Desolation Mountain Read online

  Bo scanned the whole scene. A small garage-like structure stood to the right of the cabin, against which several cords of wood had been stacked. To the left was a big white propane tank. Something moved in the tall grass under the tank. Bo lifted the Sig.

  English and the O’Connors emerged from the house and stood talking.

  “The propane tank,” Bo hollered to them, nodding where they should look.

  They saw it then, the movement in the grass. English moved to investigate.

  “Easy,” Bo called out.

  English drew his own sidearm and approached the tank cautiously. When he was very near, the game warden holstered his weapon, knelt, and signaled for the others to join him.

  “Noggin,” English said, cradling the dog’s head.

  It was a golden retriever. Dark blood matted the fur on its side, but the animal wasn’t dead.

  “Easy, boy.” Stephen slid his arms under the dog’s body and gently lifted. “We need to get him to a vet.”

  Bo saw the look of indecision on Cork’s face, which he interpreted as compassion for the dog competing with an investigator’s compulsion to stay with the scene.

  “You two go,” Bo told him. “Daniel and I will secure things here.”

  “Keep us posted,” Cork said.

  “One more thing, Cork. As much as possible, I need to stay off the radar up here. You understand?”

  Cork considered his request, then gave a firm nod. He moved ahead of his son to the Expedition, where they laid the dog in the back, then took off.

  English eyed Bo. “Cork didn’t say what exactly your interest in all this is. I’m guessing you’re a cop.”

  “Former Secret Service,” Bo replied. “I do private security work now.”

  “And you’re here because?”

  “Representing the interests of a client.”

  “A client interested in . . . ?” English waited for an answer that never came. “Well, Cork trusts you. That’s good enough for me.” He studied the scene. “Phil drives a Dodge Ram. Let’s check the garage.”

  It was empty.

  “How did things look in the house?” Bo asked.

  “Nothing obviously wrong.”

  English swung his gaze back to the tall grass where they’d found the dog. “I don’t think Noggin was shot under the tank. They probably dumped him there thinking he wouldn’t be seen.” He began to walk a spiral out from the propane tank. After a couple of minutes, he knelt in the wild grass beneath a crab apple tree.

  “Here,” he said.

  Bo joined him. At their feet was a spattering of blood.

  “This is where he was hit.” English studied the ground and walked slowly toward the stream that ran behind the house. “They came in from this way. Two of them, looks like.” At the stream, he paused, then waded across. The water was swift but reached only to his calves. On the other side he knelt, pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket, and picked up something, which he brought back to Bo. Nestled in English’s handkerchief was an expended cartridge casing.

  “Savage,” English said. “Small caliber, probably two-fifty. Mostly for hunting small game or varmints.”

  “Or watchdogs,” Bo said. “When Hukari got that call from his wife, what exactly did he say?”

  “Just that she was having trouble, something to do with the pregnancy. She wanted him to come home right away. He said she sounded scared, but he chalked that up to this being their first child.” English looked at the blood in the grass. “I’m guessing something else was scaring her.”

  “Or someone else. Someone who wanted to talk to her husband and wanted leverage.”

  “Why? What could Phil possibly have that would be worth this?”

  When Bo had been with Secret Service and charged, on occasion, with ensuring the safety of someone important, he’d learned to read faces quickly, even in a crowd. He studied Daniel English. What he saw was a man truly at a loss for an explanation, a man hiding nothing.

  “Something about the scene of the plane crash,” Bo said. “Something these people want, and they believe that you or one of the others who got there early has it.”

  “Like what?”

  Bo looked the whole scene over. The lovely setting at the edge of the stream, the young crab apple tree, the cozy cabin, the pines. All of it idyllic. Except for the splash of blood at his feet.

  “That’s the question, isn’t it?” he said.

  CHAPTER 18

  * * *

  Cork pulled his vehicle to the side of the road where Stephen had earlier parked his old Jeep. Just as he got out to help with the wounded dog, his cell phone rang. It was Daniel calling, his voice tense.

  “Do you know where Jenny is, Cork?”

  “She opened Sam’s Place, then she was going to pick up Waaboo from kindergarten. Why?”

  “She’s not answering her cell phone.”

  “Did you try the landline at the house?”

  “Yeah. No luck.”

  “What’s your worry?”

  “We think somebody snatched Phil and Sue. Bo thinks they might go after Jenny and Waaboo, too.”

  “Why?”

  “Still working on that. But I need to know they’re safe.”

  “I’m on my way to the house. You keep trying Jenny.”

  Stephen was still with the dog, comforting the wounded animal. “What is it?”

  “I have to get home, make sure Jenny and Waaboo are okay. You take Noggin to the vet in the Expedition. I’ll take your Jeep.”

  Driving fast, it was twenty minutes to the house on Gooseberry Lane. Cork was relieved to find Jenny’s Forester parked in the drive. He hightailed it inside, called out, received no answer. He checked the first floor, then the second. The house was empty. One of the things that worried him was this: Trixie, the nearest thing to a watchdog that the O’Connors had, was also gone. He thought of Cyrus dead in the lake and Noggin lying shot in the tall grass under the propane tank. He knew that silencing the dogs had made whatever happened to their owners possible. He called Daniel on his cell.

  “Have you heard from Jenny yet?”

  “Nothing,” Daniel replied. “Where are you?”

  “At the house. Her car’s here, but she’s not.”

  Cork stood in Waaboo’s bedroom, staring at his grandson’s bed. On the pillow lay a stuffed wolf, a gift Cork had given him on his fifth birthday, a reminder that Waaboo and the O’Connors were Ma’iingan, Wolf Clan. Protectors. Cork closed his eyes.

  “I’m ten minutes away.” Daniel ended the call.

  Cork’s heart beat like a fist against his chest, rage and fear battling to control him. He wanted to explode at someone, do something physical and decisive. He grabbed the stuffed wolf and threw it across the room, a useless gesture.

  Then he heard the squeak of a hinge as a door opened—or closed—downstairs. He went to the top of the landing, listened, heard only the sound of his own fierce breathing.

  “Jenny? Waaboo?”

  No answer, and he began to take the stairs, descending slowly, pausing halfway to listen. Outside, a car passed on the street, the soft whoosh like the sound of someone hushing a child. He heard something, or thought he did, coming from the office off the downstairs hallway. He quieted his breathing, crept toward the door, which was slightly ajar, hesitated at the edge of the threshold, and listened again. Someone was inside.

  His body went hard, taut. He readied himself, then shoved the door open fully and entered the office, prepared for battle.

  “Boo!” His grandson jumped at him and wrapped his little arms around Cork’s waist.

  “Jesus!” Cork shouted.

  “We scared Baa-baa!” Waaboo cried with delight.

  Jenny’s laughter died when she saw the look on her father’s face. “I’m sorry, Dad. Waaboo wanted to scare you. Are you okay?”

  She held Trixie’s leash in her hand, the old dog sitting on her haunches, tongue lolling.

  “Just surprised,” Cork manage
d.

  Waaboo released his grip and did a little dance of celebration around his grandfather.

  “Where were you?” Cork asked his daughter.

  “Taking Trixie for her afternoon walk. What’s wrong?”

  “Hey, little guy,” Cork said. “Trixie looks thirsty. How about putting some fresh water into her bowl?”

  “Okay. Come on, girl.” Waaboo happily led the dog away.

  “Call Daniel,” Cork said as soon as Waaboo had gone. “Let him know you’re safe.”

  “What—” Jenny began.

  “Just call him, then I’ll explain.”

  She turned to the desk, where one of the landline phones sat.

  “What about your cell?” Cork asked.

  “It’s charging in the kitchen.”

  She made the call, told her husband that she was fine, listened, then eyed her father. “All right. I’ll see you in a few minutes.” She set the phone in its cradle. “What’s going on?”

  As Cork explained their concern, Jenny’s face grew pinched. Her eyes moved from her father to the doorway where her son had disappeared with Trixie. She stepped out and down the hallway to where she could see Waaboo in the kitchen.

  “What do these people, whoever they are, think Daniel or the others might have picked up at the crash site?”

  “Good question. If, in fact, that’s what this is all about. At the moment, the only thing we know for certain is that the Loves and the Hukaris are missing.”

  “And their dogs have been shot and Fanny Blessing is dead,” Jenny added.

  “We don’t know yet what caused Fanny’s death. It might have nothing to do with whatever’s going on. But it’s clear that everyone who was on the crash scene early has been targeted. That means Daniel and you and Waaboo might well be at risk.”

  The back door opened and Daniel swept in. Waaboo abandoned Trixie and ran to him. Daniel lifted his son and swung him around, and Waaboo shrieked with delight.

  Jenny and Cork joined them in the kitchen. Daniel immediately embraced his wife and held her tight for a long while. “I was so worried, Jenny.”

  “Dad told me.” She glanced down at Waaboo, who was watching closely, clearly perplexed, as if he understood that this was far more than a simple display of affection. “What do we do?”

  * * *

  They’d put on a video for Waaboo, The Jungle Book, one of his favorites. Now they sat at the kitchen table, talking in low voices, Cork and Daniel explaining everything they knew so far.

  “Phil Hukari still isn’t answering his phone,” Daniel said. “I called the clinic in Allouette and the Aurora Community Hospital, where he might have taken Sue. Nothing. Not that I expected anything.”

  “Aside from Noggin, there’s really nothing to indicate something worrisome has happened to them,” Jenny pointed out hopefully.

  “Add it up,” Daniel said. “The Loves, Fanny Blessing, Phil and Sue. It’s a pattern.”

  “We don’t know what happened to Fanny Blessing,” Cork reminded him. “We don’t know what’s going on with Ned and Monkey Love. And, as Jenny says, we don’t really know about the Hukaris.”

  “Are you blind, Cork?”

  “Easy, Daniel.” Jenny laid a hand on his arm.

  “I’m just thinking like the sheriff right now,” Cork told him. “We don’t have enough evidence for any kind of official investigation. Nobody’s been gone long enough yet to be officially missing. As far as we know, nobody’s been harmed.”

  “So we’re on our own?”

  “Pretty much. At the moment, anyway.”

  Stephen walked in the back door, took stock of the council going on at the table, and pulled up a chair.

  “Noggin?” Daniel asked.

  “He’ll pull through.”

  “Thank God for that.” Daniel gave Cork a sharp look. “And don’t tell me because it was just a dog there’s nothing official to be done.”

  Cork didn’t reply. He understood his son-in-law’s frustration, which was, he knew, rooted in a very big, very reasonable seed of concern.

  “I’ll let Marsha know the situation,” Cork said. “But we need to canvass the rez, relatives, friends of Sue and Phil, make sure they’re really missing before we assume anything.”

  “Where’s Bo?” Stephen asked.

  Daniel said, “He told me he had some checking to do on his own. Didn’t say what it was. I have his cell phone number, if we need to contact him.”

  “So once again,” Jenny said, looking in the direction of her son, “what do we do?”

  “For starters, I’m not letting either of you out of my sight,” Daniel told her.

  “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” Cork said.

  Jenny smiled. “I kind of like it.”

  “If he’s with you,” Cork explained, “he’s not going be able to get the answers he wants and that we need.”

  He watched as Daniel weighed the truth of this against the concern for his family’s safety. “You have a suggestion?” Daniel asked.

  “We get Jenny and Waaboo to a safe place.”

  “Where?”

  “Maybe we could stay with Aunt Rose and Uncle Mal,” Jenny suggested.

  She was speaking of Cork’s sister-in-law and her husband, who lived in Evanston, Illinois.

  The idea didn’t sit well with Cork. “That’s a long way, and I wouldn’t feel comfortable unless one of us went along with you. But I don’t think we can spare anyone here.”

  “And they have a new baby,” Daniel pointed out. “I’d hate to think we put them all in danger if trouble followed you.”

  It was Stephen who ended the silence of the next few moments. “Crow Point,” he said. “With Henry.”

  CHAPTER 19

  * * *

  The cabin sat on a rise above an inlet of Iron Lake, isolated. Bo left his Jeep and unlocked the cabin door. There were no luxuries inside, but the place was well appointed, with a fine view of the lake from its small back deck. Bo took a beer from the refrigerator, stepped onto the deck, leaned against the cedar railing, and breathed deeply.

  He was alone, a comfortable state of affairs. For most of his life, he’d been alone. Growing up, he’d spent time homeless, living for a while in an abandoned school bus in a copse of trees on the Mississippi River, within sight of downtown St. Paul. He’d been well on the road to juvenile detention and beyond that, probably, a life that would eventually lead to hard time in a real prison. He’d been saved by a woman, a judge in juvenile court, who’d seen something in him, an ember of goodness, which all the crap that had been piled on him couldn’t smother. The road after that had led him into the army, then to college, and finally into the Secret Service, where he’d nearly been killed by an assassin’s bullet intended for the wife of the president.

  That incident had been a sensational story but one that, for many reasons, had compromised his career. When he left the Secret Service, he’d begun his own agency, a one-man enterprise. He’d never lacked for clients, most of whom were high-profile and demanded total discretion, their interests primarily political. He wasn’t sure the juvenile judge would see the same ember of goodness in him now. He often found himself walking a difficult line, one he wasn’t always certain of himself. He’d come to understand that there was weakness in even the stoutest of hearts, and that the smallest flaw could be used to crack the moral resolve of the best of human beings. He sipped his beer, drank in the beauty of Iron Lake, thought about the O’Connors and the mess they were in the middle of. And he hoped that what might be asked of him before this whole affair was over wouldn’t require that he throw them to the wolves.

  He heard the vehicle pull up, set his beer on the railing, and slid his Sig from the belt holster. He entered the cabin and took a position covering the front door. Nothing happened. He edged to the window. Outside, a man stood beside a black SUV, arms crossed.

  Bo opened the door.

  “Waiting for an invitation?” he called. “That’s a new wri
nkle.”

  Gerard approached the cabin porch and paused in the grass at the bottom of the three steps, eyeing the Sig in Bo’s hand. “Just wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to be shot. You haven’t been particularly accommodating lately.”

  “When have you ever found me accommodating?” Bo holstered his sidearm. “Why the visit?”

  “Do I get an invitation or not?”

  Bo stepped aside. “Be my guest.” Inside the cabin, he closed the door and said, “I was just having a beer. Care for one?”

  “I’ll pass.” Gerard stood in the center of the cabin’s living room, assessing the place. “Cozy.”

  “So,” Bo said. “Why the visit?”

  “Just wondering whether you’re working for me or not.”

  “I’m doing what I’m being paid for.”

  “Not exactly an answer.”

  “The best you’re going to get.”

  “You know how this works. You give me regular updates. You let me know what you know when you know it. I get irritable if I have to track you down to ask.”

  “Clearly you know where to find me.”

  Gerard reached into his shirt pocket and drew out a cigar. “Mind?”

  “Let’s take it outside.”

  They moved to the deck, where Gerard unwrapped and lit his cigar. As he smoked, he took in the view. “Who gave thee, O Beauty, the keys of this breast, too credulous lover of blest and unblest?”

  Bo waited, knowing Gerard would tell him soon enough the source of that poetic line. Quoting poetry and smoking good cigars were two of Gerard’s favorite indulgences.

  “Ralph Waldo Emerson.” Gerard blew smoke toward the sky. “All right, let’s have it.”

  “The men who were first on the scene, most of them Ojibwe, are being hunted,” Bo reported. “I don’t know why or by whom.”

  “The black box?”

  “They’re actually orange now. And according to NTSB, there was no flight recorder on board.”