Vermilion Drift (39 page)

“I’m all ears.”

He told what had come to him during the sweat. But with two exceptions. He left out Henry Meloux’s hand in the fate of Indigo Broom, and he didn’t mention Hattie Stillday at all. He saw no purpose in dragging his old friends into this business. When he was finished, Dross was quiet. She simply stared at him.

“You have any proof of this, Cork?”

“The bodies in that mine tunnel, aren’t they proof enough?”

“Christ, if I told this story to the media, do you have any idea how crazy they would make it sound?”

“A guaranteed made-for-television movie,” Cork said with a smile.

Dross got up from her desk and paced the room a few moments, finally ended up at the window she’d closed, and stood staring out. “A story remembered under the influence of a—forgive me, Cork—witch doctor. A story for which there is no proof.”

“The bodies,” Cork said.

“A bizarre mystery more than forty years old. Everyone associated with it dead. The media will keep poking, but I don’t see any purpose
in feeding their curiosity.” She turned back to him. “I’m inclined to keep this to myself.”

“I was witness to a homicide.”

“A justifiable homicide,” she said. “If what you’ve told me is the truth.”

“There’s also the murder of Indigo Broom,” Cork said.

“Did you actually see what those men did to him?”

“No.”

“Then you can’t really say, can you?”

“I can’t, no.”

“We don’t have a body. No witnesses. All the principals are dead.” Dross came and stood over him. “We have Max Cavanaugh’s confession, so we know who killed his sister. Hattie Stillday’s part in it she’ll have to answer for, but I don’t think any judge or jury will go hard on her. As for the bodies placed there more than forty years ago, those are cold crimes. This department doesn’t have the time or the resources to pursue that investigation. The media already think we’re a hayseed operation. I can live with that. What I can’t live with is the uproar that would be caused by your story, a story conjured up during some hallucinogenic Ojibwe ritual, being made public.”

“Wait a minute, Marsha—”

“I’m not finished.” She leaned down to him, very near and in a way not at all friendly. “The Great North Mining Company has deeper pockets than this county. Hell, probably deeper than this whole state. What if they chose to sue you or me or Tamarack County for libeling the Cavanaugh name with accusations of serial killings and cannibalism?”

He started up, out of his seat. “The law—”

She pushed him back down. “Screw the law. Let’s talk justice. It seems to me that justice has already been served. Do you not agree?”

He sat, chewing on her question. Finally he said, “Yeah, I guess so.”

“All right, then.”

“It’s not that simple,” Cork cautioned. “You’re taking a big risk, Marsha.”

“There’s a lot I admire about you, Cork, but you always make
things more complicated than they need to be. You keep your mouth shut and let me worry about this, okay?”

For a moment, Cork held to an unrelenting sense of responsibility.

“Okay?” Dross said, more forcefully.

Cork finally let go, and that release felt very good.

“Okay,” he said.

H
e still sometimes dreams his father’s death.

As Dr. Faith Gray continues to tell him, the mind is complicated, and the connections between conscious understanding and subconscious beliefs are difficult to unravel and take patience to reknit.

Nights, when he’s awakened by the nightmare, he often walks the quiet hallways of the house in which he has spent his life. It’s comfortable territory, and although the place has seemed dismally empty since Jo left him—or he abandoned her; it’s a connection whose understanding still eludes him and on which he’s still at work—he knows that, in truth, he’s surrounded by good spirit. It is as Meloux said: All things in Kitchimanidoo’s beautiful creation are connected. Cork and his children and Jo. And also those who have come before and those who will come after.

And so, on those difficult nights, he will sometimes speak to the spirit of his father. He thanks him for saving his mother’s life. He asks his forgiveness for not praying his young heart out when Liam O’Connor lay dying. And he assures him that he loves him.

But most important, he tells his father that he understands.

A
TRIA
B
OOKS

P
ROUDLY
P
RESENTS

NORTHWEST ANGLE

WILLIAM KENT KRUEGER

AUTHOR’S NOTE

O
n July 3, 1999, a cluster of thunderstorms developed in the Black Hills area of South Dakota and began to track to the northeast. On the morning of July 4, something phenomenal occurred with this storm system, something monstrous. At the edge of western Minnesota, the storm clouds gathered and exploded, creating what would become one of the most destructive derechos ever to sweep across this continent.

A derecho is a unique storm system, a bow-shaped formation of towering black clouds that generate straight-line winds of hurricane force. The derecho that formed on July 4 barreled across northern Minnesota. In the early afternoon of that Independence Day, its hellish winds, clocked at over a hundred miles an hour, struck the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness, a land so beautiful it’s as near to heaven as you’re likely to find anywhere on this earth. The storm damaged nearly half of the wilderness, toppling millions of trees, leaving whole hillsides barren of life. It killed one camper and trapped and injured dozens of others.

After it left Minnesota, the storm veered across the border into Ontario, Canada, and continued its destructive sweep to the east. It slammed into the state of New York and then into New England. It traveled out to sea, turned, and came at South Carolina. The system, though weakened, continued its destruction until it finally fell apart over the Gulf of Mexico. By then, it had traveled nearly six thousand miles, the longest storm track of its kind ever recorded in North America.

I have always known that such a storm would play a part in one of my stories. This is the story.

PROLOGUE

H
e woke long before it was necessary, had wakened in this way for weeks, troubled and afraid. A dull illumination came through the houseboat window into the cabin he shared with his son. Not light exactly. More the promise of light. False dawn, Cork O’Connor knew.

He threw back the thin sheet, slipped quietly from his bunk, and stepped into the long central hallway of the houseboat. The air was still, which was odd on the vast lake where they lay anchored. No sound of birds either, no early morning chatter, and that, too, was strange. He walked down the hallway, past the room where his sister-in-law and her husband slept, past the rooms of his two daughters, onto the stern deck with its swim platform. He stood at the railing, looking across water as black as engine grease. The moon hadn’t set yet but was so low and wan in the western sky that what light it gave was almost useless. There were stars, so many they felt like a weight pressing down on him. East, where dawn was still more dream than reality, he could see the dimmest outline of an island against a gray that ghosted along the horizon.

He lowered his head and stared at the water.

He should have been happy. He’d planned this vacation with happiness as the goal, and not his happiness alone. He’d conceived of this family gathering, bringing close to him everyone he loved, in order to make them happy, too. They hadn’t been together, all of them, in almost two years. Not since Jo had been laid to rest in the cemetery in Aurora. In his imagining, the gathering would be the ticket to finding happiness again—his and theirs—and the houseboat would be the way. But like the false dawn, the trip had promised something it had yet to deliver, and day after day, he found himself waking troubled and restless.

The problem was simple. He’d always thought of his family as if they were part of a tree he’d planted long ago. The tree had grown and flourished, and just being in its shade had been such a great joy. But it seemed to him that, with Jo’s death, the leaves had begun to fall away—his daughters gone to lives of their own and his son soon to follow—and he was afraid that, no matter what he did to save it, the
tree would die. An irrational fear, he knew, but there it was, pressing hard upon his heart, whispering to him darkly in these lonely moments.

He heard a loud yawn behind him. Uncertain if his face might give away his concern, he didn’t turn.

“Dad?” his son asked from the houseboat doorway. “We’re going fishing, aren’t we?”

“You betcha, Stephen.”

“Good. I’ll get dressed.”

When he was alone again, Cork took a deep breath, pulled himself together, and turned from the black water to meet the day.

At his back, his fear went on whispering.

Look for this free collection of excerpts from all of William Kent Krueger’s Cork O'Connor novels at your favorite ebook seller.

Praise for
Northwest Angle

“William Kent Krueger can’t write a bad book.
Northwest Angle
is one of his best. A complex crime novel that contains meditations on the difficulties of loving and the paths we take to reach God, this Cork O’Connor novel has everything you want in a great read: depth, action, and credibility.” —Charlaine Harris,
New York Times
bestselling author

“… part adventure, part mystery, and all knockout thriller… Catch-your-breath suspense throughout.” —
Booklist

Praise for
Vermilion Drift

“As always, Krueger’s writing couples the best of literary and commercial fiction, with intelligent, well-defined characters populating the story. Although the book contains violence, the author never makes it extraneous or graphic. He is one of those rare writers who manage to keep the suspense alive until the final page. Krueger fans will find a feast in between these covers, and for those who have yet to sample his fine and evocative writing, the book offers a complex yet completely believable plot, all tied up in words sharpened by one of the modern masters of the craft.”—
Kirkus Reviews
(starred)

“Rock-solid prose combines with effective characterizations and a logical if complex plot for a thrilling read. This book succeeds on every level and ought to attract the author a deservingly wide readership.” —
Publishers Weekly
(starred)

Praise for
Heaven’s Keep

“One of today’s automatic buy-today-read-tonight series… thoughtful but suspenseful, fast but lasting, contemporary but strangely timeless. Krueger hits the sweet spot every time.” —Lee Child

“A powerful crime writer at the top of his game.” —David Morrell

Praise for
Red Knife

“Outstanding…. Simply and elegantly told, this sad story of loyalty and honor, corruption and hatred, hauntingly carves utterly convincing characters, both red and white, into the consciousness. Krueger mourns the death of ideals and celebrates true old values. As Cork tells an Ojibwa friend, ‘Maybe you can’t alter the human heart… but you can remove the weapons’—the first step, perhaps, in blazing a trail toward sanity and hope.” —
Publishers Weekly
(starred review)

“The Cork O’Connor mysteries are known for their rich characterizations and their complex stories with deep moral and emotional cores. This one is no exception…. If you don’t know Cork O’Connor, get to know him now.” —
Booklist

Praise for
Thunder Bay

“The deftly plotted seventh Cork O’Connor novel represents a return to top form… [T]he action builds to a violent and satisfying denouement.” —
Publishers Weekly
(starred review)

“
Thunder Bay
has everything that William Kent Krueger’s longtime fans have come to expect in this lovely series—and everything it needs to entice new readers into the fold. Steeped in place, sweetly melancholic in tone, it braids together multiple stories about love, loss and family. The result is a wholly satisfying novel that is over almost too soon.” —Laura Lippman,
New York Times
bestselling author

Praise for
Copper River

“
Copper River,
like each of the previous entries in the Cork O’Connor series, is a riveting thriller rich in character, incident, insight, textured plotting, and evocative prose that captures the lore and rhythms of life—and the pain and sadness of death—in America’s heartland. It’s a novel to be savored, and one that makes the reader eager for the next installment. William Kent Krueger may just be the best pure suspense novelist working today.” —Bill Pronzini, author of the Nameless Detective series and
Blue Lonesome

“This series gets darker and more elegantly written with every book. Minnesota has a become a hotbed of hard-boiled crime fiction, and the Cork O’Connor novels are among the best.” —
Booklist