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  “Marlee,” he croaked. “You’ve gotta help me.”

  But Marlee, though not dead, was dead to the world.

  He saw the edge of the broken surface ice creeping up the windshield, a line three inches thick. Above it was blue sky, below it gray death. As the vehicle tilted ever more forward and downward, Marlee’s weight shifted with it, and Stephen’s stance, precarious at best, shifted as well. He tried to resettle himself, to find firm footing in the rising water, but his boots kept slipping from under him. He managed to keep Marlee’s head above water, but it took all his strength, every ounce of it just for that.

  He understood, in a moment that came to him with absolute clarity and a kind of high-voltage shock, that he could not save her. He still might be able to save himself by climbing out the window he’d broken, but in order to do that, he would have to abandon Marlee.

  He wrapped his left arm around her body and held her up as best he could. With his right hand, he lifted her chin to keep it above the rising waterline. The cold rose around them both, like painful concrete, paralyzing him.

  “I’m sorry, Marlee,” he said and realized that he was crying.

  Still, he didn’t let go.

  He felt hands cup themselves under his arms, and heard a gruff voice command, “Hang on to her, boy.”

  Then he was being lifted, and Marlee with him, because he did as he was told and held fast to her. He was pulled out through the window into the icy air and sunlight that gave no heat.

  “You grab him, Wes. I got the girl.”

  Stephen felt Marlee being tugged away from him, but he didn’t release his grip.

  “Boy, you want to kill us all you keep ahold of her. Otherwise let go, and we’ll all get out of this alive.”

  Stephen let go. He was pulled—dragged really—off the tilting 4Runner and across a couple of dozen feet of solid ice.

  “She alive?” he heard the gruff voice say.

  “Breathing,” came the reply, a voice nearly as rugged.

  “Let’s get ’em into the truck, or this cold’ll kill ’em for sure. Can you stand, boy?”

  Stephen nodded and felt himself yanked to his feet. He stayed upright, although with some difficulty, and watched two big men—hell, they were gorillas—pick up Marlee and carry her off the ice toward a black crew-cab pickup parked at the edge of the lake. He stumbled after them. They laid Marlee on the backseat and covered her with a green wool blanket.

  “Call 911, Wes,” said the man whose voice Stephen had heard first. He spoke through a brown beard stained with tobacco juice. “Tell ’em we’ll meet ’em at the junction with Highway One. Tell ’em five minutes.”

  “Squeeze in, kid,” the man named Wes said. He nodded toward the backseat where Marlee lay. “It’s warm in the truck.” Then he whipped a cell phone from the pocket of his jeans and punched in three numbers.

  CHAPTER 16

  According to Wes and Randy Studemeyer, they were on their way back from visiting a friend on the rez, Jackie LeTourneau. They said they’d come around the bend and had seen the vehicle on the ice. It was already starting to break through when they pulled to the side of the road and did “what, hell, anybody’d do.” No, they hadn’t seen the green, mud-spattered pickup that Stephen had said was the cause of Marlee’s panicked driving. When they arrived, the road was empty.

  Cork knew the Studemeyer brothers and figured it was likely that their visit to the Iron Lake Reservation had nothing to do with LeTourneau and everything to do with ice fishing in an area of the lake reserved, through treaty rights, solely for use by the Ojibwe. But he didn’t bother challenging their story. He was just immensely grateful that the guys who’d come upon the scene had been two men whose genes had possibly been mixed with the DNA of mountain gorillas, two men who didn’t think twice about putting themselves at risk doing something that Cork wasn’t sure “hell, anybody’d do,” two bushy-faced men who, from the icy maw of the hungry lake, had plucked alive his son and Marlee Daychild. He told them that as long as there was a bar in town that tapped a keg, the beer was on him. He’d make sure every barkeep in Aurora knew this.

  Sheriff Marsha Dross also questioned the Studemeyer brothers and also chose not to challenge their story of the reason for their visit to the rez. She let them go with her personal thanks, and the two men left the Aurora Community Hospital, heading, Cork figured, to a local saloon to take him up on his offer.

  Stephen sat in the waiting area of the emergency room. Stella Daychild sat beside him. They both looked beat to hell. Stephen’s hand was wrapped in gauze. In shattering the window, he hadn’t broken anything, but there’d been some laceration and bruising. He’d been given pain medication, but Cork could tell that the injury still hurt him pretty bad, although Stephen said nothing about it.

  They were doing a CT scan of Marlee’s head. She’d regained consciousness in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. She had feeling everywhere—mostly pain—and could move all her fingers and toes, but the ER doctor, a young Egyptian-looking gentleman named Moussa, wanted to be certain there hadn’t been a serious brain injury. Stephen hadn’t been allowed to see her yet, and he sat staring at the hospital floor tiles, idly rubbing his bandaged right hand with his good left hand. His father had brought him a dry change of clothing—jeans, a red T-shirt, a hooded black sweatshirt, clean underwear, socks, a pair of beat-up Reeboks. He’d also brought Stephen’s old leather jacket, which wasn’t as warm as the parka that had been soaked in the lake, but it was better than nothing.

  Dross dragged a blue vinyl waiting room chair close to Stella and sat down.

  “It appears that whoever killed your dog may be intent on doing more serious harm, Ms. Daychild.”

  Stella said quietly, “Duh.”

  “Does the description of the truck that followed your daughter and Stephen ring any bells for you? Does it sound familiar at all?”

  Stella laid her head back against the waiting room wall. “An old mud-spattered pickup. Jesus, that sounds like most of the trucks on the rez.”

  “Stephen says it was pale green,” Cork told her.

  Stella’s eyes lit up. “Green? A green pickup? Like the one that followed me to the rez?”

  Dross said, “Tell me about that.”

  Stella repeated the story she’d told Cork, of the man with the mole on his cheek and the crazy look in his eyes and the truck that had tailed her a month earlier.

  “But nothing’s happened in the meantime?” Dross said.

  “Yeah. Dexter got his head cut off.”

  “I mean nothing specifically connecting you with the man at the casino or the green pickup.”

  Stella said, “Not until today.”

  Dross shifted her attention to Stephen for a moment. “And you didn’t get a license plate number?”

  Stephen squeezed his lips together, a gesture, Cork knew, of frustration with himself. “No. But that’s because the front plate was blocked by a plow blade.”

  “And you didn’t get a good look at the person who was driving?”

  Stephen shook his head. “The sun on the windshield was kind of blinding.”

  “You didn’t see it before you got onto County Sixteen, heading toward Allouette?”

  Stephen hesitated a fraction of a second, and Cork wondered what that pause, though barely noticeable, was all about. “No,” Stephen said.

  “Is it possible,” Dross began, “that what happened with your dog wasn’t about you, Ms. Daychild, but about Marlee?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Teenagers’ emotions run high. Has Marlee recently broken off a relationship with someone?”

  “No. At least, not that I know of.” She looked at Stephen. “Has she?”

  Stephen considered a moment, a deeply serious look on his face. Finally he shrugged. “I don’t think so.”

  “Why would someone have followed me if this was about Marlee all along?”

  The waiting room door opened, and a nurse stepped in. She gl
anced around the room. Whoever she was seeking, it wasn’t one of them. She turned and left.

  “Stephen, I want you to think over very carefully what I’m about to say. All right?” Dross said.

  “Sure.”

  “Are you certain the truck was actually following you? That that was the intention of the driver? And even if it was, was the accident actually caused by anything the driver did? Did the driver take aggressive action to make Marlee go off the road onto the ice?”

  Stephen seemed to do as she asked, mulled over her questions awhile before offering anything in response. When he did, he said, “The truck was following us. I know that for sure. Marlee slowed down to let it pass, but it wouldn’t.” His eyes spent another few seconds crawling the wall on the other side of the room, then skated across the floor. “But did it cause the accident? I guess I’d have to say we went off the road because Marlee freaked and hit the gas and right after that we skidded on road ice.”

  “What difference does it make?” Stella said. “The creep was on her tail. And when the kids went off the road, what does he do? He gets the hell out of there, leaves them to drown in the lake. Looks pretty cut and dried to me.”

  “I know it looks that way,” Dross said. “I’m just trying to examine the incident from every possible angle, so that we don’t overlook anything.”

  “Right,” Stella said without conviction.

  Dross said, “Cork, could I talk to you outside?”

  He’d been standing, leaning against the wall. Now he pushed himself away and walked ahead of the sheriff through the door and into the hallway.

  Outside Dross crossed her arms and said, “As nearly as I can tell, whoever was driving that truck did nothing illegal. It was Marlee’s reaction that caused the accident, pure and simple. I’m not sure there’s even a law that says the other driver had to stop and render assistance. Most folks would try to do something, of course, but some people just panic. And as for the pickup actually following them with some sinister intention, Stephen’s offered me nothing concrete to really pin that down.”

  Cork said, “A green pickup truck followed Stella home.”

  “A month ago,” Dross said. “Do you know how many green pickup trucks are on the roads in Tamarack County? And that it followed her was only Stella’s perception. If someone was stalking her, or Marlee, wouldn’t there be more evidence, more incidents?”

  “She gets followed, Dexter gets killed, Marlee gets run off the road. How many more ‘incidents’ do you need, Marsha?”

  Dross rubbed a patch of red skin high on her cheek that looked to Cork as if it were chapped by all the bitter cold she’d had to endure lately. “If it weren’t for the mutilated dog, I wouldn’t pursue this at all. I’ve got my hands full with Evelyn Carter. But I’m going to put Pender on it, and have him follow up on the truck description, vague though it is. At the moment, that’s the best I can do.”

  Cork said, “I understand. And you understand, I hope, that I came close to losing my son today, and if there’s a chance that the driver of that muddy green truck really did intend harm, I’m going to track that bastard down.”

  She nodded. “If Pender comes up with anything, I’ll let you know.”

  They were both quiet. Down the hallway, an aide pushed a man in a wheelchair that squeaked like a mouse caught in a trap.

  “Anything more on Evelyn Carter?” Cork asked.

  “The blood on the knife was her type, A-negative. Fairly rare. But we won’t get DNA confirmation for some time. The Judge appears to be losing it, by the way. His wife’s disappearance seems to have sent him over some edge. His daughter’s at her wit’s end. At the moment, your priest appears to be the only one able to handle him.”

  “Real, do you think? Or is he putting something on because he’s concerned that we found the knife in his garage?”

  “His daughter believes it’s no charade. But she also believes pretty strongly that he could have killed her mother.”

  “How long before you get his phone records?”

  “I’m hoping we’ll have them before the day’s out.”

  “Maybe they’ll tell you more,” Cork said.

  “I’ll let you know. If you find out anything about that muddy pickup, you’ll pass it along?”

  “Deal,” Cork said.

  They parted ways, and Cork returned to the waiting room. In a few minutes, Marlee was wheeled back from the CT scan, and then taken to a room for observation overnight. Across the left side of her face spread a long, sallow discoloration that would soon darken to a plum color. She looked pretty ragged. She wasn’t in a mood to talk, at least to Cork and Stephen. They went to the cafeteria and waited while Stella spent another hour with her daughter. When Stephen had first called his father, Cork had swung by the casino to pick Stella up on his way to the hospital. He’d also committed to supplying her with a ride home.

  It was early dark, and they sat in the small cafeteria, Cork drinking bad coffee and Stephen sipping on a cup of watery-looking hot chocolate. Stephen was quiet, deep in thought. Cork was deep into his own thoughts, trying to figure out how he might track down the owner of a pale green, mud-spattered pickup.

  Stephen broke the silence. “Henry called.”

  “Meloux? When?”

  “Late this morning.”

  “Anything wrong?”

  “No. Well, yes, in a way. He’s been having a troubling dream. He wanted to make sure we were all right.”

  “This troubling dream, we’re in it?”

  “Yeah, again in a way. Henry says in his dream he sees something evil in the shadows. A majimanidoo.”

  “What’s this devil doing?”

  “Watching our house. I asked him if the dream was about us or maybe about someone important to us. You know, I was thinking about Dexter and the Daychilds. He said it might be. And then this happens. Dad, I think Meloux’s dream was trying to warn us against whoever’s doing these things to Marlee and her mom.”

  “Did he say anything else?”

  “Yeah. He told me I should dream, too.”

  “Can you?” Cork knew his son, in whom the blood of his Ojibwe ancestors was strong, had experienced visions before. In fact, a full decade before it came to pass, Stephen had foreseen his mother’s death, and had been, in part, responsible for solving the mystery surrounding it. So Cork believed absolutely in his son’s unusual ability. The question was could Stephen summon a vision at will.

  Stephen looked weighted by the idea, but he said, “I’ll try.” He sipped his watery-looking hot chocolate. “Oh, by the way, Henry said that Annie could use his cabin while he’s gone.”

  “Why does she need his cabin?”

  Stephen’s expression changed to one tinged with guilt. “I should let her tell you.”

  “You don’t have to,” Cork said. His coffee was tasting worse by the moment. “Whatever she’s dealing with, it’s clear she wants to deal with it alone. I suppose Meloux’s cabin is as good a place as any. It’s served him well all these years anyway. Did she say when she wants to go out?”

  “Tomorrow,” Stephen said.

  “After church?”

  Then Stephen looked really troubled. “She doesn’t go to church anymore.”

  “Christ,” Cork said, wondering what in the hell could have happened to so change the direction of his daughter’s life. He looked at Stephen, and it was clear that his son wondered the same thing and, like his father, didn’t have a clue.

  CHAPTER 17

  It was hard dark by the time Cork dropped Stephen at home. Jenny and Anne hustled their brother inside, worrying over him like a couple of old hens. Cork told them he’d be back as soon as he’d taken Stella Daychild to her place on the rez.

  They drove south out of Aurora. When they’d left the lights of town behind them, Stella opened her purse, a small black thing, fumbled out a cigarette, and wedged it between her lips. She jammed the pack back into her purse. Without fishing, her fingers emerged holding a white B
ic lighter, which she brought to the tip of her cigarette. She paused in the instant before her thumb struck a flame.

  “Mind?” she said.

  Normally he would have, but this wasn’t a normal circumstance. “Go ahead,” he said and opened the ashtray between them.

  In the dark inside the Land Rover, the little flame seemed to explode and lit Stella’s face in harsh, wavering yellow. Cork glanced at her and saw the mascara bleeding down her left cheek, the lines of worry that fanned out from the corner of her eye like the tines on a garden rake. No one was pretty in pain.

  “How’re you doing?” he asked.

  “Look at me. How do you think I’m doing? Really shitty.”

  She dropped the lighter into her purse and snapped it shut. Then she stared out her window, blowing smoke against the glass, clouding the inches between her and the darkness on the other side.

  “She’ll be all right,” Cork said.

  He felt her eyes bore into him. “Do you know who that psycho was or why he went after her?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then Marlee’s not all right.” This time her lips shot the cloud of smoke in his direction.

  After that, Cork didn’t feel inclined to offer any more comfort, and they drove for a long time in silence.

  Stella finished her cigarette, ground out the ember in the ashtray, said more to herself than to Cork, “I still have to figure out how I’m going to tell Ray Jay about Dexter.”

  “You think he hasn’t heard? He’s in the county jail, Stella, not on Mars.”

  She laid her head back against the seat, and her voice grew weary. “He’s always been quiet and kept to himself. But ever since he went public a couple of years ago and confessed all that crap about Cecil LaPointe, he’s isolated himself even more. Marlee and me, we’re just about the only people he talks to, and when he does, he doesn’t really open up.” She looked out the window again and said softly, “Shit. It’ll just about kill him.”