Tamarack County (24 page)

“I had a dream, Annie. It seemed a lot like the vision Henry had, the one he told me about on the phone the other day. Someone, or maybe something, was watching our house. It didn’t go on long enough for me to see it clearly. If it was a vision, and if it’s a warning of some kind, I want to try to get a better handle on it. I’m hoping a sweat might do the trick.”

“You understand these things better than I do, but how will the sweat help?”

“I need to be cleansed. The truth is,” he confessed, “I’ve been holding on to a lot of negative stuff because of Skye and . . . well . . . you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay. It’s my stuff to deal with. But I think it might be getting in the way of seeing this vision clearly. I figured if Henry was here, he’d have me do a sweat.”

“I’ll be glad to do whatever I can to help.”

He grinned. “Believe me, there’s plenty.”

*  *  *

The frame of the sweat lodge stood at the edge of Iron Lake, a hundred yards east of Rainy’s cabin, behind a stand of aspen, half buried in snow. Stephen had brought two snow shovels, and he and Anne spent an hour clearing the frame all the way down to the frozen earth. They also cleared an area nearby in which Stephen intended to build the fire that would warm the
mishoomisag,
the Grandfathers, stones that would heat the lodge for
the sweat. They carried wood from the stack that had been piled against Rainy’s cabin, and Stephen built the fire. While it blazed, they covered the frame with the tarps he’d hauled in on the Bearcat. They brought the blankets from Meloux’s cabin, and the Grandfathers, and also a pitchfork, which Meloux used to handle the stones after they’d been heated.

When there were good, hot coals, Stephen laid a number of the stones on them, then he said, “Let’s go back to Meloux’s cabin. He has sage there. We’ll smudge, then I’ll begin the sweat.”

“It’s lunchtime,” Anne said. “Want to eat first?”

“I’m fasting. But you go ahead.”

Anne shook her head. “I’ll eat later.”

Meloux kept many herbs in a cedar box under his bunk. Stephen pulled the box into the light and took out a bundle of dried sage the Mide had tied with a hemp string. He put the bundle on top of Meloux’s woodstove, untied the string, and lit the loose sage with a kitchen match. He waved the smoke over himself, and Anne did the same. He said a prayer: “Great Spirit, cleanse my heart and mind. If there’s some truth that you want me to see, take away the fog from my thinking. Help me walk the path ahead without anger or fear, and with a clear, unblinking eye. You are the weaver, and I am a thread. Help me accept your design, whatever that may be.”

When he finished, Anne whispered softly, “Amen.”

As they left Meloux’s cabin, Stephen grabbed a small pot from a set of cookware hanging on hooks in the wall. Anne gave him a questioning glance.

“To melt snow for water,” he explained. “To make the steam in the lodge.”

The stones were superheated by the time they returned to the fire. Stephen used the pitchfork to lift them out of the coals, one by one. He’d broken a branch from a small pine tree, and he asked Anne to use it to sweep the embers from each stone before he cradled it on the tines into the shallow pit at the center of the
lodge. When it was done, all the stones were in place, he dropped the flap over the entrance. In the meantime, Anne had filled the pot with snow and put it on the fire.

From one of the pockets of his coat, Stephen pulled out a small pouch filled with tobacco. He took a pinch of the tobacco and dropped it into the fire both as an offering and so that the smoke would carry his prayers upward.

“I’m on my own for a while,” he said to Anne. “You can go on back to Rainy’s cabin and have some lunch while I do the first round of sweating.”

“When do you want me back?”

“Give me forty minutes.”

“You’ll be okay?”

“I’ll be fine.”

She kissed his cheek. “Safe journey,” she said and left him.

Stephen took off his coat, shirt, shoes and socks, and pants and stood before the entrance to the lodge, dressed only in his T-shirt and boxers. He took the pot of water from the fire and lifted the flap over the entrance. Earlier, he’d laid a blanket inside, on the opposite side of the lodge. He slipped in and crawled clockwise until he reached the blanket, where he sat down. The stones had heated the small area intensely. He raised the pot, poured the melted snow onto the Grandfathers, and the steam rose up and filled the air around him.

Stephen breathed deeply and settled in to receive whatever might come to him. He had no idea what that was. If he’d known, he might have chosen a different path for himself that cold winter day.

C
ork had never visited Stillwater Prison, but he had a long and negative association with the dour facility. When Cork was thirteen years old, his father, who was sheriff of Tamarack County, had been shot and killed in a gun battle initiated by several convicts who’d escaped from the prison and had made a desperate, ill-considered run for Canada. His father’s death wasn’t, of course, the fault of the prison or the personnel there, but when he and Dross approached the complex, Cork felt a twist of his stomach, as if he was preparing to meet an old adversary.

From the front, Stillwater Prison resembled an austere school construction, the kind you might see in a yearbook from the 1940s, all no-nonsense red brick. If you looked beyond that to the yard, with its high walls and guard towers and barbed wire, there was no mistaking its true purpose. Despite its name, it was actually situated south of Stillwater, above the town of Bayport, set amid hills that climbed west of the Saint Croix River. Dross parked in the visitors’ lot across the street, and they both headed inside. They gave their names at the entrance checkpoint, passed through the security scanner, and were buzzed through the heavy metal door of the sally port. On the other side, a correctional officer, who introduced herself as Sergeant Nadine Jojade, waited. She escorted them to the third floor, where they were ushered into an office paneled in dark wood and tastefully
carpeted. A woman sat at a large desk near the far window. Through the glass behind her, a line of barren trees was visible, and beyond the trees and the iced-over Saint Croix River rose the white hills of Wisconsin.

“Thank you, Nadine,” the woman said.

The officer left, closing the door behind her.

“I’m Terry Gilman.” The warden rose and came to greet them.

“Good morning, Warden. I’m Sheriff Marsha Dross, and this is Cork O’Connor.”

They all shook hands.

On a good day, Warden Gilman probably reached the midpoint of Cork O’Connor’s chest. She was slender, even a little fragile looking. She had curly hair the color of buckskin, which she wore short. At first glance, she might have seemed an odd choice to run a prison in which ninety percent of the inmates towered over her and, if they had the opportunity to sit on her, would probably break most of her bones. But from the moment he looked into her eyes and saw the assuredness of authority there, something cops and criminals both respected, he knew why she held the position.

She offered them a seat and asked, “Can I get you something? Coffee, water?”

“No, thank you,” Dross replied. “We appreciate you accommodating our request.”

Gilman sat in the chair behind her desk. “When I understood the situation, I wanted to be a part of this personally. I have a long-standing interest in Cecil LaPointe.”

“Oh?”

“I’ll explain that in a minute, but first I’d like to hear the whole story of what’s brought you here.”

Dross recounted all that had occurred in Tamarack County since Evelyn Carter had first gone missing. The failed search, the killed dog, the discovery of the bloodied knife in the garage of Judge Ralph Carter, the possible attempt on the life of Marlee
Daychild, and Dexter’s head left on the table of Ray Jay Wakemup. She also explained her thinking about how Sullivan Becker’s hit-and-run accident was connected to this.

When Dross finished, the warden asked, “What do you know about Cecil LaPointe as an inmate here?”

“Except for the image that comes from a reading of
The Wisdom of White Eagle,
essentially nothing.”

“Let me enlighten you, then.”

She lifted a large photograph from where it lay on her desk and offered it to Dross. The sheriff took it and held it out so that she and Cork could view it together. It was an aerial photo of the prison complex. Smoke poured from one of the wings.

Cork said, “The riot?”

Gilman nodded. “Five years ago. Shortly afterward, the man who was warden at that time left and I took this position. Although the situation had been dealt with, feelings here were still pretty raw. Because I was absolutely determined nothing like that would ever take place in this facility again, I created a panel to investigate the causes. I had guards on that panel, correctional experts from the outside, and inmates. Cecil LaPointe was one of them.”

“Why LaPointe?”

“During the rioting, he was responsible for saving the lives of a number of inmates.”

“I heard about that,” Dross said. “But I don’t recall the details.”

“Some inmates tried to use the pandemonium inside to settle scores,” Gilman explained. “LaPointe’s influence, which is considerable among the population here, kept that from happening. He actually placed himself in harm’s way to protect some of the threatened inmates. Anyone else would probably have been cut down without a second thought. But there’s something about LaPointe that’s . . . well . . . different.” She smiled. “Which is why I wanted to talk to you before you see him. Have you had much experience with a prison population?”

“We see them a lot on the outside.”

“And you probably see them one or two or three at a time. When you put hundreds of them together, you multiply the individual dynamic a thousandfold. Do you remember watching those old cowboy movies where all the drovers are sitting around a campfire on a cattle drive and there’s a storm brewing and they’re holding their breath because they know that all it will take to make those cattle stampede is one wrong sound?” She let that sink in. “In his way, Cecil LaPointe has done more than his share to keep that wrong sound out of Stillwater.”

Dross said, “Do you have any idea why Evelyn Carter visited him?”

“None.”

“Had she ever visited before?”

“We have no record of a previous visit.”

Dross said, “If LaPointe has been a model prisoner—”

“And then some, apparently,” Cork threw in.

“Why hasn’t he been granted parole?” Dross continued.

“In the early years, whenever he came before the parole board for consideration, the principals in the adjudication of his case—the judge, the county attorney, the sheriff—strongly recommended that parole be denied.”

“Their reasons?”

“They contended that he represented a continued threat.”

“And the board believed them?”

“In the early years of his eligibility, that was apparently true. Then it became a moot point.”

“Why?”

“He stopped requesting parole consideration.”

“Because he knew he had no chance?”

“That’s something maybe you should ask him.” She held up a copy of
The Wisdom of White Eagle
. “Have you read this?”

Dross said, “Yes.” Cork only nodded.

The warden opened the book, at random, it seemed, and read aloud:
“Anger, hate, jealousy, envy, fear. Fill your pockets
with these heavy stones and you spend your life trying not to drown. Throw them away and you float. The great current of life simply sweeps you up and carries you joyously to the place you were always meant to come to. Make no mistake, you will arrive there either way, through struggle or surrender. But one is the way of pain, the other of peace.”
She closed the book. “I find that whenever I’m feeling a little lost, particularly here”—she indicated with a wave the prison around her—“reading some of White Eagle’s wisdom helps.” She laid the book back on her desk. “Shall we?”

They stood, and the warden walked ahead of them to lead the way.

“We’ll be going directly to our infirmary,” she said. “That’s where LaPointe spends most of his time now.”

“He works there?”

“He’s a patient.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Cork asked.

She looked at him, as if surprised by his ignorance. “He’s dying, Mr. O’Connor.”

N
othing came. Stephen’s body dripped salt water from every pore, and he tried to keep his mind clear in order to receive whatever might be delivered to him. He’d participated in many sweats, and he knew it was useless to attempt to force anything. That was, in one way, the point of a sweat. To relax, to release, to remove the barriers of thought, expectation, desire. To be. And because this was never an easy thing, he understood that it sometimes took several rounds of sweating to melt the natural human resistance to the influence of the Great Mystery.

At first, his mind was filled with anxiety. The idea of confronting the
majimanidoo
of his nighttime vision was a little frightening, and yet he believed it had to be done. His brain worked at digging the image from his memory, the form that lurked in the dark under the elm tree. In his mind’s eye, he saw only the black shape with its two eyes glowing red as hot coals. This was a conscious experience, not a visceral thing, and the image itself didn’t elicit a strong emotional response. He was trying too hard, he knew. He wasn’t letting go. After half an hour, he could feel the lodge cooling, much more quickly than normal, the result of the bitter temperature outside. He crawled clockwise around the pit where the Grandfathers lay and pushed out through the heavy flap of blanket over the entrance. He found Anne feeding the fire.

“Success?” she asked.

“Nothing yet,” he said. “Would you pull out the Grandfathers and put them back on the coals to heat? I’m going down to the lake to refresh.”

“Refresh?” His sister cast a skeptical eye on the frozen lake.