Boundary Waters (18 page)

“There must be a way to check on these men,” Jo said.

Schanno sat back and thought a moment. “I’ll call Arnie Gooden. He’s one of the resident FBI agents in Duluth. He promised help if we needed it. Where can I reach you?”

“I’m in court all morning. You can leave a message for me at the courthouse.” She stood up and went to the closet with Schanno. As he handed over her coat, she said, “You told me last night if you had to, you could get to Cork and the others quickly.”

“Less than an hour.”

Jo felt a measure of relief. “Good.”

Schanno put his huge hand lightly on her shoulder. “If there’s anything strange going on, Jo, we’ll get their butts out of there fast, I give you my word.”

27

T
HE MIST LIFTED
, but the heavy gray that overhung the Boundary Waters didn’t. Shiloh followed Roy Evans and Sandy Sebring to their camp, where the Deertail River flowed southeast out of the big lake. They pulled the canoes onto shore and Roy set immediately to stoking the fire with dry wood.

“You know,” Sandy said, tugging on his beard, “you sure look familiar. Do I know you?”

“I don’t think so,” Shiloh said.

She sat on a rock near the fire and watched the smoke begin to rise as Roy bent and blew on the embers. In a moment, a crackling flame popped up.

“That long hair,” Sandy said, moving slowly behind her.

Shiloh put up the hood of her rain slicker.

“You alone out here?”

“Quit yammerin’, Sandy. Get me some food so I can fix her something to eat.”

“All right, all right.” Sandy went to a nearby tree—a pine deeply scarred from a lightning strike—undid a rope, and let down a pack that hung from a high branch. “Bears,” he explained to Shiloh. “You like bacon?” He began digging in the pack.

“Bacon would be fine,” she replied.

“And eggs?” Roy asked. “They’re dehydrated, but you scramble ’em up and can’t hardly tell the difference.”

“Whatever,” Shiloh said.

Without the mist, she could see a distance across the lake. The expanse of water suddenly looked huge and impossible. The islands lay on the surface like dark beasts watching. She was surprised she’d come so far so well.

“Me and Roy live down in Milaca,” Sandy said. “Work at the Wright Lumber Company there. Roy talked me into coming. Said we’d have the whole woods to ourselves. Said we’d be catching walleyes big as my thigh.” He handed Roy the food. “Shiloh!” he said suddenly, and his hand, full of bacon, froze in the air.

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” Roy said.

“Son of a gun.” Sandy broke into a broad smile, his thick lips nested among the wild hairs of beard. “You’re Shiloh. My wife’s got every album you ever put out. I knew there was something familiar about that hair. Roy, we got us a real celebrity here.”

Roy dropped the bacon on the skillet and it sizzled immediately. “Shiloh? You mean the country singer? She ain’t Shiloh, Sandy. Hell, Shiloh’s—” He looked up from the bacon. “You ain’t Shiloh, are you?”

Shiloh shook her head. “It’s not the first time I’ve been mistaken for her.”

“Yeah?” Sandy moved to her side and looked at her carefully. “Well, if you ain’t Shiloh, who are you, then?”

“Nagamon.” It was the name Wendell had bestowed on her. It meant ‘song.’

“Nagamon? What kind of name is that?”

“Ojibwe.”

“You Indian?”

“Partly.”

“Yeah?” Sandy eyed her good and snickered. “What part?”

“Sandy, will you just shut up?” Roy said. “Sorry, ma’am. He’s a good camping partner, but he’s got all the tact of a chainsaw.”

“That’s all right,” Shiloh said.

The smell of the bacon was wonderful. The sound, too. Pop and sizzle. It was like music. She couldn’t help smiling, believing that now it would be all right. She wondered if she should ask the men about going back for the things she’d left behind, the important work she’d hidden at the cabin. They could be over and back in a day. She’d pay them. Pay them well. After she’d eaten, she would ask. They might not do it for Song. But maybe they would for Shiloh.

“How ’bout some coffee while you’re waiting for breakfast?” Roy said. He lifted the pot off the fire, poured some into a hard plastic mug, then looked at the lake and paused. “Got us some more company, Sandy.”

Out on the lake, a yellow craft approached them. It was bright against the gray water. The man in it used a double-bladed paddle and the little craft darted toward them swift as a water bug. A few feet from shore, he brought the craft to an abrupt stop, stowed the paddle, and waded to shore, drawing the craft carefully onto the rocks.

“Morning,” the stranger said.

“What the hell is that?” Sandy said. “Is that one of them duckies?”

“That’s one name for them,” the stranger smiled. “It’s an inflatable kayak.”

The stranger wore camouflage fatigues that gave him a military appearance. He had on a camouflage flotation vest and a dark green–billed cap that displayed the U.S. Marine Corps insignia. He wasn’t big, but he carried himself with the confidence of a big man.

He looked toward Roy, who still held the coffeepot. “I saw the fire and smelled the coffee. Couldn’t beg a cup, could I? Been on that cold lake since before dawn. Feels like I’ve got ice over every bone in my body.”

Roy shrugged. “Guess we could spare a little. Come on over.”

The stranger smiled at Shiloh. “Morning, miss.”

“You on maneuvers or something?” Sandy asked.

“Not in the service anymore,” the stranger replied. “But whenever I’m roughing it, I still feel more comfortable in these.”

“Know what you mean,” Sandy said. “Still got a bit of soldier in me.”

“Yeah,” Roy agreed. “At the mill, we call him the general. General nuisance.” Roy laughed.

The stranger sipped his coffee. He nodded. “You make a good cup of java.”

“How’s that rubber duckie there work?” Sandy asked. He grinned at the term.

“For maneuverability, it can’t be beat. And on a portage, it’s like carrying a piece of cloud.”

“Don’t see any fishin’ gear,” Roy noted. “Just up for the scenery?”

“The scenery,” the stranger said.

Sandy stuck out his hand. “Name’s Sandy. Sandy Sebring. This here’s my partner Roy Evans.”

“How do you do?” The stranger looked at Shiloh.

“Oh, and this here’s . . .” Sandy stumbled a moment, then gave up. “Oh hell, I can’t remember how you say your name.”

“It’s Shiloh, isn’t it?” the stranger said.

“See. See there, Roy? I ain’t the only one thinks so.”

“We already been over this,” Roy explained to the stranger. “She ain’t Shiloh, but folks mistake her for Shiloh. Ain’t that right?”

The stranger looked at her steadily, as if he knew her lie. His eyes were earth-colored, a dark mix of brown and green. There were little specks of gold, too. “That’s not true, is it? You are Shiloh.”

She didn’t answer but looked away instead.

“Well, I’ll be,” Roy said. “It is you, isn’t it?”

“Son of a gun!” Sandy hollered. “Son of a gun! What did I tell you? Shiloh. You’re cooking for a celebrity, Roy.” This time he actually did a little dance.

Roy smiled. “Forgive him, Miss Shiloh. He don’t get out much.”

The stranger shook his head. “Someone like you out here in the middle of nowhere. Who would’ve thought? Say, would you mind if I shot a picture? Nobody’d believe it otherwise.”

“Not like this,” Shiloh said, waving toward her matted hair.

“Come on,” the stranger said with a smile. “Up here, everybody looks a little bedraggled.” He turned back toward his yellow kayak.

“Please, no.” Shiloh put out her hand as if to stop him.

“Well, then,” the stranger said, pausing to unzip his vest, “if I can’t shoot you, how ’bout I shoot your two friends here?”

He reached to his hip and his hand came up wrapped around something dark. He turned to Sandy, who looked at him with a little smile, as if he didn’t quite get the joke. The handgun gave a startling crack. A red explosion tore out the middle of Sandy’s back and he crumpled in a heap next to Shiloh.

Roy’s eyes grew huge. “What . . . what the . . .” he stuttered before the pistol cracked again. He grunted as if he’d been hit with a log, then he fell facedown on the ground.

The barrel swung toward Shiloh. “I’ve been looking for you,” the stranger said.

28

T
HE BACON POPPED AND SPIT
in the frying pan. The stranger holstered his weapon and walked to Shiloh’s canoe. He lifted out her pack, dumped everything onto the rocks at the water’s edge, and spent a few moments sorting through things. “Damn,” he said quietly. He moved to the fire and took an appreciative look at the bacon.

“Crisp,” he said. “Perfect.”

Gingerly, he plucked a strip from the hot grease and began to eat.

Shiloh stared first at Roy, then at Sandy. “Oh, God,” she whispered. She looked up at the stranger.

“You should eat, too,” he said.

“Eat?”

The flow of blood to her head seemed to have stopped. She couldn’t think, couldn’t put together in a way that had any meaning the senselessness of the last few minutes. She couldn’t make herself move.

“I’m guessing we have a distance to go. You look beat as it is. You’ll feel better if you eat.”

“I can’t,” she said dully.

“Suit yourself. I haven’t had any breakfast.” He took another strip of bacon, then picked up the coffee cup from which Roy had been drinking and held it out to her. “At least have some coffee. It’ll help.”

She looked at the cup—dark blue plastic—in his hand, and she acted without thinking. Her own hand shot upward and slammed the hot coffee into his face, and then she was up and running for the woods. She hadn’t gone half a dozen strides when she was jerked backward by her long black hair.

He grasped her arm and quickly twisted it behind her, immobilizing her. His other hand tugged on her hair until she was afraid he’d rip it out. She screamed.

“You think I’m hurting you because I’m angry.” He spoke quietly into her ear. “I’m not angry. What you did was a natural reaction, something I would expect. Did you ever break a horse?”

He let up slightly on her hair, gave a bit of slack, then yanked brutally. “No!” she cried.

“No? Country girl like you?”

Her head burned. Her voice was choked with crying. She could barely breathe from the crush of his arm around her.

“The key to breaking a horse is to make absolutely clear to the animal that it can’t throw you, escape you, or outlast you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

She tried to answer, but only a thin, inhuman sound came out.

“Say the word.” He snapped her head back with another yank of her hair.

“Yes!” she cried.

“Good. Next time you try something like that, I’ll hurt you in a different way.”

He let her go and she dropped to her knees. She vomited onto the golden birch leaves that covered the ground. For a while, she knelt weeping over the mess that steamed in the cold wet morning air.

“Here.” He was beside her again, offering the dead man’s coffee to her once more. “Like I told you, it’ll help.”

She looked at the cup and shook her head.

“Come back to the fire,” he told her.

She didn’t move.

“I just want to get away from the puke,” he said. “So we can talk.”

He put his hand around her arm and lifted her forcibly. She staggered up and stumbled ahead of him to the fire. The bacon was burning now, gone black and hard as the skillet it cooked in. Blackish smoke poured upward, mixing with the gray wood smoke.

“I can’t sit here,” she said, looking away from the two bodies.

“Stand over by the water, then. It’s all the same to me.”

She walked to the shoreline where the canoes were drawn up and waiting. She stared out at the lake, at the islands that lay like dead things on the water.

He spoke at her back. “I’m here to kill you. That’s the first thing you need to know. But I want something from you before I do. That’s why you’re alive and your companions aren’t. So you have some time left. In that time, you have a choice to make. When I kill you, I can kill you very quickly and quite painlessly. I promise you. I can also drag it out and you’ll beg me to kill you. I have no feeling either way. The choice is yours.”

“What do you want?” she asked without facing him.

“Two things. I’ve told you one—your life.”

“I guess it doesn’t matter much what the other one is.”

“On the contrary, that’s what matters most. You’ve been at work on something while you were up here. I believe you called it—just a minute.”

She glanced back, saw him take a folded letter from his shirt pocket.

“‘A discovery of the past,’” he read aloud. “‘I see now what I never saw before, the truth I couldn’t face.’”

She recognized her own words. “Where did you get that letter?”

“I killed a woman for it.”

Shiloh felt her chest go tight, as if the stranger had her in his grasp again. “Please, not Libbie.”

“Her name wasn’t important to me. She was just a woman who had something I wanted.”

“Like me.”

“Exactly.”

Snow began to fall, a flake here and there. She felt the light touch on her cheek, the cold moment of turning as the perfect shape melted into something that trickled away.

“How did you find me?”

“The letters. Then a friend of yours brought me part of the way.”

“Friend?”

“Probably the best friend you’ve ever had, judging from how hard he tried to protect you.”

She caught her breath. “Wendell?”

“I’ve known a lot of strong men. None stronger than Wendell Two Knives.”

“Where is he?”

“That depends on your religious belief. As I understand it, his own people would say he’s walking the Path of Souls.”

“You killed him.”

“I killed him.”

Her legs felt too weak to hold her up. She dropped to the ground. She put her hands to her face, and they were filled with tears for Wendell Two Knives.

The stranger walked to his inflatable kayak, reached in, and pulled out a small radio transmitter.