Authors: William Kent Krueger
Chapter 27
B
ea Abbiss greeted them at the door to her office. When she saw Meloux, she shot Jenny a worried look but said nothing. She invited them in and asked them to sit. The room seemed darker than the day before, when the late afternoon sun had poured gold through her window.
“You talked to Raven?” Louise said.
“Yes.”
Jenny said, “We had a run-in last night with the man we believe is Windigo.”
“I know. Raven told me.”
“Did she set us up?”
“No. She couldn’t do anything to stop it.”
“Will Raven see us?” Louise asked.
“With conditions. But I’m not sure it’s a good idea now, considering.” Her eyes leaped to Meloux, then back to Louise and Jenny. “She’s agreed to see you two. She wants no men there.” This time she looked pointedly at Meloux. “Not even you, grandfather.”
Meloux made no reply, gave no sign at all that he’d heard. He let silence sit between himself and Bea. Finally she seemed compelled to explain.
“You have to understand the situation these girls find themselves in.” She spoke now to Louise and Jenny, as if they might need to interpret for Meloux. “They have nothing except what they’re given by their family. They also have come to believe that
their own self-worth is tied to that relationship. Even if they’re scared to death, they won’t desert the family. Because, honestly, being scared to death is their daily lot. These girls have been beaten, raped, tortured by the men who head the family, all because of some trespass, not even necessarily a big one. A word of complaint. A look of resistance. It doesn’t take much.”
She paused, maybe to let the horror of that reality sink in, especially for Meloux.
“I’m telling you this,” she continued, “because you need to understand the chance Sparkle—Raven—is taking if she talks to you. And if she does talk to you, you need to be very careful in what you do afterward. Because a wrong move can have huge consequences for her. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know where Erikson Park is?”
“North along the lakeshore,” Jenny said.
“There’s a rose garden there. She’ll meet you.”
“When?”
“As soon as I call her.”
“So you have her number?” It may have sounded like an accusation, as if this was a piece of information she should have given them sooner, but Jenny didn’t mean it that way.
“This is risky for everyone concerned,” Bea shot back. “We have a relationship with the girls out there. We have street cred. I don’t want that jeopardized.”
“We understand,” Louise said.
Bea looked again at Meloux. “Grandfather, I don’t think you should be a part of this.”
The old Mide, who’d not spoken before, replied, “Granddaughter, I am a shadow, nothing more.”
“Even a shadow might scare her away.”
“Then I will be less than a shadow.”
Bea looked at Jenny, probably seeking support in dissuading Meloux.
It was Louise who spoke. “He’ll be fine. I want him there.”
Bea gave a little shake of her head, a clear indication she still thought it wasn’t a great idea, but she gave in. She picked up her cell phone, punched in a number, waited. “They’ll be there in ten minutes,” she said.
She saw them to the front door. They stood in sunlight slanting from above the lake, and it seemed to carry a little silver with it, a bit of promise.
“I hope with all my heart that you find your daughter, Louise,” she said, and the two women exchanged a hug, heart to heart.
“Migwech,”
Louise said.
“For God’s sake, be careful,” Bea said to Jenny, but gently. “Our Windigo isn’t a myth.”
“We will,” Jenny promised and then echoed Louise’s thank-you.
“Chi migwech.”
“Grandfather,” Bea began, but she didn’t seem to know what else to say.
The old Mide took both her hands in his. “I have seen much in my life, granddaughter. The windigo, I have met before. We are old enemies.”
She seemed surprised by this. She studied him in the silver light. “This Windigo is still young and very strong.”
“Where it counts,” the old man replied, “so am I.”
• • •
The roses in Erikson Park were in full bloom. Behind them the great lake, Kitchigami, stretched toward the horizon, where it met the sky. The green foliage and the red and white and yellow blossoms were like splashes of bright paint against a solid blue wall. The day was already hot, and the park was full of visitors dressed in shorts and shirtsleeves. Jenny didn’t see Raven Duvall, the girl who now called herself Sparkle, but she wasn’t sure if she’d recognize her, having met her only through a photograph. Louise walked beside her, using a crutch. Meloux followed at a slight distance, and Jenny figured Bea Abbiss’s caution had finally sunk in.
After their meeting in Nishiime House, Jenny had spoken with her father, assured him that their meeting with Raven Duvall would be in a very public place, and that he and Daniel were free to do their own research with the Coast Guard. She felt a little vulnerable, knowing their backup was no longer a minute away. But the park was very public, and the sun was very bright, and their hopes were high.
They stopped near a wrought-iron fence. “Do you see her?” Jenny asked.
Louise shook her head. “But I suppose she’s changed a lot since the last time I saw her on the rez.”
“Would she recognize you?”
Louise shrugged. “I had both legs then.” Her eyes scanned the roaming tourists and locals drawn to the garden and the park. “Is that her, maybe?”
She nodded toward a slender young brunette in white shorts and a turquoise tank top approaching them. The brunette wore sunglasses, and a white visor shaded her face. Although she didn’t look particularly Native, Jenny knew that meant nothing. The young woman eyed them as she came, then walked right past and stopped at the wrought-iron fence. She pulled a thin camera from the pocket of her shorts and began taking photos of the lake.
They turned back and discovered that Meloux was gone. Jenny scanned the garden, the park, the street they’d just crossed. No Henry anywhere to be seen. He’d simply vanished.
“Mrs. Arceneaux,” a voice said behind them.
When they turned, they found a young woman of seventeen with a face that looked much older. She sported a long blond wig, no makeup, dime-store sunglasses. She wore cutoff jean shorts, a purple Vikings jersey, Nikes.
“Raven,” Louise said. “Thanks for coming.”
Raven Duvall wasted no time. “I know what you want. I can’t help you.”
“Why are you here, then?” Jenny asked.
She felt the eyes behind those dark lenses assessing her.
“To tell you to stop looking for Mariah,” Raven said. “You’ll only get yourselves hurt.”
“Windigo?” Jenny said. “Is that who’ll hurt us?”
“Just leave.”
“We saw Windigo last night.”
“No, you didn’t. If you saw him, you wouldn’t be here to talk about it.”
Louise reached out to grab her hand, but Raven took a step away, out of reach.
“What about Mariah?” Louise pleaded. “Is my girl all right?”
“I don’t know.” Her words were harsh. She looked around, her head swiveling as Jenny had seen certain birds do when the shadow of a hawk circled above their nests. She removed her sunglasses, and Jenny saw her eyes, a softer brown than she’d imagined. “Honest, I don’t know, Mrs. Arceneaux. But if you keep poking around, even if she is okay now, she won’t be for long.”
“Where can I find her?” Louise asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Is she here? In Duluth?”
“Go away. Please.”
Jenny jumped in. “We want to help, Raven.”
“You can’t. No one can. Just go away.”
From behind them, a familiar voice spoke gently. “
Boozhoo
, granddaughter.
Anish na?
”
And there was Meloux, who as nearly as Jenny could tell, had materialized from thin air. Raven’s eyes shot everywhere, taking in the park, everything, everyone around her. Jenny remembered how afraid she’d been alone in the dark the night before. This girl was with people and in broad daylight, and still she was scared to death.
“Who’s he?” she said to Louise, accusing.
“I am no one, granddaughter. I am nothing to fear.”
“I said alone. You were supposed to come alone.” She looked as if she was about to bolt.
“Before you run away,” the old Mide said in a voice that
held not a whisper of threat and yet was utterly compelling, “tell this desperate mother one thing. Just one thing. Is her daughter alive?”
Jenny could see the struggle in Raven Duvall, her head undoubtedly pulling her one way, her heart the other. Her eyes never left the ancient, wrinkled landscape of Meloux’s face. Then she broke. “Yes,” she said, barely above a whisper. “At least I think so.”
“Can you get a message to her?” Louise leaped in.
The spell Meloux had cast was broken. Raven shoved her sunglasses back on her face, hiding her eyes. “No.”
“Can you tell us where she is?”
“I already told you. I don’t know. It’s the truth.”
“But she’s okay?”
Now she seemed more annoyed than frightened. “She was. She probably is. But I can’t say anything for sure now. Everything’s changed.”
“What’s changed? Why?”
“I have to go. I really, really have to go.”
“Do you want us to give your mother a message of any kind?” Jenny asked.
“Mom?” Jenny thought that if she’d been able to see the girl’s eyes, a lost look would have been there. Raven thought for a long moment. “No,” she finally said. The word seemed to hurt her. “Don’t tell her anything.”
She turned to leave.
“Granddaughter?”
Meloux’s voice made her pause, but she didn’t look back.
“I have fought the windigo before.”
Now she turned. “You?”
“I can stand between you and this Windigo, if you will let me.”
“You?” she said again, her voice full of disbelief, even derision. Then she said, “Right,” as if it were nothing but a joke and a hurtful one at that.
She spun away abruptly and hurried off among the strolling, clueless tourists. Jenny watched her go, feeling as if she was letting
something important slip through her fingers, as if there was so much more she should have been able to pull from the girl.
Tears streamed down Louise’s cheeks. She smiled at Meloux and Jenny, her face full of sunlight.
“She’s alive,” she said. “My girl’s alive.”
Chapter 28
J
enny tried her father’s cell phone and got no response. She left a voice message telling him they’d met with Raven Duvall and were heading back to the hotel.
Cork and Daniel were there already, waiting in the lobby. It was approaching checkout time, and as Jenny and the others walked in, several people were leaving, luggage in tow. Jenny’s father gathered the group at a table in the breakfast area, which was deserted now.
“Got your message,” he said to Jenny. “So, you talked with Raven? What did you get?”
“She thinks Mariah is alive.”
“Thinks?” Daniel said. “She doesn’t know?”
“That’s what she said. She was also clearly scared.”
“For herself or for Mariah?” Cork asked.
“Both, it sounded like. And for us.”
“Because of Windigo?”
“Yeah.”
“What else did she say?” Cork sounded as if he was certain there had to be more.
“She said it wasn’t Windigo who attacked us last night.”
“Who was it?”
“She didn’t tell us that.”
He looked disappointed—or that’s how Jenny interpreted what she saw in his face—and she couldn’t help feeling that she’d let him down. Again. Against his wishes, she’d insisted on
being involved in this investigation, but so far, she’d contributed little. Knowing that her father would never have allowed it, she and Louise had gone out alone at night and had been attacked and could have been killed. Despite his objections, she’d gone without him to the meeting with Raven Duvall and had returned almost empty-handed. She wanted to do so much, felt such an obligation—not just to her father but to the girl they sought—and yet she continued to screw up. She was a total disappointment. That’s how she felt, anyway, and she feared that this was exactly what she saw reflected in her father’s eyes.
Meloux said, “The girl was like a bird, Corcoran O’Connor. She sang her song, a song of warning, and was gone.”
Louise asked, “Did you guys find out anything?”
Cork’s disappointment, if that was truly what Jenny had seen in his eyes, vanished. “I have only one thing to say. God bless the Coast Guard.”
“You got something?”
“We got something,” Daniel said.
Between them, they explained their visit. The officer who’d spoken to them was pleasant and helpful. He told them the Coast Guard didn’t keep any record of all the boats that used the harbor, nor did he know of any agency or organization that did. Between the freighters, commercial boats, and pleasure boats that sailed in and out every day, there was just no way. But as for a boat christened
Montcalm
, there was a possibility. He explained that the owner of every vessel of at least five tons empty weight that plied the Great Lakes had to file papers of documentation with the Coast Guard. The information included the name of the vessel, home port, and ownership. Cork and Daniel had asked how they could get that information, and the Coast Guard officer had, quite agreeably, gone onto his computer, to a public website the USCG maintained that carried exactly what they needed. He’d found listings for three boats that included the word
Montcalm
in their names. One was a freighter whose home port was Toronto. It was called the
Louis-Joseph de Montcalm
, which, the Coast Guard
officer explained, was the name of the great French general who died defending Quebec. The second was a towboat that operated in Lake Erie out of Cleveland and bore the name
Montcalm’s Revenge
. The third was a sailboat named simply
Montcalm
, whose home port was Chicago. It was owned by a man named John Boone Turner.
“The towboat’s out, I’d guess,” Jenny said. “The freighter?”
Her father shook his head. “Based on what McGinty told me about port security, I’d say no. And when you looked at the shipping reports in the
News Tribune
you didn’t find any indication that it had been in port here recently.”
“Our guess is the sailboat out of Chicago,” Daniel said.
“What would it be doing here?” Louise asked.
“I don’t know,” Cork told her. “But it’s the best lead we have so far.”
“And what do you do with it?” she asked. Although they were hearing promising news, Jenny could tell that Louise was already exhausted from the morning’s expedition. She looked ready to drop.
Cork said, “Let’s see what we can find out on the Internet about the
Montcalm
and Mr. John Boone Turner.”
“While you do that,” Louise said, “I need my insulin, and then I think I need to lie down.”
Daniel glanced at his watch. “We ought to make a decision about staying here tonight or not. Checkout’s just about now.”
“I think we should keep our rooms,” Cork said. “There’s still a lot of work ahead of us here.”
“I’ll make the arrangements.” Daniel stood up.
“Louise, why don’t you go ahead and rest?” Jenny suggested. “When we have something, I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks,” Louise said.
“Let me give you a hand getting to your room.” Daniel helped her up and headed with her toward the elevator.
Meloux said simply, “I think I will sit in the sun.”
He rose and ambled out the door on the lake side. Jenny
watched him make his way slowly toward a bench on the boardwalk. To anyone else he might have seemed just a frail old-timer in need of a resting place, but Jenny knew better. This was the man who’d offered to stand between Raven Duvall and this Windigo. She suspected that what the great lake and the bold sun offered him was not rest but strength. She was afraid that before all this was over he would need a good deal of that. They all would.
Jenny was left alone with her father. She didn’t want to disappoint him anymore. “My phone or the computer?” she asked.
“If we use a real computer, we can look at the screen together,” her father said.
Both computers in the business center were available. Cork stood behind Jenny while she logged on to the Internet.
“What do you want me to do, Dad?”
“Whatever you think will get us what we need.”
Which felt good to her. Like trust.
First she keyed in “John Boone Turner,” which yielded a mother lode of results related to a company called Solidified Investments. The first listing was, in fact, the company website. She clicked on it and saw right away that it was a brokerage firm headquartered in Chicago and owned by Turner. According to the site, there were several offices for Solidified Investments located in other cities across the upper Midwest. One of those cities was Duluth.
There was a photograph of Turner, a handsome man, who despite his silver hair, looked to be only in his mid-forties. Even in the still photo, he exuded a sense of power, a man who would fill a great deal of space in a room and suck up a lot of the air. His eyes were hard and dark as espresso beans. He wore a navy blue suit, white shirt, and bold red tie. Jenny took an immediate dislike to him.
There was also a Wikipedia entry for Turner, which she clicked on. It wasn’t long, but it was informative. Born in Waco, Texas, son of an auto mechanic. Graduated La Vega High School, 1990. Enlisted in the Marines. Served in the first Iraq war. Honorable
discharge. Enrolled in the Wharton School in 1994. Graduated cum laude. Began immediately working for Goldman Sachs in Chicago. Opened Solidified Investments in 2002. Named one of Chicago’s top ten young businessmen in 2003. Married socialite Sylvia Burnhurst in 1999. Two children. Well known for his love of sailing.
“Okay, we know who he is,” Cork said. “Now try his name along with
Montcalm.
”
Which was exactly what Jenny had planned to do. Without any prompting. But she held her tongue.
She keyed in the search terms, with
Montcalm
as the first. Again, a wheelbarrow full of results. One of them was a very recent posting, a headline: “Racing Against the Wind.” It was a link to a Chicago trade magazine,
Investment News
, and she clicked on it. The story was about something called the Grand Superior yacht race, which according to the article, was a biennial event that began at Sault Sainte Marie and ended in Duluth. It had been held two weeks earlier. The article focused on Turner, his sleek sailboat
Montcalm
, and its crew. In this particular race, the crew was composed of several men who worked in various branch offices of Solidified Investments across the Midwest and who were themselves sailors. According to a quote from Turner, “I love the team building that comes from this kind of race. It’s us against the elements and the other competitors. In a way, it’s like going to war.”
A photograph accompanied the article, a shot of Turner and his crew standing in front of a big, sleek, elegant-looking sailboat. The names of all the crew members were listed below along with the cities in which they lived. They came from Minnetonka, Minnesota; Milwaukee, Wisconsin . . . and Duluth.
“Duluth,” Cork said, bending over her shoulder and sounding as if they’d struck gold. Jenny couldn’t see his eyes, but she would have bet they were shining. She could feel his body tensed, in the way she imagined a hunting dog’s might be when, with a sudden and fierce rigidity, it struck a pose, nose pointing toward quarry.
There was another result on the search page, an article from the
Duluth News Tribune
published the day following the yacht race. She clicked on it and found the results of the race. The
Montcalm
had come in second in its class. The race had ended on Sunday, two weeks earlier. The following Tuesday, there was to have been a banquet at which trophies would be awarded. Jenny wasn’t sure what this further information added that might be necessary but figured it couldn’t hurt.
“Hand me your notepad and pen,” she said. Her father always kept a notepad and a pen in his pocket. He’d done this when he was sheriff, and it was still part of his standard daily equipment.
He handed them over, and Jenny made a note of the dates and particulars.
“Look up the number for Solidified Investments here in Duluth.”
“I was just going to do that,” Jenny said.
“Good girl.”
“Don’t call me ‘girl.’”
He put his hand on her shoulder. “You okay?”
“I know what I’m doing,” she said.
“I know that.”
“Do you?” She turned and faced him. “Or am I just a fuckup?”
He didn’t answer right away, and she was afraid he was trying to come up with a diplomatic way of agreeing.
“Two wolves,” he finally said.
“What?”
“It’s something Henry once told me. There are always two wolves inside us fighting. One is fear and the other is love. The one you feed is the one that will win that fight. Don’t feed the wrong wolf, Jenny. What you’re doing is good and important, and I trust you. When it seems that I don’t, that’s not about you. That’s when I’m feeding the wrong wolf inside me.”
His eyes were soft and searching, and she knew the truth of what he said.
“We okay?” he asked.
“We’re okay,” she said.
“All right. We still have work to do.”
In Solidified’s website section on its branch offices, Jenny found contact information for the Duluth office. Included was a portrait photo of the president of that branch, a man in the photograph of
Montcalm
’s crew, named Simon Wesley. He looked to be in his late thirties, maybe early forties. He had sandy blond hair and a smile that appeared genuine and human, very different from the smile she’d seen on the face of his boss. Or maybe she was only seeing what she hoped to see, a little crack in all the darkness of this case, a small place for the light to shine through.
Cork said, “I’m going to call, make an appointment to see this Simon Wesley.”
“What kind of appointment?”
He thought a moment. “I’ll tell him I want to talk investments.”
Her father wasn’t poor. A few years earlier, he’d sold some landholdings for a tidy sum. Cork had invested well, and Sam’s Place still brought in a nice chunk of change in season. Nor did he do badly at all in his business as a private investigator. So he knew something about money and could probably bullshit his way into Wesley’s office. But Jenny thought there might be a better approach, one that could open the door to questions about Carrie Verga without necessarily raising a lot of red flags too early.
“It might be a startling jump from a stock portfolio to a dead girl on Windigo Island,” she said. “Enough that he’d clam up.”
“Clam up?” her father said. “You’ve been reading too much Mickey Spillane.”
She smiled at that, then suggested, “What if I called, said I wanted to do an article on him for something like
Lake Superior Magazine
. Him and the yacht race and whatever else might stroke his ego and start him talking. Once he’s opened up, we get down to the real stuff.”
Her father spent a few long moments thinking it over. Jenny began to muster all the good arguments in favor of the plan.
Which proved unnecessary, because he finally said, “That sounds pretty good. Let’s give him a call.”
Before they did that, however, Jenny searched for more information on Simon Wesley, which wasn’t hard to find. He was a very public figure in Duluth. He ran a charitable organization that taught handicapped kids how to sail. He was on the board of directors for the Great Lakes Symphony Orchestra. He was the face of Save the Lake, an organization aimed at keeping the water of Superior free from pollution. He was also a family man, married eighteen years, with two children.
She logged off the computer, and she and her father went outside. She pulled her cell phone from her purse and keyed in the number she’d written down. She could see the back of Meloux’s head where he sat on his bench, no doubt communing with the spirits he seemed to see everywhere.
On the phone, Wesley’s voice sounded even younger than the forty years Jenny had pinned him at from his photograph. She could tell he was pleased with the idea of the article she outlined in glowing detail: Lake Superior at the heart of his life and all the good that had come from that. When she told him she had a strict deadline and asked could they speak that very day, he was more than accommodating.