follows us but it has no effect. But when evil finds evil, it can become a different creature, Corcoran O’Connor. It can become huge and monstrous. When those two soulless people met, something worse than what they had been before was created. They fed on their own evil and then they fed on The People.”

“Why The People?”

“Because if the Ojibwe disappeared, who would care? Only the Ojibwe and we were few and powerless.”

“How did these two find each other, Henry?” Cork asked.

“I do not know.”

“My father knew about them, didn’t he?”

“He knew.”

“What did he do about it?”

“Your father was a good man. One of the best I have ever known. But he was not one of The People.”

“What does that mean?”

“You are not yet at the end of your journey, Corcoran O’Connor. When you have reached the end, you will understand and my answers will not be necessary.”

“It was my father’s gun that killed Monique Cavanaugh, wasn’t it, Henry? Explain that to me.”

“You still ask in anger. The end of your journey is a place without anger. Come to me when you have reached that place.” Meloux slowly stood. “I am going to bed now.”

Cork watched the dark between the outcroppings swallow his old friend.

“Shit,” he said under his breath.

Rainy said, “He can be hard to understand sometimes, but in my experience, he’s usually right.”

“Oh shut up,” Cork said and got to his feet.

H
e dreamed his father dying.

And he woke anxious and angry.

Clearly, he was nowhere near the end of the journey Meloux had referred to.

But he had an idea, which he wanted to pursue, and he got up quickly and prepared for the day.

Before he headed out, his phone rang. A call from his daughter Jenny.

“Dad?” She sounded worried.

“Hey, sweetheart, what a nice surprise.”

“I just heard about what’s going on up there in the Vermilion One Mine. Jesus, Dad.”

“Yeah, pretty crazy stuff.”

“On CNN, they reported that you found the bodies. Is that true?”

“Afraid so.”

“My God. Are you all right?”

“Me? Fine.”

“Are you… involved?” She phrased it much the way her mother might have, her words both a question and an admonition.

“Just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. No need to worry.”

“Just happened? Right.”

“Look, sweetheart, I’d love to talk to you, but I have some pressing business—”

“Does it have to do with—what are they calling it—the Vanishings?”

“I’m just going over to the rez to visit Millie Joseph. You remember her?”

“Old and a little senile, but nice.”

“That’s her. I try to visit whenever I can these days. So don’t worry about me, okay?”

“I can come up if you need me.”

“No, sweetheart, I’m fine. Give that boyfriend of yours my best.”

When he hung up, he wasn’t proud of himself, but at least he’d avoided actually lying to his elder daughter. He had enough to worry about without being concerned about her worry.

When he reached the Nokomis Home, he found Millie Joseph rocking in the porch shade. It was morning and still cool, and she had a knitted shawl around her shoulders.

“
Boozhoo
, Corkie,” she said with a smile so huge it nearly made her eyes disappear. “How come you never visit?”

Cork let her question slide and pulled up a chair next to her. “A beautiful day, Millie,” he said, looking toward the steely blue of the lake.

“At my age, Corkie, every day you wake up is beautiful.”

“Millie, could I ask you a question?”

“Sure. But it will cost you.”

“What’s the price?”

“Today’s Friday. Sarah LeDuc over at the Mocha Moose makes fry bread on Fridays. I’ll answer your question if you bring me back some fry bread.”

“It’s a deal,” Cork said.

“Ask away.”

“Indigo Broom—” Cork began.

“Oh,” Millie said, and her face changed. “Not him.”

“I just want to know where Indigo Broom lived.”

“Why do you want to know that?”

“Do you want fry bread?”

She weighed her craving against her reluctance to answer and gave in. “He lived way over south on the reservation. An old logging road off Waagikomaan. He had himself a little cabin there. But you won’t find it now.”

“Why not?”

“Burned down.”

“When?”

“Long time ago. About the time he left, I think.”

“You mean disappeared.”

“He didn’t disappear. He left the reservation, and good riddance.”

“How do you know he left?”

“Sam Winter Moon said he got word from relatives somewhere. I don’t remember where. I just know I felt sorry for those people whoever they were.”

“This old logging road, do you recall where it cut off from Waagikomaan?”

“West of Amik, I believe. But why do you want to go there? It’s a bad place.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Everyone on the rez knows it’s a bad place.”

“Because Broom lived there?”

“Maybe the place is bad because Broom lived there, maybe Broom lived there because the place is bad. Doesn’t matter. People with any sense know better than to go there.”

“Nobody ever accused me of having much sense, Millie.
Migwech
.”

“My fry bread, Corkie?”

“Back in ten minutes.”

And he was.

Waagikomaan was an Ojibwe word that meant “crooked knife.” It was a good name for the road on the rez, which cut a winding path through aspen and then into marshland and finally into timber. Cork reached Amik, which was the Ojibwe name for a lake the whites called Beaver, without spotting any cutoff. He turned around and drove back more slowly. It had been a good seventy-five years since any significant felling had been done in the area, and a logging road gone unused for that length of time would probably have been reclaimed by the wilderness.
Hell, it was enough time for a whole new forest to grow. Still, he eyed the pines carefully, and about a quarter mile west of Beaver Lake he spotted an unnatural break in the tall timber. He pulled the Land Rover to the side of the road, parked, and got out. He waded through the wild grass at the shoulder of the road and reached the edge of the trees, where he studied the vegetation. He laid his cheek to the earth and eyed the contour. Finally he ran his hand over the ground itself and was satisfied that there were still ruts, the faintest of scars, leading into the trees. He stood and followed them in.