The William Kent Krueger Collection 2 Read online

  Cork felt his own scars were insignificant, two bullet holes, an entrance wound the size of a dime on his right shoulder and a slightly larger exit wound on his back just below his right scapula. The bullet had shattered bone and loosed a flood of blood and had almost killed him, but unless someone pointed them out, he usually forgot about them.

  Mal Thorne said, “You don’t think much of our new sheriff, Cork?”

  Sweat dripped from the end of Cork’s nose. He sat naked on a towel, his back against the tiles of the steam room wall. The other men were all hazy figures through the hot fog. “For him the job’s about politics, not law enforcement.”

  “Ever regret your decision not to run?”

  “Not for a minute,” Cork said.

  The door of the steam room opened. Cool air sifted in.

  “Gooding? Deputy Gooding? You in there?”

  “Yo, Pender. What’s up?” Gooding said.

  “Sheriff wants you,” Pender called back.

  “Hey, man. It’s my day off.”

  “He says get your ass to the office now.”

  “Is there overtime in it?”

  “Close the damn door, Pender,” Bledsoe said. “You’re letting the North Pole in.”

  “Not until I see Deputy Gooding stepping out.”

  “Talk to him, Randy. It’s getting cold in here. I just saw a penguin waddle by.”

  “I’m coming, Pender. Close the door.”

  Gooding stood up, and the steam swirled as he moved.

  “Think I’m done, too,” Cork said. He got up from the cedar bench. “Who do we play next week?”

  “Team from the casino,” Bledsoe said. “The Five Card Studs.”

  In the locker room, Randy Gooding and Deputy Duane Pender stood huddled in a corner near the showers. Gooding nodded a couple of times and finally said, “I’ll be out of here in ten.” Pender strode quickly out. Gooding went straight to his locker without bothering to shower.

  When Soderberg became sheriff, he reorganized the department, cutting out the specialized units that Cork and Wally Schanno had created to focus on particular areas of crime prevention and investigation. That had pissed off a number of veteran officers, including Captain Ed Larson, who’d headed major crimes investigation for years and who, along with several others, had resigned. Now Gooding, because of his FBI training, generally handled the responsibility of investigating serious crimes, but he had no special rank or title and got no extra pay for it. He did it, he said, because he loved the work, something Cork understood.

  “What’s up, Randy?” Cork asked. “Pender looked pretty serious.”

  Gooding glanced around to confirm that they were alone. “Couple of hikers found a body buried in snow up on Moccasin Creek. Young. Female.”

  “Charlotte Kane?”

  “Won’t know for certain until we get there. But that’s sure what I’m thinking.”

  “Where on Moccasin Creek?”

  Gooding started to answer but caught himself. “Unh-uh. No way. I can tell what you’re thinking. Cork, this kind of thing isn’t your business anymore.” He opened his locker and began to dress. “Don’t take this wrong, but when I worked the field office in Milwaukee, we had a couple old agents who’d retired and couldn’t stand it. Those guys were always dropping by the office, adding their two cents to everything. Became a real pain in the ass.”

  “I froze for nearly a week trying to find her.”

  “Sixty other people did, too. You don’t see them clamoring for a glimpse of the body.”

  “Where on Moccasin Creek?”

  “Look, you show up and the sheriff’s going to know who clued you in. He’ll ream me.”

  “I’ll swear it wasn’t you.”

  “He’s not stupid.”

  “Jury’s still out on that one. Come on, Randy. Where?”

  Gooding stroked his beard, a trim strip of reddish hair that formed a triangle around his mouth. He often said that tolerance of facial hair was one of the things he liked about working on a rural police force. He shook his head and gave in. “Footbridge about a quarter mile north of the trailhead off County Five.”

  “I know it.”

  The deputy slipped a T-shirt over his head, then bent to put on his boots. When he’d tied them, he straightened and shot Cork a guilty look. “Give us a head start at least.”

  As Gooding exited, Mal Thorne came around the corner from the steam room, a towel wrapped around his waist. He glanced at Gooding’s back, then at Cork, who was just beginning to dress. “Neither of you showering? What’s so important?”

  “A body’s been found in the snow up on Moccasin Creek.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Just east of Valhalla.”

  “A woman’s body?”

  “Yes.”

  “Charlotte Kane?”

  “Can’t say for sure. But I don’t know of any other women who’ve disappeared here in the last few months.”

  “I’d like to go with you.”

  Cork didn’t answer.

  “You’re going,” the priest said. “That’s why you’re not showering.”

  “It’s a closure thing for me,” Cork said.

  “I’ve got plenty of reason, too.”

  Cork started to object but realized Mal Thorne had given every bit as much of himself as Cork had in the bitter, cold days during the search for Charlotte Kane. He nodded toward the priest’s locker.

  “Better get dressed then. I’m not taking you naked.”

  5

  “YOU’RE QUIET,” Cork said after they’d ridden a long time in silence. “Sure you want to do this?”

  Because he never went to church anymore, Cork didn’t relate to Mal Thorne as a priest. They just played basketball together. Mal had come to Aurora a couple of years earlier to assist the aging pastor of St. Agnes. He was an energetic man, well liked, and had done an excellent job managing the parish. Whether he was capable of handling what he might see on Moccasin Creek was something Cork didn’t know.

  Mal said, “I’ve just been thinking. If it is Charlotte Kane’s body out there, in a way it may be a blessing.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “Fletcher and Glory are desperately in need of resolution, one way or another.”

  “Kane’s in need of resolution in a lot of ways, you ask me.”

  The priest studied him. “I gather from some of the things Rose has said to me that you and Fletcher aren’t on the best of terms.”

  Cork turned onto County 5, a narrow strip of asphalt heavily potholed during the freeze and thaw at the end of winter. They were driving through the Superior National Forest, far north of Aurora. The April sun was bright and promising through the windshield of Cork’s old Bronco.

  “I’m pretty sure Fletcher blames my father for the death of his own father.”

  Surprise showed on the priest’s face. “How so?”

  “You know my father was sheriff here a long time ago.”

  “I’d heard that, yes.”

  “Fletcher’s father was a dentist. When Fletcher and I were kids, his old man killed himself. Turned out my father was investigating a complaint of sexual assault lodged by one of Harold Kane’s female patients.”

  “And Fletcher holds your father responsible?”

  “He’s never said as much, but his actions have spoken pretty eloquently.”

  They thundered over an old wooden bridge and Cork began to slow down, watching for the turnoff. He knew it would come up suddenly around a sharp bend.

  “Rose tells me things are rough for them,” Cork said.

  Mal nodded. “Fletcher’s totally withdrawn. And Glory loved that girl as if she were her own daughter. I think if she didn’t have Rose to lean on, she’d have fallen apart completely by now.”

  “The death of a child.” Cork shook his head. “I can’t think of anything more devastating.”

  “They have a lot of people praying for them.”

  “Might as well
be throwing pennies down a wishing well.”

  The priest gave him a long look. “Someday I’d like to know the whole story.”

  “What story?”

  “The one that ends with you angry at God.”

  “And someday I’d like to know the other story,” Cork said.

  “Which one is that?”

  “The one that ends with a guy as obviously capable as you are exiled to a small parish buried in the Northwoods. You must’ve really pissed off God or somebody.”

  “Maybe the choice was my own.”

  “Yeah,” Cork said. “Right.”

  A brown road sign marked the trailhead at Moccasin Creek. Cork pulled into the graveled parking lot. Snow still lay banked along the edges in small dirty humps, the last of the great piles that had been plowed during winter and that had been melting slowly for weeks. The lot was filled with vehicles, mostly from the Tamarack County Sheriff’s Department. Cy Borkmann, a heavy man and a longtime deputy, stood near his cruiser, smoking a cigarette. Not far away, another man, a stranger, sat in a red Dodge Neon. The door of the Neon stood wide open. The man sat hunched over, legs out of the car, feet on the wet gravel of the lot, staring at the ground.

  Cork parked next to Borkmann’s cruiser and got out. “Morning, Cy.”

  The deputy smiled, and his already big cheeks mounded some more. “Hey, Cork. Father Mal. What’re you guys doing here?”

  “We heard the news. Dropped by to see if we could help.”

  Borkmann’s smile faded. He shook his head, and the sack of skin below his chin wobbled. “Sheriff said to keep everybody but authorized personnel out. You’re not exactly authorized these days.”

  Borkmann had been a deputy long before Cork was sheriff. They’d always got on well. But things had changed, and Borkmann had his orders.

  Cork nodded toward the man in the Neon. “Who’s that?”

  “Found the body.”

  “Looks a little shook up. Mind if I talk to him?”

  Borkmann thought it over. “Sheriff didn’t say anything about that. Go ahead.”

  Cork walked to the man, who looked up without interest. He appeared to be in his late twenties with dark, heavily oiled hair and the kind of deep tan that told Cork he was not from anywhere near Minnesota.

  “Cork O’Connor.” He offered the man his hand.

  “Jarrod Langley.”

  “I understand you found the body.”

  “My wife did.”

  Cork looked around.

  “She’s back at the lodge,” Langley said. “I left her there when I called the sheriff’s office.”

  “You’re not from around here,” Cork said, noting the accent.

  “Mobile,” Langley said. “Alabama. On our honeymoon.” He picked up a piece of gravel and tossed it a couple of times in his hand. “I wanted to go to Aruba. Suzanne wanted to go north. She never saw snow before.”

  They’d missed the pretty snow by a few weeks. What was left on the ground now were isolated patches littered with dead pine needles and branches and other debris shaken from the trees by the spring winds. Uneven melt left the snow pock-marked and cancerous looking. In those places where the sun shone steadily all day long, the wet earth was laid bare and the black mud looked like pools of crude oil.

  “How’d you find the body?” Cork said.

  “We were going for a hike. Figured if we couldn’t ski or snowmobile at least we could walk. Got down there to the bridge and Suzanne saw something sticking out of the snow along the creek. She climbed down to see what it was. Hollered back up to me that she’d found a big machine. She thought it was a snowmobile. Next thing I know, she’s screaming her head off.” He threw the piece of gravel he’d been holding, heaved it across the lot, where it embedded itself in a gritty snowbank. “Hell of a honeymoon.”

  “I can imagine,” Cork said.

  Langley looked at him, squeezing his eyes a little against the bright sunlight. “You one of the sheriff’s people?”

  “Retired,” Cork said. “In a manner of speaking. Mr. Langley, anybody offer you coffee?”

  “No.”

  “Would you like some?”

  “Sure.”

  Cork went back to where Borkmann and the priest stood together. “Cy, you used to carry a Thermos of coffee in your cruiser.”

  “Still do,” Borkmann said.

  “How about giving that man a little. Might not settle his nerves, but it can’t hurt.”

  Borkmann looked at Jarrod Langley and nodded. “Good idea.”

  When the deputy headed toward the Neon with the Thermos in his hand, Cork said to Mal Thorne in a low voice, “Let’s go.” He started quickly for the trail along Moccasin Creek. Without a word, the priest followed.

  The trail access was through a break in the pine trees that enclosed the parking lot and began with a fairly steep incline ending at the creek. Cork led the way. The ground was thawed and muddy and full of boot prints. In a few minutes, the two men reached the footbridge where melting snow and ice had turned the little stream beneath into a milky torrent.

  Nine people worked the scene, nearly a third of the whole department. Deputies Jackson, Dwyer, and Minot were using a hand winch hooked to the trunk of a big red pine to pull the snowmobile out of the creek and up the bank. Deputy Marsha Dross was documenting the scene with video while Pender did the same with a still camera. Johannsen and Kirk were working with a tape measure. Randy Gooding hunkered at the water’s edge, half hidden by a boulder that sat on a thick plate of melting snow. Also on that plate, jutting from behind the boulder like a couple of bread sticks, was a pair of jean-clad human legs.

  Sheriff Arne Soderberg stood looking over Gooding’s shoulder. Soderberg never wore a uniform. He preferred, in the normal course of his duties, to dress in trim three-piece suits, crisp white shirts, silk ties. On the street, he could easily have been mistaken for a successful banker or stockbroker from the Twin Cities. He was a few years younger than Cork, but his hair was already a magnificent silver, which he had razor cut once a week. He was a good-looking man—strong jaw, piercing blue eyes, a charming, practiced smile—and he photographed well. He had no experience with law enforcement. It was widely known that he was simply being groomed by the Independent Republicans for higher office and that the job as sheriff was an opportunity for Soderberg to prove himself as a public servant before moving on to grander things. For years, he’d been on the family payroll, a vice president in his father’s company, Soderberg Transport, a huge enterprise that dominated trucking on the Iron Range and much of the rest of northern Minnesota. His enthusiasm for politics coincided with the age at which most men experienced a midlife crisis. Cork suspected public office might have been the answer for a man who could buy an expensive sports car anytime he wanted.

  Cork and Mal crossed the bridge and worked their way down the creek bank toward Gooding and Soderberg. The deputies who knew Cork well gave him a nod, but no one said a word about his presence. Until Soderberg raised his head.

  “O’Connor. What the hell are you doing here?”

  The sheriff wore something a bit more appropriate to the work at hand than his usual three-piece suit. He sported a new Pendleton shirt and jeans that carried a sharp crease. Despite the April mud, he’d somehow managed to keep his Gore-Tex boots spotless.

  Cork had been certain that after their heated exchange on Olaf Gregerson’s radio program Soderberg would not be happy to see him. Anger, however, wasn’t what Cork saw in that first moment his eyes locked on the sheriff. Instead there was a look of horror, the expression of someone whose senses brought to him a reality his sensibility couldn’t deal with. Cork figured the dead girl must be a gruesome sight.

  “I heard about Charlotte Kane,” Cork said.

  He’d reached the boulder and could now see what Gooding and the sheriff saw. The body lay on a bed of snow crystals like a fish in a meat market display. She was fully clothed, still wearing her down parka. The skin of her face and hands see
med well preserved, and Cork figured the body had been frozen all winter.

  From Soderberg’s reaction, Cork had assumed the worst, but he’d been wrong. Even in death, Charlotte Kane was lovely to look at. Her hair was long and black, sleek from the snow around her melting under the April sun. Cork remembered how, whenever she’d stopped at Sam’s Place for a burger or a shake, she’d always been extremely polite. She’d been a quiet, lovely young woman. Now her face was pale, relaxed, her arms crossed over her chest, as if she were only in a long, deep sleep. Seeing her this way, Cork felt an overwhelming sadness for her and her family.

  And something more, something he hadn’t felt in months. The tug of a dark shape from behind a curtain of solid white, an unseen hand that reached out to him.

  “Pender,” Soderberg hollered. “Pender, get these men out of here.”

  Cork looked back at the footbridge, then at the snowmobile being hauled up the bank, and finally at the place where the body lay. “Looks like her Arctic Cat flew right off the bridge,” he said. “Must’ve come hell-bent down that hill.”

  Gooding nodded. “And she couldn’t negotiate the bridge. She’d been drinking, we know that.”

  The bridge was well marked and wide enough for an easy crossing. Cork recalled what Jenny had told him about Charlotte the night she’d disappeared, about the girl’s dark poetry and fascination with suicide.