“Say it.”
“I have two grown daughters and a teenage son. It strikes me that I have less control, less access to their private lives than you have with your sister. Frankly, it seems odd.”
Cavanaugh stared at him. His eyes were the hard green-brown of turtle shells. Cork waited.
“My sister is flamboyant,” Cavanaugh finally said. “She inspires. She walks into a room and the place becomes electric, brighter and more exciting. People fall in love with her easily, and they’ll follow her anywhere. In this way, she’s charmed. But she has no concept of how to handle money. The truth is that financially she’s a walking disaster. Consequently, for most of her life, I’ve overseen her finances. It hasn’t been easy. There have been issues.”
“Recently?”
He hesitated. “This arts center of hers. She gifted it significantly from her own resources—our resources. The idea was that other avenues of financing would then be found. They haven’t materialized. I’ve been bleeding money into this project for some time now.”
“Do you have the ability to bleed?”
“There’s plenty of money. That’s not the point.”
“The point is her unreliability?”
He considered Cork’s question, as if searching for a better answer, then reluctantly nodded.
“One more question. Has your sister received any threats related to the situation at Vermilion One?”
“No. She’s not associated with this at all. The mine is my business.”
“All right.” Cork quoted his usual daily rate, then added, “A five-thousand-dollar bonus if I find her.”
“I don’t care what it takes. Will this interfere with your investigation of the mine threats?”
“I’m sure I can handle them both. I’ll prepare the paperwork. Will you be around this afternoon?”
“I have a meeting until four, but I’ll be at my home this evening.”
Cork said, “I’ll drop by. Say around six?”
“Thanks, Cork. But I’m hoping you’ll begin this investigation immediately.”
“I’m already on the clock.”
TWO
Corcoran Liam O’Connor had lived in Tamarack County, Minnesota, most of his life. He’d grown up there, had gone away for a while and been a cop in Chicago, then returned to the great Northwoods to raise his family. Several years earlier he’d been the county’s sheriff, but hard things had happened and he’d left official law enforcement and now ran what he called “a confidential investigation and security consulting business.” He was a PI. He operated his business alone, which was pretty much the way he did everything these days. He’d been a widower for a little over a year, recently enough still to feel the loss deeply; a father, but that summer his children were gone; what was left to him at the moment was the big, empty house on Goose-berry Lane and a family dog constantly in need of walking.
He followed Cavanaugh’s black Escalade east ten miles to Aurora, then along the shoreline of Iron Lake. Rain had begun to fall, and the lake was pewter gray and empty. It was Monday, June 13. Spring had come late that year, and so far June had been cool enough that it had everyone in Tamarack County talking about summers they swore they remembered snow clear into July. Cavanaugh turned off Highway 1 and headed south into a low range of wooded hills capped with clouds and dripping with rainwater. Fifteen minutes later, they entered Gresham, a small town that had been built in the early days of mining on the Iron Range. The Vermilion One Mine had been the town’s economic base, and, until the mine closed in the mid-1960s, Gresham had bustled. Now the streets were deserted; the buildings looked old and ignored. Every other storefront on the single block of the business district seemed long vacant, and yellowed signs bearing the names of realty companies leaned against the glass in otherwise empty windows. Lucy’s, which was a small café, was brightly lit inside, and as Cork passed, he could see a couple of customers at the counter and Lucy Knutson at the grill, but no one seemed to be talking. It reminded him of an Edward Hopper work, Nighthawks, and he felt the way he always did whenever he looked at that painting: sad and alone.
Which brought back to him the dream he’d had the night before: his father’s death. He could never predict when the nightmare would visit him, but it inevitably left him feeling broken and empty and unsure. He looked through the windshield streaked with rain and wondered, Christ, could the day get any worse?
Cavanaugh had sped through Gresham and was so far ahead that Cork couldn’t see the Escalade anymore. Less than a mile outside town, he began to encounter the protesters. They wore ponchos and rain slickers and sat on canvas chairs and held their placards up as he passed.
No Nukes Here!
Stop the Madness!
Not in Our Backyards!
Washington—Go Radiate Yourself!
At the moment, there were maybe twenty protesters, which, considering the rain, seemed like a lot. They were an earnest and committed body.
A legal order restrained anyone from interfering with entry to the Vermilion One Mine, but as Cork approached the gate, a tall, broad figure in a green poncho stepped into the road and blocked his way. Cork was going slowly enough that it was no problem to brake, but he wasn’t happy with the aggressiveness of the move. When the Land Rover had stopped, the figure came around to the driver’s side, lifted a hand, and drew back the poncho hood, revealing the scowl of Isaiah Broom.
Cork rolled his window down. With as much cheer as he could muster, he said, “Morning, Isaiah.”
Broom looked at him, then at the closed gate of the mine entrance, then at Cork again. He had eyes like pecans, and he had the high, proud cheekbones that were characteristic of the Anishinaabeg. He was roughly Cork’s age, just past fifty. Cork had known him all his life. They’d traveled many of the same roads, though never together. They were not at all what anyone would call friends.
“You going in there?” Broom asked.
“That’s my intent, Isaiah.”
“You know, a lot of us Shinnobs are wondering about your allegiance these days.”
“My allegiance, Isaiah, is to my own conscience. So far, I haven’t done anything that worries me in that regard.”
“These people,” he said, nodding toward the mine operation, “they don’t worry you?”
“These people are my neighbors. Yours, too, Isaiah.”
“They’re chimook, Cork,” he said, using the Ojibwe slang for white people. “Are you chimook, too? Or are you one of The People?”
Broom had called himself Shinnob. That was shorthand for Anishinaabe, which was the true name of the Ojibwe nation. Roughly translated, it meant The People, or The Original People. Cork supposed that in this way the Anishinaabeg—as they were known collectively—like every human community, thought of themselves as special. Broom and the others were there because the southern boundary of the Iron Lake Reservation abutted the land holdings of the Vermilion One Mine.
“At the moment, Isaiah, I’m just a man trying to do a job. I’d be obliged if you’d step back and let me be on my way.”
“‘In terms of the despiritualization of the universe, the mental process works so that it becomes virtuous to destroy the planet.’ Russell Means said that.”
Broom was fond of quoting Russell Means, who was Lakota, and also Dennis Banks, who was a Shinnob. In the early seventies, these men had been among the founders of the American Indian Movement. Broom had known them both and had himself been present at the 1972 Trail of Broken Treaties march in Washington, D.C., which had ended in the occupation of the Bureau of Indian Affairs office. He’d continued to be a voice for activism in the Ojibwe community. He’d run several times for the position of chair of the Iron Lake tribal council but never won. He spoke hard truths frankly, but for most Shinnobs on the rez, his voice was too loud and too harsh to lead them.
“I’m not here to destroy the planet, Isaiah, that’s a promise.”
Broom looked skeptical but stepped back. Cork rolled up his window and
went ahead.
At the gate, he signed in with Tommy Martelli. Martelli’s family had been in mining for generations, and Tommy had himself worked the Vermilion One straight out of high school and after that the Ladyslipper until his age and hip problems made him become, as he put it, “a damn desk jockey.” He wore a short-sleeve khaki shirt and nothing on his head, and, as he stood at the window of the Land Rover, warm summer rain dripped down his face from the silver bristle on the crown of his skull.
“Mr. Cavanaugh said you’d be right behind him,” he told Cork. “Got us a real puzzler here. Haddad chewed our asses good, like it was our fault.”
“What’s going on, Tommy?”
“Nobody told you?”
“When he called me, Lou said some threats had been made.”
“There’s more to it than that, Cork. But if the boss didn’t tell you, I’d best keep my mouth shut.” He reached out for the clipboard Cork had signed, flashed a smile not altogether friendly, and said, “Love to see you figure this one out.” He moved back to his little guardhouse, and Cork drove through the gate.
For a hundred yards, the pavement cut through a stand of aspen mixed with mature spruce. The road climbed up a steep slope, rounded a curve, broke from the trees, and suddenly the old mine buildings stood before him. They were dominated by the headframe, a steel tower a hundred feet high and covered with rust, which stood above shaft Number Six and supported the hoist for the mine elevator. The largest of the buildings, Cork knew, was the engine house. The other buildings, most in disrepair, had served other functions during the sixty years the mine had been in operation: a single-story office complex; the wet room, where the miners had peeled off their muddy clothing at the end of their shifts; the dry house; the drill shop; the crusher house. The buildings were backed by a towering ridge of loose glacial drift where a small forest of pines had taken root. To one side of the office building entrance stood a tall flagpole that pointed like an accusing finger at the dripping summer sky, and from which a soaked Old Glory fluttered limply in the breeze.
The potholed parking lot was nearly empty. Cork pulled next to Cavanaugh’s Escalade, killed the engine, and got out. The air was an odd mix of scents: rainwater and sharp spruce and the flat mineral smell that came up from deep in the mine. He walked to the front door of the office and went inside, where he found a small reception desk, sans receptionist. There was a corridor running lengthwise, lined with closed doors. The place had the feel of one of those storefronts he’d passed in Gresham, a business long abandoned. He listened for the sound of activity or voices. Except for a newly mounted wall clock that noted the passing of each second with a brittle little tick, the place was dead quiet.
The phone at the reception desk rang. No one came running to answer it. Finally Cork leaned over and lifted the receiver.
“Hello,” he said.
“Margie?”
Cork recognized Lou Haddad’s voice. “Nope. It’s O’Connor.”
“Cork? Where’s Margie?”
“Got me, Lou.”
“Well, come on down. We’re waiting for you.”
“Where?”
“End of the hallway, last office on your right.”
As he hung up, Cork heard the flush of a toilet, and a door halfway down the hall swung open and Margie Renn hurried toward him.
“Just powdering my nose,” she said, smoothing her silver hair and her blue skirt. “Tommy was supposed to call and let me know you’d arrived.”
“Ta-da,” Cork said with a little dance step. Margie didn’t seem to appreciate his humor.
“Let me call Mr. Haddad,” she said.
“I already talked to him, Margie. I’m on my way there now.”
“Let me show you.”
“End of the hall, last door on the right. Right?”
She seemed disappointed that he didn’t need her assistance, and Cork figured that, in the limbo that was the Vermilion One Mine these days, there must not be much for her to do except sit in the empty corridor and listen to the damn wall clock chopping seconds off her day.
Look for this free collection of excerpts from all of William Kent Krueger’s Cork O'Connor novels at your favorite ebook seller.
The William Kent Krueger Reader's Companion: A Collection of Excerpts from the Cork O'Connor Novels
Praise for Northwest Angle
“William Kent Krueger can’t write a bad book. Northwest Angle is one of his best. A complex crime novel that contains meditations on the difficulties of loving and the paths we take to reach God, this Cork O’Connor novel has everything you want in a great read: depth, action, and credibility.” —Charlaine Harris, New York Times bestselling author
“… part adventure, part mystery, and all knockout thriller… Catch-your-breath suspense throughout.” —Booklist
Praise for Vermilion Drift
“As always, Krueger’s writing couples the best of literary and commercial fiction, with intelligent, well-defined characters populating the story. Although the book contains violence, the author never makes it extraneous or graphic. He is one of those rare writers who manage to keep the suspense alive until the final page. Krueger fans will find a feast in between these covers, and for those who have yet to sample his fine and evocative writing, the book offers a complex yet completely believable plot, all tied up in words sharpened by one of the modern masters of the craft.”—Kirkus Reviews (starred)
“Rock-solid prose combines with effective characterizations and a logical if complex plot for a thrilling read. This book succeeds on every level and ought to attract the author a deservingly wide readership.” —Publishers Weekly (starred)
Praise for Heaven’s Keep
“One of today’s automatic buy-today-read-tonight series… thoughtful but suspenseful, fast but lasting, contemporary but strangely timeless. Krueger hits the sweet spot every time.” —Lee Child
“A powerful crime writer at the top of his game.” —David Morrell
Praise for Red Knife
“Outstanding…. Simply and elegantly told, this sad story of loyalty and honor, corruption and hatred, hauntingly carves utterly convincing characters, both red and white, into the consciousness. Krueger mourns the death of ideals and celebrates true old values. As Cork tells an Ojibwa friend, ‘Maybe you can’t alter the human heart… but you can remove the weapons’—the first step, perhaps, in blazing a trail toward sanity and hope.” —Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“The Cork O’Connor mysteries are known for their rich characterizations and their complex stories with deep moral and emotional cores. This one is no exception…. If you don’t know Cork O’Connor, get to know him now.” —Booklist
Praise for Thunder Bay
“The deftly plotted seventh Cork O’Connor novel represents a return to top form… [T]he action builds to a violent and satisfying denouement.” —Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Thunder Bay has everything that William Kent Krueger’s longtime fans have come to expect in this lovely series—and everything it needs to entice new readers into the fold. Steeped in place, sweetly melancholic in tone, it braids together multiple stories about love, loss and family. The result is a wholly satisfying novel that is over almost too soon.” —Laura Lippman, New York Times bestselling author
Praise for Copper River
“Copper River, like each of the previous entries in the Cork O’Connor series, is a riveting thriller rich in character, incident, insight, textured plotting, and evocative prose that captures the lore and rhythms of life—and the pain and sadness of death—in America’s heartland. It’s a novel to be savored, and one that makes the reader eager for the next installment. William Kent Krueger may just be the best pure suspense novelist working today.” —Bill Pronzini, author of the Nameless Detective series and Blue Lonesome
“This series gets darker and more elegantly written with every book. Minnesota has a become a hotbed of hard-boiled crime fiction, and the Cork O’Connor novels ar
e among the best.” —Booklist
Praise for Mercy Falls
“Fast-paced action and William Kent Krueger’s ability to weave multiple plot threads without a tangle make his new novel, Mercy Falls, a page-turner. Crime and complex family dynamics combine to create a novel that will keep the reader guessing through the final pages of the tale.” —Denver Post
“Cork, the sharp-witted small-town sheriff, continues to be an engaging and sympathetic series anchor; likewise, Krueger’s depiction of rural America and the cultural differences among its residents remains compassionate and authentic. Not just for fans of the series, the novel is a smart and satisfying mystery on its own.” —Booklist
Praise for Blood Hollow
“Cork O’Connor… is one of crime fiction’s more interesting series leads, and Krueger’s dead-on depiction of a rural American town is as vivid and realistic as any in the genre.” —Booklist
“Better than merely good, Blood Hollow is a brilliant, layered and moving mystery, one of the better efforts of this or any year…. The prose in Blood Hollow is so good and the plotting so deft that readers will be hard put to stop reading once they begin. Krueger has moved to the head of the crime fiction class with this one.”—Chicago Sun-Times
Praise for Purgatory Ridge
“The kind of work that is all too rare in the suspense genre, a book that combines a first-class plot with excellent writing… A wonderful page-turner.” —The Denver Post
“Krueger’s page-turner… opens with a bang… The plot comes full circle as credibly flawed central characters find resolution… Krueger prolongs suspense to the very end.”—Publishers Weekly
Praise for Boundary Waters
“Krueger follows up his sure-handed debut with an equally effective second thriller featuring former Chicago cop, now former local sheriff Cork O’Connor and his adventures in the warm-spirited little town of Aurora, Minnesota… Krueger’s writing, strong and bold yet with the mature mark of restraint, pulls this exciting search-and-rescue mission through with a hard yank.”—Publishers Weekly