Boundary Waters (4 page)

“Go on,” Cork said.

Harris reached into a briefcase on the floor, pulled out a folded tabloid newspaper, and handed it to Cork. The major headline read $10,000
REWARD!
It appeared above a huge color photo of the woman called Shiloh. The photograph was the kind anyone—man or woman—would have begged to have burned. Shiloh’s skin was bright and oily, her eyes angry, her face twisted in a snarling remark in the instant the glare of the flash had caught her. She looked positively demented, nothing like the soft CD cover Arkansas Willie Raye had shown him that afternoon. Beneath the photo the caption read
HELP US FIND SHILOH AND YOU POCKET TEN GRAND!

“It’s a gimmick,” Harris said. “This rag’s been updating the world on Shiloh sightings ever since she dropped out a couple of months ago. New York City, Paris, Sante Fe, Graceland. We have reason to believe this woman is, in fact, somewhere up here, O’Connor.”

“What reason?” Cork asked. He returned the paper to Harris.

“Good reason,” Harris said, and let it drop.

“All right,” Cork said. “Assuming she is up here, what do you want with me?”

“We know she was guided into the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness some time ago by an Indian. We need to identify this man so that we can locate her. Sheriff Schanno believes you can help us with that.”

The room was too warm. Cork wanted to tell Wally Schanno to open a window, let in some cool evening air and let out the smell of the worry.

“You say she dropped from sight,” Cork said. “Voluntarily?”

“Yes. We’ve spoken with her publicist and her manager. They both say the move was her choice but that they don’t know anything more. She was apparently very secretive about the whole thing and very sudden.”

“Then why look for her? Seems to me if she wants privacy, she’s entitled to it.”

“We have our reasons,” Harris replied.

“Good reasons,” Cork finished for him. He stood as if to leave. “Gentlemen, it’s been interesting, but you’re on your own.”

“This is a federal investigation, O’Connor,” Harris warned him.

“So take me to court.”

“Look, if you want his help, tell him what’s going on,” Schanno broke in. “Just be straight with him.”

Harris gave Schanno a sharp look, considering the advice as if it were about as enticing to him as a spoonful of sulfur. His eyes flicked toward the other two agents, and they appeared to have a wordless conference. Harris gave a grudging nod. “Okay, the Bureau’s interest in this case, and its jurisdiction, comes from the RICO statute. You know what that is?”

“Sure. Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act. How does that tie in with the woman in the Boundary Waters.”

“Fifteen years ago, this woman, Shiloh, was the only witness to her mother’s murder.”

“We all know that,” Cork said, and he sat back down. “Her mother was a local.”

“Then you probably also know that she’s always claimed she couldn’t remember what happened that night. Post-traumatic amnesia. Not unheard of. A few months ago, she was ordered by the court to undergo treatment for substance abuse. She’s been seeing a psychiatrist named Patricia Sutpen. You may have heard of her. Lots of famous clients. Been on
Oprah
. Her psychological bag of tricks includes regression therapy. We believe that in the course of her treatment, Shiloh may have finally recalled the events of the night her mother died.”

Harris picked up the tabloid from where it lay on top of Schanno’s desk and slapped it down, hard.

“This piece of trash appeared a couple of weeks ago. Almost immediately, the reporter—if you can call anyone who stoops to this kind of journalism a reporter—in charge of this story gets a call from a woman named Elizabeth Dobson. She’s a studio musician for Shiloh. Plays the violin.”

“In country music, they call it a fiddle,” Grimes put in quietly and with a grin.

“Whatever.” Harris waved it off and went on. “Elizabeth Dobson claims to have letters from Shiloh. Claims that not only do they tell where she is, but they contain some pretty juicy revelations as well. The reporter arranges to meet her at a restaurant in Santa Monica. She doesn’t show. He gets her address from the phone book, goes to her apartment, but gets no answer to his knock. He greases the building manager’s palm, they open her door, and find her lying dead on the living-room rug. Strangled. It appears to be a burglary, lots of stuff missing. Including the letters she claims to have had. LAPD, while investigating, stumbles onto a diary Elizabeth Dobson kept right up to the day she died. Entries indicated that Shiloh was somewhere in the Boundary Waters. She was being supplied by a man she referred to only as—uh—”

“Ma’iingan,” Agent Sloane said.

Cork was surprised at the agent’s correct pronunciation.

“Means ‘wolf,’ in the Ojibwe language,” Sloane said.

Grimes had taken a pack of Juicy Fruit from his shirt pocket. He folded several sticks into his mouth. “You’re a regular encyclopedia,” he told Sloane, speaking thickly around the wad of gum.

Harris gave them both a sharp look, then addressed Cork again. “We’re concerned that whoever killed this woman may be after Shiloh.”

“Got any idea who that ‘whoever’ might be?” Cork asked.

“That’s where RICO comes in. The primary suspect in the murder of Marais Grand was a man named Vincent Benedetti. Owns a casino in Las Vegas.”

“The Purple Parrot,” Cork said.

“Yes.” Sloane looked surprised. “How’d you know?”

“Lucky guess. Go on.”

Harris glanced at Schanno, who only looked back blankly, then the special agent in charge proceeded like a man on a ride he couldn’t stop. “Before her death, Marais Grand and Benedetti were romantically linked. At the time of the woman’s death, Vincent Benedetti was under investigation for racketeering. We’ve always believed the two events were related. Now Benedetti’s nowhere to be found. If Shiloh has remembered what happened that night, we’re here to make certain she has the opportunity to testify.”

“Why is it you think I can help?” Cork asked.

“The diary makes it quite clear that Shiloh’s somewhere in the Boundary Waters and that the man who guided her in is an Indian. When we explained the situation fully to Sheriff Schanno, he suggested you might be our best hope for identifying this man.”

“Because I’m part Ojibwe?”

“And,” Harris added pointedly, “because he insists you’re smart and can be trusted.”

“Smart?” Cork smiled at Schanno. “You actually said that, Wally?”

“Well?” said Harris, interrupting. “Can we count on you?”

“Could I see the diary?”

“Give him the photocopies,” Harris said to Sloane.

Sloane lifted an expensive-looking leather attaché case from where it sat on a chair, snapped it open, and took out a folder. He closed the case and carefully put it back down. He crossed to Cork and held out the folder, which was labeled in small, precise, block letters
DOBSON DIARY
.

The diary entries went back several months. Someone had gone through them already and neatly highlighted in yellow those passages that pertained to Shiloh. Elizabeth Dobson wrote like a romantic. Her script was florid, with big loops above the line and elaborate flourishes that ended each sentence. Her writing leaned heavily to the right. Optimistic. The passages that hadn’t been highlighted talked about mundane things: loneliness, whether she should get a cat, worries—a lot of them—about her mother’s health and the cost of caring for her. He found the reference to Ma’iingan, but, in his cursory look, found little else that was very helpful.

“Before I agree,” Cork said. “I’d like a few minutes alone with Sheriff Schanno.”

Harris shook his head. “This is my case. Whatever you’ve got to say about it, I’d like to hear.”

“Your case, my office,” Schanno pointed out. “If Cork wants to speak with me alone in here, he’ll speak with me alone. You gentlemen can wait outside.”

Harris chewed on the decision a moment, then jerked his head for the others to follow him. When they stepped outside, Cork closed the door.

“Hate these guys,” Schanno said. “Waltz in here like they own the place.”

“You ID them?” he asked

“Yeah, Harris anyway. Why?”

“Doesn’t it seem odd, them showing up here this way, no introduction from the local field office?”

“I thought the same thing. So I made a call to Arnie Gooden, the field rep in Duluth.”

“I know him. A good man.”

“He worked in the L.A. office for a while. Said he didn’t know anything about this investigation, but he did know Harris. They spoke on the phone a few minutes. Gooden promised to help if Harris needs anything. Look, Cork, you put it all together, it adds up pretty well. If this girl is in the kind of trouble they say, I’d hate to leave her hanging.”

Cork stood at the window. Across the street, the bell tower of the Zion Lutheran Church was lit with floodlights, blazing white against the dark evening sky. There was something wonderfully simple in the solid colors and the straight lines, and Cork stared a long time. He wondered if he should tell Schanno about Arkansas Willie Raye.

“Anything else?” Schanno asked.

“I guess not,” Cork answered.

He opened the door. Only Harris and Sloane came back in.

“Well?” Harris said.

“I’ll do what I can,” Cork told him. “But if I’m going to help, I’ll do things my way.”

“Elaborate,” Harris said.

“The people I’ll be talking to are Ojibwe. They won’t trust you. I’ll talk to them alone.”

“I’d prefer one of us accompany you,” Harris insisted.

“You’re strangers,” Cork reminded him. “More than that, you’re federal law. It would be like throwing a skunk at these people—no offense. If I do this, I have to do it alone.”

“He’s right,” Schanno said.

Harris crossed his arms, his hands fisted and sheathed in the bends at his elbow. He looked like a man who’d invited himself to dinner only to discover that the special of the day was a plateful of shit.

“All right,” he finally agreed unhappily. “Just remember, whoever murdered the Dobson woman may be here now. They could be after Shiloh at this moment. We don’t have much time.”

“In that case,” Cork said, “I’d best get started. How do I contact you?”

“We’ve got a cabin at a place called the Quetico. Here’s the phone number.” He wrote it on the back of an FBI business card. “One more thing, O’Connor. We’ve tried to keep a lid on this. But the tabloid that posted the reward for Shiloh has a front-page story on the Dobson death ready to go. By midweek, your little town here is going to be middle ring in a three-ring circus.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Cork said. He held up the photocopied diary of Elizabeth Dobson. “Mind if I hang onto this?”

Harris waved him an okay. “We’ve got other copies.”

At the desk outside Schanno’s office, Deputy Marsha Dross handed Cork a brown paper bag. “Fried chicken,” she said, and smiled. “Sheriff’s orders.”

Outside the county building, Cork found Grimes waiting for him. The man leaned against Cork’s Bronco and watched him approach.

“A word of advice, O’Connor,” Grimes said, stepping out to intercept him.

Cork held up and waited.

Grimes chewed while he talked, moving the wad of Juicy Fruit around in his mouth like it was chaw. “I’ve seen local lawmen screw up more times than I care to remember. Working with them is always like trying to dance a ballet in diver’s boots. You understand what I’m saying? So what do you say you do us all a favor: Just give us what we ask for and try to stay out of the way the rest of the time. Comprende?” Grimes took the wad of Juicy Fruit from his mouth and dropped it.

Cork stared into his blue-white eyes. “Comprende,” he said. “Comprende real good.” He nodded down at the gum on the parking-lot cement. “Careful there. You might end up stepping in your own mess. Comprende?”

He shoved past Grimes, who stood grinning in his wake.

6

G
RANDVIEW WAS A GREAT DEAL MORE
than just a summer cabin. It was an estate built of yellow pine logs, a huge two-story structure that dominated a southern inlet of Iron Lake called Snowshoe Cove. Marais Grand had had it constructed at the height of her fame; but she’d had little opportunity to use it. Now, it was generally rented in season by wealthy families out of the Twin Cities or Chicago. As far as Cork knew, no one connected with Marais Grand had stayed there since her murder. The place was hidden from the highway by an acre of hardwoods, mostly maple. As Cork approached Grandview, the wind ran through the trees, shaking down crimson leaves that fell into his headlights like drops of blood.

He knocked at the front door, waited, then knocked again. He checked his watch. A couple of minutes past seven.

“Willie,” he called at the curtained front window. “It’s Cork O’Connor.”

He heard an outboard purring on the lake behind Grandview, the sound growing distant. He followed the flagstone walk around to the deck in back. From there, he could see the long stretch of darkness that was Iron Lake at night. Far across the water, the lights of the Quetico marked the newest resort complex on the lake. Condominiums, tennis courts, a par-three golf course, a pool in a Plexiglas dome, a large marina with a flotilla of rental boats, the best wood roast restaurant north of the Twin Cities. There were cabins, as well, isolated in woodland settings, each with its own Jacuzzi and sauna and one hundred twenty-five channels on a big screen television.

Much of the shoreline of Iron Lake was being devoured in this way. The success of places like the Quetico was a direct result of the success of the Chippewa Grand Casino. The casino attracted money, lots of it, for the whites as well as the Anishinaabe. Although Cork was happy to see that many good things had come from the new wealth—upgraded services and an increase in the levels of health and education on the reservation, and an economic boom to the rest of Tamarack County—it made him uneasy. Money changed things. Usually for the worst. He’d loved Aurora in part because of its isolation. He felt a deep sadness as he realized a world of strangers was slowly pushing in.