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Thunder Bay: A Novel
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The past and present collide in this action-packed suspense novel from Anthony Award–winning author William Kent Krueger when fearless former sheriff Cork O’Connor unravels a mystery for an old friend and gets caught in the blistering crossfire of jealousy and revenge.
When a murder attempt is made on the life of Henry Meloux—the old Ojibwe medicine man who is private detective Cork O’Connor’s spiritual adviser—it’s clear that the brutal assault has to be connected to Henry’s recent search for the son he fathered many years before. But who is prepared to kill to keep the truth hidden? The question takes Cork back to the 1920s, when Meloux’s love for a beautiful woman far outside his culture led him into a trap of treachery, greed, and murder. And as Cork hastens to save his friend, he is reminded that the promises we keep—even for the best of friends—can sometimes place us in the hands of our worst enemies.
“Deftly plotted. . . . The action builds to a violent and satisfying denouement.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Krueger writes about American Indians with the passion and grace that readers find in the novels of Tony Hillerman, Margaret Coel, and James D. Doss.”
—The Capital Times (Madison, WI)
William Kent Krueger is the award-winning author of eleven Cork O’Connor novels, including the New York Times bestsellers Vermilion Drift and Northwest Angle. All are available from Atria Books. He lives in the Twin Cities with his family.
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THE SOURCE FOR READING GROUPS
COVER DESIGN BY JOHN VAIRO JR. • LANDSCAPE PHOTO © MARK BAUER/TREVILLION IMAGES, SILHOUETTE OF MAN © ILONA WELLMAN/TREVILLION IMAGES
REVIEWERS LOVE WILLIAM KENT KRUEGER’S AWARD-WINNING CORK O’CONNOR THRILLERS
“The Cork O’Connor mysteries are known for their rich characterizations and their complex stories with deep moral and emotional cores. If you don’t know Cork O’Connor, get to know him now.”
—Booklist
“William Kent Krueger has one of the most fresh and authentic voices in crime fiction.”
—S. J. Rozan, Edgar Award–winning author
“Superior series. Like sweet corn and the state fair, William Kent Krueger’s novels are an annual summer highlight.”
—Minnesota Monthly
CRITICAL ACCLAIM FOR THUNDER BAY,
winner of Lovey Award for Best PI/Police Procedural Novel • Dilys Award • Northeastern Minnesota Book Award • Minnesota Book Award . . . and nominated for the 2008 Anthony Award for Best Novel
“The deftly plotted seventh Cork O’Connor novel represents a return to top form for Anthony-winner Krueger. . . . The action builds to a violent and satisfying denouement.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Krueger keeps up the pace and the suspense. . . . Crisp writing and original plots make this a series to watch.”
—Library Journal
“The cast of characters is vivid, the plotting is strong, and O’Connor’s retirement gets off to the kind of start that usually marks the launching of a career. It’s great fun.”
—Washington Times
“Krueger’s insightful portrayal of small-town life and his deepening exploration of Cork’s character . . . propel the story.”
—Booklist
“Krueger weaves together multiple stories of love and loss, family and place in this strong and satisfying novel. I’m already looking forward to No. 8 in the series.”
—Journal and Courier (Lafayette, IN)
“Perfect. . . . It may be the best mystery you read this year!”
—The Capital Times (Madison, WI)
“[Krueger] has a knack for taking us into the woods and losing us in a good story.”
—Argus Leader (Sioux Falls, SD)
“Exciting and gripping. . . . You will burn through this book, relishing the twists and turns.”
—Bookreporter.com
“Krueger’s clean writing and deeply felt sense of place make this novel a standout. Read it for the American Indian lore and a trip to the deep woods that requires no mosquito repellent.”
—Rocky Mountain News (Denver, CO)
“A wholly satisfying novel that is almost over too soon.”
—Laura Lippman, New York Times bestselling author of Life Sentences
“This is the kind of novel that will bring many new readers knocking on Cork O’Connor’s door. Count me as one of them.”
—Michael Connelly, New York Times bestselling author of The Scarecrow
“William Kent Krueger is one of the best mystery writers out there, and Thunder Bay is his most powerful novel to date. Any reader who has yet to pick up one of his Cork O’Connor suspense novels is in for a rare treat.”
—Vince Flynn, New York Times bestselling author of Extreme Measures
Praise for
RED KNIFE
“One of those hometown heroes you rarely see . . . someone so decent and true, he might restore his town’s battered faith in the old values.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“The atmosphere is as explosive as tinder.”
—The Boston Globe
“Outstanding. . . . Simply and elegantly told, this sad story of loyalty and honor, corruption and hatred, hauntingly carves utterly convincing characters into the consciousness.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“You can smell the north woods in every chapter.”
—St. Paul Pioneer Press
“Krueger keeps readers guessing in this page-turner, and it’s a joy to read his easy prose.”
—Star Tribune (Minneapolis, MN)
Also by William Kent Krueger
Northwest Angle
Vermilion Drift
Heaven’s Keep
Red Knife
Copper River
Mercy Falls
Blood Hollow
The Devil’s Bed
Purgatory Ridge
Boundary Waters
Iron Lake
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2007 by William Kent Krueger
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Atria Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
This Atria Paperback edition August 2009
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ISBN 978-1-4391-5782-4
ISBN 978-1-4165-4649-8 (ebook)
To my coconspirators in the Minnesota Crime Wave, Ellen Hart and Carl Brookins; we’ve never traveled a road together that we didn’t like.
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Part I: Manitou Island
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Part II: Meloux’s Story
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Part III: The Lake of Fire
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Epilogue
Prologue
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Of course, buckets of gratitude to all the members of my writers group, Crème de la Crime, for their suggestions, large and small, that make all the difference.
To Danielle Egan-Miller and the whole crew at Browne & Miller, thank you for your hard work on my behalf. We’ve come a long way together, and there’s still plenty of road ahead.
I’m deeply indebted to my editor, Sarah Branham, whose insights keep me honest and whose enthusiasm keeps me hopeful; and a huge thank-you is due to David Brown, publicist extraordinaire, for all the gymnastics, verbal and otherwise, in his efforts to get the word out.
Finally, as always, here’s to the St. Clair Broiler. During half a century, Jim Theros and his staff have created a haven, a comfortable place for folks to gather in order to connect and to gossip, to eat and to drink, to enjoy a little time away from the mad crush, and sometimes even to write. May its famous neon flame never be extinguished.
PART I
MANITOU ISLAND
ONE
The promise, as I remember it, happened this way.
A warm August morning, early. Wally Schanno’s already waiting at the landing. His truck’s parked in the lot, his boat’s in the water. He’s drinking coffee from a red thermos big as a fireplug.
Iron Lake is glass. East, it mirrors the peach-colored dawn. West, it still reflects the hard bruise of night. Tall pines, dark in the early morning light, make a black ragged frame around the water.
The dock’s old, weathered, the wood gone fuzzy, flaking gray. The boards sag under my weight, groan a little.
“Coffee?” Schanno offers.
I shake my head, toss my gear into his boat. “Let’s fish.”
We’re far north of Aurora, Minnesota. Among the trees on the shoreline, an occasional light glimmers from one of the cabins hidden there. Schanno motors slowly toward a spot off a rocky point where the bottom falls away quickly. Cuts the engine. Sorts through his tackle box. Pulls out a pearl white minnow flash, a decent clear-water lure for walleye. Clips it on his line. Casts.
Me, I choose a smoky Twister Tail and add a little fish scent. Half a minute after Schanno’s, my lure hits the water.
August isn’t the best time to fish. For one thing, the bugs are awful. Also, the water near the surface is often too warm. The big fish—walleye and bass—dive deep, seeking cooler currents. Unless you use sonar, they can be impossible to locate. There are shallows near a half-submerged log off to the north where something smaller—perch or crappies—might be feeding. But I’ve already guessed that fishing isn’t what’s on Schanno’s mind.
The afternoon before, he’d come to Sam’s Place, the burger joint I own on Iron Lake. He’d leaned in the window and asked for a chocolate shake. I couldn’t remember the last time Schanno had actually ordered something from me. He stood with the big Sweetheart cup in his hand, not sipping from the straw, not saying anything, but not leaving either. His wife, Arletta, had died a few months before. A victim of Alzheimer’s, she’d succumbed to a massive stroke. She’d been a fine woman, a teacher. Both my daughters, Jenny and Anne, had passed through her third-grade classroom years before. Loved her. Everybody did. Schanno’s children had moved far away, to Bethesda, Maryland, and Seattle, Washington. Arletta’s death left Wally alone in the house he’d shared with her for over forty years. He’d begun to hang around Johnny’s Pinewood Broiler for hours, drinking coffee, talking with the regulars, other men who’d lost wives, jobs, direction. He walked the streets of town and stood staring a long time at window displays. He was well into his sixties, a big man—shoes specially made from the Red Wing factory—with a strong build, hands like an orangutan. A couple of years earlier, because of Arletta’s illness, he’d retired as sheriff of Tamarack County, which was a job I’d held twice myself. Some men, idle time suits them. Others, it’s a death sentence. Wally Schanno looked like a man condemned.
When he suggested we go fishing in the morning, I’d said sure.
Now we’re alone on the lake—me, Schanno, and a couple of loons fifty yards to our right diving for breakfast. The sun creeps above the trees. Suddenly everything has color. We breathe in the scent of evergreen and clean water and the faint fish odor coming from the bottom of Schanno’s boat. Half an hour and we haven’t said a word. The only sounds are the sizzle of line as we cast, the plop of the lures hitting water, and the occasional cry of the loons.
I’m happy to be there on that August morning. Happy to be fishing, although I hold no hope of catching anything. Happy to be sharing the boat and the moment with a man like Schanno.
“Heard you got yourself a PI license,” Schanno says.
I wind my reel smoothly, jerking the rod back occasionally to make the lure dart in the water like a little fish. There aren’t any walleyes to fool, but it’s what you do when you’re fishing.
“Yep,” I reply.
“Gonna hang out a shingle or something?”
The line as I draw it in leaves the smallest of wakes on the glassy surface, dark wrinkles crawling across the reflected sky. “I haven’t decided.”
“Figure there’s enough business to support a PI here?”
He asks this without looking at me, pretending to watch his line.
“Guess I’ll find out,” I tell him.
“Not happy running Sam’s Place?”
“I like it fine. But I’m closed all winter. Need something to keep me occupied and out of mischief.”
“What’s Jo think?” Talking about my wife.
“So long as I don’t put on a badge again, she’s happy.”
Schanno says, “I feel like I’m dying, Cork.”
“Are you sick?”
“No, no.” He’s quick to wave off my concern. “I’m bored. Bored to death. I’m too old for law enforcement, too young for a rocking chair.”
“They’re always hiring security at the casino.”
Shakes his head. “Sit-on-your-ass k
ind of job. Not for me.”
“What exactly are you asking, Wally?”
“Just that if something, you know, comes your way that you need help with, something you can’t handle on your own, well, maybe you’ll think about giving me a call.”
“You don’t have a license.”
“I could get one. Or just make me a consultant. Hell, I’ll do it for free.”
The sun’s shooting fire at us across the water. Another boat has appeared half a mile south. The loons take off, flapping north.
“Tell you what, Wally. Anything comes my way I think you could help me with, I promise I’ll let you know.”
He looks satisfied. In fact, he looks damn happy.
We both change lures and make a dozen more casts without a bite. Another boat appears.
“The lake’s getting crowded,” I say. “How ’bout we call it and have some breakfast at the Broiler.”
“On me,” Schanno offers, beaming.
We reel in our lines. Head back toward the landing. Feeling pretty good.
Nights when I cannot sleep and the demons of my past come to torment me, the promise I made to Wally Schanno that fine August morning is always among them.
TWO
Sam’s Place is an old Quonset hut on the shore of Iron Lake just north of Aurora. It’s divided by an interior wall. The back has a small living area—kitchen, bathroom, table, bunk. The front is set up for preparing food and serving it through a couple of windows to customers outside. I’ve got a griddle for burgers and hot dogs and such, a hot-oil well for deep fry, a shake machine, a carbonated-drink dispenser, a large freezer. Pretty simple fare. In season, I do a fine business.
It’s called Sam’s Place after the man who made it what it is—Sam Winter Moon. When my father died, Sam gave me a hand in a lot of unselfish ways. I grew up working summers at Sam’s Place, advised and gently guided by Sam as I stumbled my way into manhood. When Sam died, he passed the place to me.