Boundary Waters (36 page)

Jo smiled. “There’s a good coffee place two blocks down. The Moose Juice. Cappuccino, latte, whatever you’d like. And delicious bakery goods.”

“Great. Can I get you something?”

“Latte, made with skim. And a scone. Thanks.”

“A scone? It’s yours, whatever it is. Sheriff?”

Schanno looked up from a map on his desk. He reached down and lifted into view a big metal thermos. “Got everything I need right here, thanks.”

“All right, then. I’ll be back.”

Schanno’s eyes trailed Benedetti out of the department. When he looked back at Jo, she asked, “You don’t like him?”

“I don’t trust him.”

“Nor do I. But that’s not what I asked.”

Schanno thought it over. “He stands by his old man. He doesn’t back down easy. If he were Lutheran, I guess he’d be just fine.”

Deputy Borkmann stuck his head in the door. “Sheriff? Sorry to interrupt, but there’s a reporter for the
Duluth Register-Guard
on the phone. Says he’s got word that the country singer Shiloh’s lost up here and we got us a manhunt mounted to find her. He wants to talk to you.”

Schanno took a deep breath. “Patch it through.” He looked at Jo like a man about to eat raw squid. “It’s starting.”

Fifteen minutes later, as Schanno appeared to be winding up his conversation with the Duluth reporter, Borkmann thrust himself into the doorway, looking excited. Schanno said, “That’s all I’ve got to say at the moment,” and hung up quickly. “What’s up?”

“Search plane’s spotted smoke from a campfire on the Deertail just above Hell’s Playground. Guess the trees made it hard to see but it looked like several people. On the second pass, a man and a boy come out waving their arms. Appeared to be Stormy and Louis.”

“Any sign of Cork?” Jo asked.

“Like I said, search plane reported several people at the campfire in the trees. No reason for all of them to signal the plane. I’d say we found ’em.” He offered a reassuring smile.

“Get on the radio to Dwayne. Have the helicopter pick them up.”

“I already did.”

“Wally, may I use your phone?” She felt like Christmas had come two months early.

“Be my guest,” Schanno beamed.

Rose wept at the other end of the line when Jo gave her the news. Jo hung up and said to Schanno, “Now Sarah Two Knives.”

When Sarah didn’t answer her phone, Jo grabbed her coat. “I’m going out to the rez. Sarah needs to know. I’ll be back in an hour.”

“They’ll practically be home by then,” Schanno said. Relief filled every hollow of his long, gaunt face.

Angelo Benedetti pulled into the parking lot just as Jo stepped from the building. He got out carrying two lidded hot cups and a white bakery bag.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“They’ve found the men. I’m on my way to tell Sarah Two Knives.”

“Mind if I come along?” Benedetti gave a nod to the items in his hands. “I’ve got breakfast.”

“Be my guest,” Jo offered with a broad smile and a sweep of her hand, hallmarks of that brief moment when all seemed well.

48

H
OW LONG HE’D BEEN RUNNING
, Cork couldn’t say. An hour? Three? He felt as if he’d been tortured for a century. Each stride was like drawing a rusty saw blade across his shoulder. He moved no faster than a rapid walk. The old road hadn’t been used for logging in years and was overgrown with rye grass and wild oats and timothy. Two swathes of crushed stalks straddled the center as if two huge snakes had passed there, side by side, an indication that a vehicle had traveled that way recently. Forest service, Cork guessed, or maybe mushroomers. He tried to keep to one of the swathes. Whenever he strayed, his feet tangled in the tall grass and threatened to trip him. Another fall would put an end to what little resolve he had left.

Under a blue-white sky and a brilliant autumn sun, the North Woods had warmed again. Cork was soaked with sweat. He knew if he kept on this way he’d dangerously dehydrate. It was rapidly becoming a question of which of the hellhounds that pursued him would bring him down first.

He had to think about something besides the pain, something to drive him on. He pulled up the image of Grimes fallen among the dripping raspberry vines. Next, he conjured the giant with the shaved head and saw him again, laid out under a gray sky, leaking dark red blood onto wet rock. Dwight Sloane materialized—a good man—with a hole blown clear through his body and the knowledge of his own death rising up into his brown eyes like water in a spring. Cork imagined Elizabeth Dobson, dying alone, afraid. He saw these things clearly, the tragic images falling over his eyes, blinding him to the trail in front of him, curtaining him from the beauty of the woods around him. He was deep in death, slogging through a quagmire of blood. It was like one of those awful nightmares when he tried to run but his feet would not move. And ahead of him, beyond the reach of his hand or voice, he could see Shiloh. She stood in an empty room, in the silence that was the music of death. He saw her turn toward an opening door where light burst through like the flash of fire from the muzzle of a gun. A shadow darkened her face. He heard her screaming.

And the screaming broke through his vision. He was seeing the trail again, and the blue sky and the evergreens. The screaming became a horn honking at his back. He stumbled to a halt and turned around.

A black pickup nearly half a century old rolled slowly to a stop and a head crowned by a wild rag of white hair poked out the driver’s window.

“Hell’s bells, if it ain’t Corcoran O’Connor.”

Cork recognized Althea Bolls, a widow who’d lived alone in a cabin in the Superior National Forest since the pickup she drove was new. He hobbled to her truck.

“Lord, boy, I’ve seen roadkill looked better’n you.”

“I need to get to Allouette.” His throat was parched, and the words came out thin and brittle as autumn leaves.

Althea patted the good arm he rested against her door. “Sure, I’ll take you. You just get yourself in this truck before you fall right over.”

Cork got in the passenger side. On the seat next to Althea were a pair of Leitz binoculars, a copy of Palmer’s
Handbook of North American Birds,
and a notebook. Althea was head of the local chapter of the Audubon Society and often made excursions into the deep woods to chronicle the birds. She shoved the truck into gear and lurched forward. “There’s coffee in that thermos there on the floor,” she said. “Help yourself. Sorry I didn’t bring anything stronger. Looks like you could use a snort. What happened to you anyway?”

“Long story,” Cork said, and, for everyone’s sake, left it at that.

49

S
HILOH INDULGED HERSELF
. She let the hot water from the shower run over her until her skin felt parboiled and her palms and fingers began to wrinkle. She sucked into her lungs the luscious air, hot and moist, as if she were in a steam bath in a Beverly Hills spa. At last she soaped and rinsed, and when she stepped from the shower, she felt clean and new.

She pulled a folded green towel from a shelf above the toilet and began to dry herself.

That’s when she heard the creak of the floor in the living room and she stopped dead still. She listened intently. She’d relaxed, closed the door to caution, and now she felt trapped again and afraid. She draped the towel around her, tucked in the corner to hold it in place. Quietly, she dug into the pocket of her jeans on the floor and pulled out the knife Wendell had given her. She opened the blade. Warily, she peered around the threshold of the bathroom. What greeted her made her step back in surprise.

A woman—slender, blond hair, ice-blue eyes—stood caught in midstep less than a yard down the hallway.

“Who are you?” Shiloh demanded.

The woman stared at her, astounded, as if she were looking at an elephant who’d managed to squeeze into the trailer. “My name’s Jo O’Connor. And unless I’m crazy, you’re Shiloh.”

“What’re you doing here?”

“I saw smoke from the stovepipe.” Jo O’Connor motioned vaguely toward the roof. “I thought it might be Wendell.”

Shiloh leaned back against the door, weak with relief, heavy with regret. “It won’t ever be Wendell.”

“Did I hear the name Shiloh?”

Behind Jo O’Connor, a man appeared. He looked at Shiloh with deep interest.

“So you’re the spark that started the fire,” he said.

“Who are you?” Shiloh asked.

He smiled. “Some people think I’m your brother.”

Shiloh folded the knife blade and retucked the end of the towel. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Just give us a few minutes to explain things,” Jo said. “Did you know you’ve got a whole county looking for you?”

“Yeah? Well, they missed me.” She gave the man a closer look. “What did you mean you might be my brother? I don’t have any of that kind of family.”

The man scratched his head and seemed almost ready to laugh. “You have a lot more than you imagine.”

“You’ve been in terrible danger,” Jo said. “Were you aware of that?”

“Oh, yeah. That was made very clear to me. How did you know?”

Jo said, “Tell you what. Get some clothes on. I’ll make some coffee. And we’ll talk.”

In the tiny kitchen, Jo found a coffeemaker.

“She looks different,” Benedetti said.

“Her hair’s been butchered.” Jo found filters in the cupboard. In the refrigerator was a bag of beans. Kona Blend. On the counter was a small Braun electric grinder. She hadn’t realized Wendell was such a coffee connoisseur. But it seemed that nowadays everyone was.

“She looks pretty good otherwise,” Benedetti noted with an interest that sounded not at all like brotherly love.

“She’s your sister,” Jo reminded him.

“Allegedly.”

Jo ground the beans, put the coffee together, and was just finishing as Shiloh came into the small living room. She wore clean clothes—a large work shirt and overalls rolled up at the cuffs—that Jo suspected belonged to Wendell.

“Sit down, Ms. . . .” Jo hesitated, uncertain how to address a stranger with but one name. “Sit down, Shiloh. We’ll explain some things. It’s a little complicated. First, I’d like to call the sheriff’s office and let them know we’ve found you.”

“Fine.” Shiloh shrugged. “Whatever.”

Jo lifted the receiver from the phone hanging on the kitchen wall. “That’s odd. No dial tone.”

Behind her, the door to the trailer home opened, and she heard Shiloh exclaim, “Willie.”

Jo turned quickly. In the doorway, with the sun at his back, stood a man in dirty jeans, a torn flannel shirt, and a green down vest. He took them all in carefully.

Shiloh stood up. “What are you doing here?”

A smile suddenly graced the face of Arkansas Willie Raye, and he replied, “Why, I was worried sick about you, darlin’. Lots of folks was.” He stepped in and closed the door.

“That’s what these people have been saying.” Shiloh swung a hand back to indicate Jo and Angelo Benedetti.

“How do?” Raye said.

Benedetti took a step forward and the look on his face was hard as brass knuckles. Jo jumped in quickly. “Mr. Raye, Jo O’Connor. Cork’s wife. I thought you were with him in the Boundary Waters.”

Arkansas Willie scratched at the silver grizzle on his jaw. “Got separated looking for my girl, here. I came on back. I suppose Cork and the others’ll be along shortly. Christ almighty, it’s good to see you, Shiloh. Have you let anyone know you’re here and safe?”

“Of course we have,” Jo said. “In fact I just finished speaking with the sheriff’s office.” Jo waved at the wall phone.

Willie Raye gave that a thoughtful nod, then said, “That woulda been kinda hard, seein’ as how I cut the line a bit ago.” He reached behind him, lifted his vest, and pulled a pistol from his belt. “Why don’t y’all just get together with Shiloh over there and rub shoulders.”

“Willie?” Shiloh frowned at the gun, then looked at Raye with puzzlement.

“When were you goin’ to tell me, girl? After you took my child and butchered it?”

“Tell you what? What child? What are you talking about, Willie?”

“I created Ozark. Ozark is mine, not yours. You can’t just take it and destroy it.”

“I own Ozark. Mother left it to me.”

Raye began to pace, but he kept his eyes on the others. He passed through a bar of dusty sunlight and his shadow leaped toward them.

“She left you a debt and a dream,” he cried. “I paid the debt. I made the dream come true. It was my sweat, my worry, my lost sleep that made it happen. Ozark is my baby. You think I’d just stand by and let you inflict on it whatever misery happens to creep into your head?” He turned and paced the other direction. The hand that held the pistol was beginning to become more animated, the barrel slicing the air like a conductor’s baton.

“Shiloh’s your child, too,” Jo tried gently.

“Like hell. She was never my child, only my responsibility.” His eyes snapped toward Shiloh like whips. “Gettin’ close to you, girl, was like tryin’ to hug a bunch of nettles. You never let me love you.”

“You never gave me anything to love,” she shot back. “When I needed comfort in the night it came from nannies and nuns.”

“I tried.”

“No, you didn’t. You didn’t have to. I wasn’t yours. And nobody had to tell me that. Whenever you touched me, your hands were hard. Whenever you spoke, your words were slippery. You were one big lie, Willie, and you can’t hide a lie from a child. I always knew.”

“I took care of you.” He emphasized his point by thrusting the barrel of the handgun at her. “I made sure there was a roof over your head. A damn good roof. Several of them. And I did that by building Ozark Records into something I was proud of.”

“And something you’d kill for. It was you.” Shiloh’s voice carried the wonderment of a revelation, but her face carried all the lines of pain. “Libbie, Wendell. That was your doing.”

“Libbie Dobson?” He laughed scornfully. “Now there was a true friend. She agreed to send me copies of all your letters. We had us an understanding. A debut CD all her own. She was easy. Cheap.”

“You killed her.”

“Had her killed. Had to. She knew where you were, knew your intentions. And she was goin’ to sell that information, make it all public. Death of Ozark right there.”