Copper River (23 page)

C
lovis was not much of a town: an old Mobile gas station at a corner of a crossroad, a tavern diagonally opposite, a few houses surrounding them, the whole place situated in a pine barrens of sandy soil and scrub evergreen.

Dina asked at the gas station and got directions.

The house where Sara Wolf had lived with her aunt and uncle was something a good huffing and puffing could have blown right down. It stood back from the road behind a tangle of brush and diseased pines with brown needles brittle as toothpicks. In the front area—it didn’t exactly qualify as a yard—a completely rusted-over pickup without wheels sat in sand up to its axles. To the right was a sagging garage with most of the windows broken out. An old cocker spaniel who’d been lying in the weeds beside the front steps roused itself and began barking, a hoarse sound without energy. They all got out and waited a moment beside the Blazer because even an old dog has teeth.

The woman who came to the door to look at them was short and wide. She wore jeans and a dark blue sweater. She shaded her eyes with a plump sandstone-colored hand and stared.

“
Boozhoo,
” Jewell called, using the familiar Ojibwe greeting.

“What do you want?” the woman called over the noise of the dog.

“We’re looking for Sara’s aunt?” Jewell called back.

“What for?”

“We just want to talk to her for a few minutes. About Sara.”

“Are you police? ’Cuz somebody already been here.”

“No. We’re friends.”

Under the awning of her hand, the woman’s eyes held on them a long time, then she said, “Shut up, Sparky.”

The dog seemed grateful not to have to expend any more energy and immediately settled back on its haunches and panted in a tired way as it watched the women approach. When they were close, it eased itself onto all four legs. Its tail began to sweep against the weeds at its back in a friendly way, and it padded forward.

Charlie put her hand out and said, “Hey there, Sparky. How you doing, boy?”

“You knew Sara?” the woman asked.

Jewell indicated the girl. “Charlie here knew her pretty well. I’m Jewell DuBois. This is Dina Willner.”

The woman’s hair was black and fine and cut carelessly at neck length. Through the open door behind her, the living room was visible in the dim interior light, a cluttered place.

“Could we come in and talk for a few minutes?” Jewell asked.

“No,” the woman said. “Frank’ll be back anytime. You gotta go before he comes.”

“Frank?”

“My husband.”

“Sara’s uncle?”

“Yeah.”

“When was the last time you saw Sara?” Dina asked.

“Cops asked the same thing,” she said. “Almost a year ago. She took off one day, never came back.”

“Did you notify the police?”

She shook her head. “I was expecting it.”

“Why?”

“It wasn’t working out here.”

“What exactly wasn’t working?” Dina asked.

The woman looked at her, her brown eyes hard as hickory nuts, giving away nothing. “Who are you people? Why are you asking about Sara?”

“We live in Bodine, where her body was found. We’re trying to understand what she was doing in our town.”

She squinted, perplexed, or perhaps just a reaction to the bright morning sun. “But you’re not cops?”

“No.”

Charlie spoke up. “We were, you know, friends. I was at Providence House with her. I liked her.”

The woman lowered her gaze and it locked on Charlie. Something changed in her aspect, a softening. She glanced toward the road behind them and said, “Come in, but just for a minute.”

They stepped inside, into the stale smell of layered dust and cigarette smoke and spilled beer and cushions stained dark with skin oil. She didn’t invite them to sit. There was nowhere that was not covered with some discarded item: clothing, newspapers, magazines, a couple of pizza boxes. The dog, who was left outside, whined at the door.

“When she ran away, did you know where she went?” Dina asked.

“She didn’t run away. I told her to go.” The woman took a breath and her wide nostrils flared even more. “Frank.” She said the word as if she were saying
shit
. “She told me what he done, what he made her do, and I told her she had to go. Not leave, you know. Get away.”

“Did you send her to Providence House?”

She nodded. “A girlfriend told me about it. I thought she’d be safe there. I hoped.”

“Did your husband know where she’d gone?”

“No. I didn’t say nuthin’. I told him she run away.”

“The police think she might have gone back to prostitution. What do you think?”

She shook her head firmly. “I don’t think so.
Mashkawizii
.”

“
Mashka
what?” Dina replied.

“It’s Ojibwe,” Jewell said. “It means she was strong. She had inner strength.”

The woman looked at her with interest.

“My husband spoke Anishinaabemowin,” Jewell explained.

“You Shinnob?”

“Yes,” Jewell answered without hesitation.

The woman nodded. “That girl, what life handed her didn’t amount to a bucket of spit, but she didn’t never give up, you know. I figured if she stuck here either she’d kill Frank or Frank’d kill her. Best thing was to get her someplace safe. That’s why I sent her away to that place.”

“And you’re sure your husband didn’t know she was there?” Dina asked.

“I don’t know how he could’ve.”

“What does he do? I mean for work.”

“Construction, when there’s something going.”

“Does he ever work in Marquette?”

“Sometimes.”

“Is it possible he saw Sara there?”

She thought about it. “He’d’ve said something.”

“What about Bodine? Has he done work up there?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Have you had any contact with Sara since she left?”

Her eyes flitted away toward the blank television screen. She rubbed her hands, one over the other. “She called me sometimes.”

“Here?”

“Yeah. Just to tell me things were going okay.” Her head drooped in a tired way. “She kept telling me I should leave him.”

Through the open door came the sound of an engine in need of a new muffler and Jewell turned. She watched a gray pickup pull into the drive, skirt her Blazer, and park near the house. A man got out who was like a bone, thin and hard and white. He wore a dirty jean jacket over coveralls, work boots, a ball cap. He checked out the Blazer, glanced at the house, and came toward the door.

“Frank?” Dina asked.

The woman nodded and her eyes had become afraid.

“Have the police talked to him?”

“I don’t think so. Not here anyway.”

Dina quickly took a card from her purse and gave it to the woman. “Keep that safe somewhere. If you need me, call.”

The man’s boots beat on the wooden steps like mallets as he came up. He yanked the door open and was inside, glaring.

The woman had retreated behind Jewell and the others. Dina moved forward, taking the lead.

“Who are you?” he said.

“We’re here about Sara,” Dina said.

“What are you? Social workers?”

“Former Special Agent Dina Willner, FBI,” she said. The
former
went by quickly, and Jewell wasn’t sure the man even tracked it. Dina’s hand shot into her purse. She flashed some kind of ID, then slipped it quickly back where it had come from. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“About Sara? She took off a long time ago. Hell, she could be dead for all I know.”

“She is, Mr. Durkee.”

His eyebrows were thin and blond. There were long hollows in his cheeks, and the skin was rough as if his face had been carved on with a dull knife. His eyes were bright blue and startled. He stared at Dina. “How?”

“When was the last time you saw her?” Dina asked.

She’d taken a notepad from her purse, and she held a pen poised above a clean sheet. The man scowled at the notepad.

“I ain’t seen her since she left.”

“You’ve had no contact with her at all?”

“I just said that.”

“You haven’t talked to her on the phone?”

“No.”

“You do construction work, is that correct?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you working now?”

“No.”

“When did you last work?”

“What does that got to do with Sara?”

“Just answer the question, please. When did you last work?”

“Couple weeks ago, laying some pipe.”

“Where?”

“Ishpeming.”

“Ever go to Bodine?”

“I’ve been there.”

“When was the last time?”

“Hell, I don’t remember.”

“Friends there?”

He shifted restlessly, put his hands on hips, stuck out his chin. “No. And I ain’t answering any more questions until I know why you’re asking.”

“We know that you forced Sara into prostitution at one time. Who were the johns?”

“What the hell are you talking about? Who the hell are you, coming into my home like this, accusing me of that kind of shit? I want you out of here.” His arm shot out rigidly pointing toward the door. His fingers were long, and the rims of the ragged nails were packed black with dirt and grease.

“I’ll just come back with a warrant, Mr. Durkee. You’ll have to talk to me then.”

“Fine. Bring your goddamn warrant. I got nuthin’ to hide.”

“That’s what your wife said, too. Wouldn’t tell me a thing.” She gave him a scornful look, then turned and gave the same to the woman. “If I find out you’ve lied to me, I’ll be back, folks, and I guarantee I won’t be nice. Step aside, Mr. Durkee.”

She stared at him until he moved from the door. She took Charlie’s arm and guided her past him. Jewell followed them outside. Returning to the brightness of the morning sun, she found herself a little blind. The cocker spaniel padded aside and let them pass. They trooped to the Blazer in silence, got inside, and Jewell started to back out.

“We’re just, like, leaving her?” Charlie asked.

“We’re just, like, leaving her,” Dina said.

“He might hurt her.”

“He might.”

“Shit,” Charlie said. She crossed her arms and hunched down.

“Exactly,” Dina said.

“So what was that all about?” the girl asked. In the rearview mirror, Jewell could see the frown on her face.

“Unless I’m mistaken,” Dina said, “Frank Durkee doesn’t know anything about Sara. That’s important.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“Eliminating possibilities, Charlie. It helps us know better where to focus our energy.”

“So where do we focus now?”

Dina looked out at the pine barrens. She was quiet for a minute, then she said over her shoulder, “Charlie, do you have any idea where the kids from Providence House hang out when they’re not at the shelter?”

T
he Killbelly Marsh Trail connected with the Copper River Trail half a mile south of the cabins. Ren turned the ATV onto the well-worn path that wove among the trees and rocks along the riverbank. The river was thirty yards wide and swift flowing. Near the banks, the water was clear and Ren could see the bottom, which was sand and rock. Toward the middle, the water deepened to a black flow.

Cork, who held on to Ren from behind, called, “Stop a minute.”

The boy let the engine idle.

“Bodine’s that way?” Cork pointed east, downriver.

Ren nodded. “About a mile.”

“What’s between here and there?”

“Bunch of cabins on the other side of the river. Summer places. I haven’t seen anybody there lately.”

While he considered the river as it flowed toward Bodine, Cork gently rubbed the place on his leg where the bullet had exited. “Okay,” he finally said. “Let’s keep going.”

The far bank of the Copper River rose in a steep incline. Occasionally sunlight flashed off the window glass of a hidden cabin. A little farther on, they came to the place where the river funneled between rocky ridges as it curved northwest into the Huron Mountains. Ren glanced up the slope at the thick blackberry bramble that covered the entrance to the old mine where Charlie had hidden. From the river, the mine was impossible to see. He considered pointing it out to Cork, but thought better of it.

Cork tapped his shoulder and called, “Stop for a minute, Ren.”

The boy brought the machine to a halt. Cork eased himself from the seat, walked to the river’s edge, and scanned the far height.

“Any cabins along there?” Cork asked.

“No. Some new ones are being built near the county road, but that’s a couple of miles away. I guess it’s too hard to get equipment and stuff all the way to the river.”

“What about on this side?”

“Nothing from here to the Hurons.”

“Any logging roads, bridges, trestles?”

“Yeah. An old trestle crosses a few miles upriver. No trains run on it anymore.”

Cork spent a minute considering the terrain.

It was a warm afternoon and humid as a result of the rain. The blackflies and mosquitoes that often plagued the woods in summer were gone, but the air was still alive with other insects that lazily buzzed past. Ren was aware of the deep tracks the ATV tires left in the wet earth, and he felt bad about it. ATVs weren’t allowed on the trail, which was supposed to be only for hiking and snowmobiling.

Cork started back toward the ATV, then stopped and bent close to the ground. Without looking up, he said, “Your cougar’s been here.”

Ren got off his seat and knelt beside Cork. He saw the print clearly. And he saw something else. “Look. Scat.” He walked over to the droppings, bent and sniffed. “Whew! If what Mr. Schenk said is true, that’s got to be a cougar.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Cork said.

“Do you think he’s following the river?” Ren asked.

“Maybe. Keeping to the trail because it’s easier. Would make sense if he’s hurt. Do many people hike here?”

“In summer. In fall, most of the trolls stay on the road and just drive around looking at the color from their cars.”

“All right.” Cork climbed back onto the ATV. “Let’s see that trestle.”

They rode for another fifteen minutes. The river rushed past tall cliffs and channeled through narrow cuts. Beside it, the ATV climbed hills and bounced across stony brooks. Ren felt the grip of Cork’s hands around his waist, holding tight for balance. It made him feel good—important—to be involved this way. It made him feel as if he were doing something for Stash and Charlie’s father and the dead girl. He was thinking that his father might be proud of him, too.

The old trestle loomed into sight, a black spiderweb of posts and beams. Ren stopped beneath it, and once again Cork dismounted and considered the area. This time Ren saw a dark stain on the inside thigh of Cork’s jeans.

“You’re bleeding,” he said.

“I know.” Cork didn’t even look down. His eyes ran across the trestle from one end to the other. The south side broke from a stand of maples deep red with fall color. The north side disappeared into blue-green spruce. “You said this railroad isn’t used anymore?”

“That’s right. Not for years, I guess.”

“Where does it come from?”

“An old logging camp at the edge of the Copper River Club, maybe five miles north. Like, twenty miles south, it connects with the main line to Marquette.”

“The Copper River Club, you said?” He glanced back at the boy.

“Yeah. You know about the Copper River Club, right?”

“Some. But tell me what you know.”

The Copper River Club was one of his favorite subjects, a favorite subject of everyone in Bodine, and Ren eagerly filled Cork in.

“There were these really rich guys a long time ago, like a hundred years, see? I mean the richest guys in the whole country. Henry Ford and guys like that. And they didn’t want the Huron Mountains to be spoiled by logging the way the rest of Michigan was. So they bought up most of the land and built cabins for themselves and their families, and they won’t let anybody in there who’s not a member of the Club. They protect the woods and try to keep everything like it always was. Like, once there were plans to build a road from Bodine to L’Anse over on the Keweenaw. These guys kept it from happening. So there aren’t roads or anything that go through that part of the U.P. Now movie stars and famous writers and people like that belong or they visit. A couple of years ago I saw Tom Cruise in Bodine. He was stopping for gas on his way up.”

Cork nodded and looked impressed. “Tom Cruise? That must’ve been something.”

“It was sweet.”

“The river. Where does it go from here?”

“Keeps going northwest. In a few miles it becomes the west boundary of the Copper River Club.”

“All right,” Cork said. “Let’s keep going with the river.”

“You’re sure? Maybe we should look at your leg.”

“I’ll be fine, Ren.” He limped back to the ATV and climbed on.

Ren revved the engine and they took off.

A while later they came to a creek where the trail seemed to end. Ren killed the engine.

“This is Staples Creek, as far as we can go. Everything on the other side belongs to the Copper River Club.”

“So we’d be trespassing?”

“That’s right. And they have these guys who patrol looking for trespassers.”

“Have you ever trespassed, Ren?”

He had, lots of times. It was a kind of challenge. Because the area was so vast and he never did anything to damage the land, he thought of it as harmless and not really wrong. It wasn’t hard to avoid the men who patrolled. More often than not they traveled in pairs and talked, so you could hear them coming.

“Yes,” he admitted.

“What’s along the river?”

“Nothing. Well, almost nothing. A couple of miles from here there’s a cabin that belongs to one of the security guys. I’ve never really been any farther than that.”

“What happens when people get caught trespassing?”

“They just get asked to leave. These people, I guess they don’t want a lot of trouble.”

Behind him, Ren could feel Cork’s eyes steady on the forest ahead of them. Although the Copper River Trail ended, on the far side of the creek was another trail, so faint that unless you knew it existed, you probably wouldn’t see it. It was where the security guys walked when they patrolled. Secretly he hoped Cork would say to go on. Given the importance of their mission, and the fact that Cork was a sheriff and all, it seemed okay. Ren figured there was probably some legal right that allowed them to trespass in pursuit of answers to a crime.

Cork said, “Let’s see how far we get before we’re stopped. What do you say?”

“All right!” Ren lifted his arms as if they’d just scored a touchdown.

He eased the ATV ahead, through the foot-deep water of Staples Creek and onto Copper River Club land.

Before they’d reached the creek, they’d passed a number of “forties,” tracts of land forty acres each that had been logged. Ren knew that in the early days Henry Ford himself had walked those woods, handpicking the trees that would be cut and milled for the side panels on his early station wagons. The trees on Copper River Club land had never been cut, and the forest felt different there, sacred in a way. When he’d trespassed on foot, it had been all right because he’d been careful where he walked. Now he was conscious of the destruction the ATV wrought in its passage: the torn underbrush, the ugly tracks, the noise and smell of the engine, which seemed like a desecration in that quiet place. He slowed, stopped, and killed the engine.

“What is it?” Cork asked.

Ren didn’t quite know how to say it, and he mumbled.

“I didn’t hear,” Cork said.

“This doesn’t feel right.”

“Are we lost?”

“That’s not what I mean.”

Ren could hear the river to their left, a low steady murmur over stone. The sky was solid blue and out of it came a wind like a long breath exhaled. The trees swayed and the branches rubbed against one another with a sound that reminded him of old men complaining. He smelled the dank of wet earth and rotting leaves and felt the fullness of summer gone and the patient steady tread of winter coming from far beyond the horizon. All this belonged. The machine did not.

Cork was quiet, then said, “I understand. Let’s go back. I’ve probably seen everything I need to anyway.”

Before the boy could hit the starter again, a voice to their right commanded, “Hold it right there.”

Ren turned and said under his breath, “Oh shit.”

The man who’d spoken wore a green billed cap with
Copper River Club
in gold across the crown. He was dressed in a green uniform with a patch that said
CRC Security
on the shoulder of the right sleeve. Above the left breast pocket was stitched
Calvin
. The rifle he carried didn’t need a patch or badge or identification. It pretty much spoke for itself.

He came through the trees with the stock of the firearm resting on his hip and the barrel pointing skyward. He walked carefully and didn’t take his eyes off Ren and Cork. When he was a dozen feet away he stopped and let the weight of his glare sit on them. He was tall and thin. His pink, bloodless lips reminded Ren of the spongy underside of a mushroom.

“You’re trespassing on private property.”

“I’m afraid we got a little lost back there,” Cork said from behind Ren. “The trail we were on just kind of ended.”

“There’s a sign where that trail ends tells you to turn around.”

“Didn’t see it. Must’ve blown down in the storm last night.”

“I’ll check on that. Right now you just turn around and go on back the way you came.”

Cork nodded toward the rifle. “A Remington 7600?”

“It is.”

“That could do a lot of accidental damage.”

The man cradled the rifle lovingly in his hands. “Nothing accidental about the damage I intend to do with this baby. We got ourselves a mountain lion skulking around here.”

“No kidding?” Cork replied. “A cougar? You sure?”

“Saw it with my own eyes a couple of days ago. Came nosing around my place up the river. I got a shot off, hit it I’m pretty sure, but it didn’t go down. Means it’s wounded and real pissed off. I was you I’d stay clear of the woods for a while.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Cork said.

The thin man settled his gaze on Ren and squinted. “You’re Jewell DuBois’ boy.”

“Yeah.”

“Then you ought to know better than to be on Copper River Club land. I catch you here again, I’ll fry your skinny little ass, understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you,” he said to Cork. “Next time, the Copper River Club will press charges. Am I making myself clear?”