Purgatory Ridge

She was, he guessed, about his own age. Her hair was mostly red, although in the light of the fire it seemed rich with veins of silver. Her eyes were narrow, colorless slits that allowed her to look out and invited nothing in. At one time, she might have been beautiful. Now there was something jagged and hard about her, and Cork thought of her like an arrowhead chipped from flint, well capable of killing.

Meloux sat quietly while the exchange took place. Cork was sorry that he’d let himself trade harsh words with the woman there where Meloux burned cedar to cleanse the anger from the air. He was well aware that the old mide hadn’t asked the woman’s purpose in coming. Meloux probably already knew, in the way he knew so many things. If not, his quiet was simply a sign of the patience that was an aspect of his spirit. Cork, for his part, was dying to know why she, an outsider, had come and who had guided her.

But there were to be no answers. The woman fell silent and Meloux looked at Cork in a way that was as powerful as a shove.

“Migwech, Henry,” Cork said, thanking the old man for his help. He stood up and stepped to Stevie, who lay asleep against Walleye. He lifted his son and started along the path that had led him to Crow Point.

“We fight for the world our children will inherit, Mr. O’Connor,” the woman said at his back.

Cork turned to her. “A noble-sounding justification for almost anything. Always has been.”

Before Cork could move on, Meloux called to him, “I have heard you might be sheriff again.”

“Somebody’s spreading a lot of hooey in this county,” Cork replied.

“Too bad,” the old man said. “I think it would be a good idea.”

“I don’t share your optimism, Henry. But I thank you for the vote of confidence. ‘Night.”

He passed between the rocks and out of the firelight.

An early moon had risen, nearly full. Without it, the dark of the woods would have been impenetrable. As it was, Cork walked in a silver light bright enough to cast shadows. His son was heavy in his arms, but Cork didn’t mind at all. Stevie stirred in his sleep and his cheek brushed Cork’s cheek, soft down against the rough stubble of a day’s growth. Cork thought about the woman and how hard she’d seemed when it came to her son. He knew his own arms could not hold Stevie forever. Someday he would have to let go. He hoped he would be wise enough when that time came to know how to do it and strong enough to let it be done.

As he drove toward Aurora with Stevie asleep on the seat beside him, Cork thought over all that Meloux had told him about Charlie Warren. They were not big things. Probably they were pieces of information that many on the rez knew but, out of respect for Charlie Warren and an understandable distrust of law enforcement, had not shared with the BCA or even with Jo. Meloux thought the information was important, and so Cork considered it carefully.

Charlie Warren was the traditional chief of the Iron Lake Ojibwe, and his voice had always been important in the affairs of the People. He was in his seventies and his health had been failing and lately he’d retired from most politics on the rez. He was a man who often did not sleep at night, and who did not like to be alone with his sleeplessness. What would such a man be doing at Lindstrom’s mill when the bomb went off?

When he put it together that way, Cork thought he might have the answer.

He stopped at the Pinewood Broiler and borrowed Johnny Pap’s phone book to look up an address. Then he drove out to a small clapboard house near the Burlington Northern tracks northwest of town. Stevie slept so soundly that Cork decided not to wake him. He got out of the Bronco quietly and followed the cracked, weedy sidewalk to the front door. The house was mostly dark. Through the blinds, Cork could see a lighted television screen in the front room, and he could hear through the opened window the sound of a baseball game. He pushed the button for the doorbell, but nothing rang inside. He knocked. A moment later the porch light flicked on. Harold Loomis, the night watchman at Lindstrom’s mill, appeared at the door.

“Evening, Harold,” Cork said.

Loomis was a thin man. He was dressed in an undershirt and plaid shorts. He had a full shock of white hair and a nose like a lightbulb that had been screwed into his face. He held a glass filled with amber liquid and ice, and his lightbulb of a nose was pretty well lit.

“What can I do for you, Cork?” He pushed the screen door open.

“I just need an answer to a couple of questions.”

“Sure. If I can give ‘em.”

“You like playing checkers?”

“Yeah.”

“You ever play with Charlie Warren?”

Loomis blinked at him.

“I was just thinking,” Cork went on, “that you and Charlie had a few things in common. Besides checkers. You served in the Korean War, right?”

“What of it?”

“So did Charlie.”

“Lots of guys did.”

“Not so many around here.”

Loomis stared at Cork. His eyes were watery and rimmed with red. It could have been from what was in the glass. Or lack of sleep. Or maybe even from grieving.