Authors: William Kent Krueger
St. Kawasaki put his hand on Cork’s shoulder and looked at him seriously with his good eye. “I hate to remind you of this, but you’re not the sheriff anymore.”
L
YTTON
’
S CABIN LAY FIVE MILES OUTSIDE TOWN
at the end of a long, narrow cut into two hundred acres of thick brush, bog, balsam pine and tamarack. The lane leading to the cabin was marked by an old hand-painted sign on a cracked gray board nailed to a post: “Taxidermy.” A chain strung between two aspen saplings blocked the entry.
Cork eyed the deep snow drifted into the narrow lane. “Long walk in, Tom. I’ve got skis and snowshoes,” he offered.
“The only thing I can handle in the snow is my Kawasaki. I’ll walk, thanks.”
“Then I’ll walk, too.”
Cork reached into the glove compartment for a flashlight, then opened the rear door and took his Winchester from its sheath. He pulled several cartridges from his coat pocket and fed them into the rifle.
“What’s that for?” the priest asked.
“How much do you know about Jack the Ripper?”
The snow seemed to multiply the light of the moon that was nearly full and the mass of stars that frosted the sky, and even without the flashlight Cork had no trouble seeing the way along the cut through the trees and brush.
“I was out here once just after I first came to Aurora. I brought a big muskie Father Kelsey had caught and wanted mounted. Never made it off my motorcycle. That dog was on me as soon as I pulled up. I gave it full throttle coming back down this lane and the Ripper still nearly caught me. Biggest, fastest, meanest dog I ever saw.”
“Lytton lets it run loose,” Cork said. “Especially when he’s gone, and he’s gone a lot. Burglar protection, he claims. I used to warn him about the dog getting off his land, but the Ripper never does. Seems to know his territory. And we’re in it right now. I don’t want to be caught out here on foot without something to discourage that dog.”
The priest shook his head at the rifle. “That thing could discourage a critter to death.”
“Lytton’s put out word that he’s trained the Ripper to attack on command and to go for the kill. Now, that could be just Harlan blowing smoke out his ass, but I’d rather not take that chance.”
They passed a tangle of vine thick as a stone wall and covered with snow. The vines blocked Cork’s view of much of the woods to his left, and he kept a watchful eye in that direction.
“Why would anyone train a dog to kill?” the priest asked.
“What do you know about Lytton?”
“Only what I’ve been told. He sounds like a man who could use a good long visit in a confessional.”
Cork stopped. The priest stopped, too.
“What is it?” Tom Griffin asked.
“Thought I heard something.” Cork looked carefully at the thick vine wall.
“What?”
“Could’ve been only a clump of snow falling off some branches.”
“Or it could be Jack the Ripper circling for a kill.” The priest looked carefully around. “I feel like a sitting duck on this road,” he whispered.
“Don’t ever wander off in these woods, Tom. There’s bogs out there could swallow you up without a trace.”
Cork listened a little longer, then started walking again, wading through the snow that was nearly knee deep and that would, if they had to run, hold them back like thick molasses. He fed a round into the chamber.
“Lytton’s a strange case. He’s always been a little different. A loner. His mother used to work for the judge. Housekeeper. After the judge’s wife left him and hauled Sandy back east, the judge took a liking to Harlan, treated him in many ways like a son. They did a lot together. Hunting and fishing. That kind of thing. Harlan started getting into a lot of trouble as a teenager. The judge used his influence as much as he could and kept the kid out of jail. Harlan finally joined the marines. Everybody figured him for a lifer, but he came back a few years ago. Word is, less than honorable discharge. Most people just stay out of his way. That’s not difficult because mostly he keeps to himself out here.”
Tom Griffin said, “I heard he’s a bit of a peeping Tom.”
“I was never able to catch him at it,” Cork replied. “But he’s been reported in strange places at strange times. When I was sheriff, the FBI was interested in him. Thought he might be linked to the Minnesota Civilian Brigade.”
“The paramilitary group?”
“Yep. I could see it. Typical profile for a member of that kind of group is an unemployed, undereducated white guy. Hell Hanover gives the brigade room in the
Sentinel
once in a while to spout their epithets.”
“Hanover certainly doesn’t make a secret of the fact that his own sympathies run in that direction.” The priest leaned nearer as if someone in the dark might hear. “Just between you and me, with that shaved head and those cold blue eyes, old Hell looks just like a Nazi commandant.” As if saying the name of Hell Hanover was like conjuring the devil, the priest looked carefully about. “Why in God’s name are you out on a night like this to see a man like Harlan Lytton?”
“Henry Meloux says he heard the Windigo call his name.”
“The what?”
“Long story, Tom. Believe me, I wouldn’t be out here if Lytton would just answer his damn phone. I’ve been trying him all day. Either he can’t or he’s in one of his moods.”
“It’s important for you to know which?”
“The judge is dead. Harlan and him have a long connection. Now Henry Meloux’s heard the Windigo call Harlan’s name. I’d just like to check on Harlan.”
“Professional curiosity? Isn’t that the sheriff’s job?”
“The Windigo’s not something Wally Schanno’s likely to consider seriously.”
“And you do?”
Cork thought about telling the priest that he’d heard the Windigo call his own name and that his interest wasn’t professional but quite personal and very pressing. But he decided to keep it simple.
“Once I begin to wonder about a thing it’s hard for me to let go. There’s his cabin,” Cork said in a low voice. “He’s got lights on. Good sign. Him and the Ripper enjoying a quiet evening chewing on somebody’s bones.”
The cabin was small but sturdy, with a shake roof and split shutters, all of cedar. There was a small garage to one side and a shed in back. From what little Cork knew about Lytton, he understood the shed was where the man used to do his taxidermy work. With the Ripper around, very few people brought Lytton that kind of business anymore.
“Lytton!” he called. “Harlan Lytton!”
There was no response from the cabin.
“It’s Cork O’Connor! I’ve got Father Tom Griffin with me!” Cork glanced at the priest. “He was never much impressed with my sheriff’s badge. I figure if he’s thinking of taking a bead on us, your collar might carry some weight.”
“Thanks. He’ll shoot me first out of respect.”
“Lytton, are you there!” Cork tried again. “Come on, Tom. If he hasn’t shot at us by now, he probably won’t.”
“Don’t forget about The Ripper.”
Cork started ahead.
From behind the wall of vines to the left came a blur of black against the white of the snow. Cork caught the movement out of the corner of his eye. He swung around as a huge black shape charged through the snow, bounding up and down, moving swiftly as a stone skipping over water.
“Tom!” Cork cried, trying to warn the priest.
St. Kawasaki saw it coming. He lifted his arm to fend off the attack. Cork had the Winchester shouldered, and he fired at the black form as it launched itself at the priest. The Ripper yelped and his body jerked violently in midair. Tom Griffin turned and ducked, taking the impact of the dog with his shoulder. The Ripper slammed into him, then fell and lay still, a great black shape imbedded in the snow at the priest’s feet. As they both watched, the dark color of his fur seemed to melt out of its throat, staining the white snow.
“No!” Harlan Lytton screamed, rushing from the cover of the vine wall.
Lytton was a wiry little man with a face always in need of shaving. In the crisp winter air, as Lytton knelt down beside Jack the Ripper, Cork caught the smell of whiskey and the odor of a body long overdue for a bath.
“Jack?” Lytton whispered.
He felt at the dog’s throat. The Ripper made a sound, very faint.
“Don’t die, Jack,” Lytton pleaded. “Don’t die, Jackie boy. Don’t die on me.”
The great dog tried to lift its head. Then it went still and didn’t move again.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Lytton,” Father Tom Griffin said.
“Fuck you,” Lytton sobbed.
“Goddamn it, Harlan!” Cork was flushed with adrenaline and shaking with rage. “I didn’t want to shoot your dog. But Jesus! You sicced him on us. What the hell’d you do that for?”
“You were trespassing, you dog-killing son of a bitch!” Lytton lifted his face and Cork could see the line of tears down each of his grizzled cheeks. “You didn’t have to shoot him.”
“He could’ve killed somebody,” Cork snapped.
“He shoulda killed you!” Lytton leaped to his feet and started at Cork. With surprising speed and strength, the priest grabbed him from behind and restrained him.
“Easy, man,” Tom Griffin said. “Just take it easy.”
Lytton struggled a moment, swearing at them both. The priest was larger and stronger and held him tightly. Finally Lytton went limp and the only sound he made was a bitter sobbing. The priest let go. Lytton slumped down beside his dog.
“Somebody come sneaking around my place last night,” Lytton said in a small voice.
“In the middle of the storm?” Cork said.
“Stood out here calling my name, like you done.”
“Did you see who?”
“Fucking coward wouldn’t show hisself. I sent Jack after ’im. Scared ’im off.”
“We weren’t trying to sneak up,” the priest said.
But Lytton wasn’t listening. He bent and laid his body across his dog.
“Look, Harlan,” Cork said. “I’m sorry about Jack.”
“I’ll get you, O’Connor,” he threatened in a choked voice. “I’ll make you suffer for killing Jack. I swear to God I will.”
Cork looked down, and although he had never liked Harlan Lytton one bit, he felt sorry for him.
“Come on,” the priest said, taking Cork by the shoulder. “There’s nothing you can do. Leave him be.”
Cork followed Tom Griffin back down the lane. They’d gone fifty yards when Cork heard a cry rise behind them, a wail of grief prolonged and primordial.
The priest paused and glanced back. “God be with him,” he said. “Because from the looks of it, no one else ever will.”
C
ORK DROPPED
S
T
. K
AWASAKI OFF
at the rectory. Then he went to Sam’s Place. He opened the door, took a step into the dark, and reached for the light switch. His hand never made it.
A blow to his stomach made him double over. Another to his ribs sent him down, breathless and in pain. The weight of a big man settled on his back, pressing him facedown on the cold floor. The icy barrel of a rifle nuzzled his left temple.
“Shut the goddamn door!”
What little light had come into the room with Cork was blotted out as the door slammed shut.
Cork felt hot breath across his cheek and caught the smell of barbecued potato chips. The voice that followed was a rasping whisper.
“Listen up, O’Connor. You got one chance to stay alive. You listening?”
Cork tried to reply, but between the agony of his ribs and the pressure of the man on top of him, all he could do was grunt.
“I said, are you listening?” The rifle barrel cut into his head.
Cork nodded. “Uh-huh.”
“Good. Butt out, you understand? You ain’t the fucking law anymore. Just stick to making hamburgers from now on. You got that?”
Cork nodded again.
“He’s a fucking redskin, man,” another voice near the door argued. “I say just waste him.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Cork finally gasped, “. . . hard . . . to . . . breathe . . .”
“You’re lucky you can breathe at all.” Potato-chip-breath leaned close to his ear. “We’re everywhere, O’Connor. We’re watching everything you do. You can’t take a shit without we don’t know about it. One more move we don’t like and you’re dead. Understand?”
“. . . yeah . . .” Cork managed.
The muzzle of the rifle dug into his skull as if drilling for oil. “I can’t hear you.”
“. . . understand . . .”
“Good. And, O’Connor. You know how to keep a secret? Keep this little conversation to yourself. You tell anyone about it, you even talk about it in your sleep, we’ll know. If it’s one thing we won’t tolerate, it’s a man who can’t keep a secret. Let’s go, boys.”
Potato-chip-breath pulled away. The weight lifted from Cork’s back. The door opened. Before it closed, Cork received a parting kick in his ribs. Then he was in darkness.
It took a minute for him to move. He heard the sound of snowmobiles in the woods where the ruins of the old foundry stood. The sound moved off like a swarm of departing insects. He rose slowly to his knees and touched his ribs. They hurt like hell. He held to the wall and painfully drew himself up. He flipped the light switch.
The sight that greeted him was almost worse than the pain. Sam’s Place was in shambles. The window over the kitchen sink was shattered. Cushions lay cut open on the floor. The mattress had been yanked off his bed, sliced apart, and the stuffing pulled out. The cabinets stood open, the contents scattered. There were Christmas presents in the closet, gifts for his children and for Jo and Rose. The wrapping had been ripped off, the gifts torn open. Through the door that led to the burger stand, Cork saw canisters and boxed goods for the summer tourist trade broken apart.
There was another problem. Cork could see his breath. The air inside the cabin felt no warmer than the air outside.
He sat on the cushionless couch for a while, shaking. First from shock, then rage. He wanted to kill someone. Blindly. But he didn’t know who.
When he was able to think straight and to move, he cut apart a cardboard box and taped it over the gaping window. The thermostat on the wall was still set for sixty-four degrees, but the room temperature was only three degrees above freezing. The radiators felt like ice. In the basement, he discovered the ancient oil burner was silent as death. He tried the reset button. Nothing happened. He kicked the burner a couple of times, then he went upstairs and called Art Winterbauer, who’d handled the old furnace in the past.
“Did you try the reset?” Winterbauer asked in a tired voice.
“I tried the reset.”
“Did you kick ’er a couple of times?”
“I kicked, for Christ sake.”
“Don’t get mad at me, Cork. I ain’t the one with the antique furnace. Look, it could be the thermostat,” Winterbauer said. “Won’t know till I have a chance to look, and I won’t have a chance till Monday at the earliest.”
“Monday?”
“Yep. Up to my eyeballs right now. I can give you the names of a couple of other guys you could try, but I doubt you’ll have much luck with them either. ’Sides, that old behemoth of yours takes some special doing. If you want to wait till Monday, use a space heater or something. Or drain your water pipes and check into a motel.”
He turned off the valve on the main water pipe, put a bucket under the drain valve, and opened it. He emptied the bucket twice in the sink before the flow slowed to an occasional drip. He flushed the toilet and drained the tank. All the while he was considering his options. He could, as Winterbauer suggested, stay in a motel. But he hated motels. Also, it was Christmas and he didn’t have that kind of money to throw away. He considered calling Molly, but his promise to the priest quickly turned him from that thought. Finally he went upstairs and dialed the number of the house on Gooseberry Lane. Rose answered.
“Of course you’ll stay here,” she told him when he explained his predicament. “I’ll get the guest room ready.”
“I think you should discuss it with Jo,” Cork cautioned her.
“If she were here, I would,” Rose replied. “But she’s not and I’d insist anyway.”
“Thanks, Rose,” Cork said. “Thanks a lot.”
He gathered up a change of clothes and a few toilet articles and put them in a gym bag. He put the gifts into a big box, thinking he would wrap them again at Gooseberry Lane. He took one last item, a rolled bearskin, from a trunk in the cellar behind the old heater. He locked the door, got in the Bronco, and headed . . .
Home.
Rose opened the kitchen door. She wore an apron, and the aroma of baking cookies floated out around her. There were traces of flour in her dustcolored hair.
“Christmas baking?” Cork hung his coat on a peg by the door.
“My favorite time of year. I can bake to my heart’s content. Would you like some milk and cookies?”
Rose took a half gallon carton of Meadow Gold from the refrigerator. Cork set his gym bag and the box of gifts and the rolled bearskin on the floor and went to the cookie jar on the counter by the sink. The cookie jar was shaped like Ernie from
Sesame Street.
Cork had bought it years before when
Sesame Street
was Jenny’s favorite program. Now his daughter admired the darker visions of Sylvia Plath and was considering piercing her nose.
Rose put a glass of milk on the table.
Cork sat down. “So where is everyone?”
Rose bent and peeked through the oven window. “Jo’s working late with Sandy Parrant. They’re trying to straighten out things with Great North in light of the judge’s suicide. Apparently everything’s pretty complicated.”
“I’ll bet,” Cork agreed.
“Jenny’s on a date.”
“Date?” Cork nearly choked. “She’s only fourteen.”
“They’ve just gone to a movie.”
“Who’d she go with?”
“Chuck Kubiak.”
“Don’t know him,” Cork said with a note of disapproval.
“He’s nice, Cork. Really. He’ll have her home by eleven-thirty.”
The buzzer on the stove went off, and Rose took out a sheet of sugar cookies shaped like Christmas trees.
“Anne’s in her room,” she went on. “Asleep or reading. And Stevie’s been down for hours.”
Cork watched his sister-in-law as she tapped colored sprinkles on the cookies. “How did we ever do without you, Rose?”
“You didn’t.” She laughed.
Which was almost true. She’d come just after Jenny was born, come to help for a few weeks while Jo finished law school. She never left. Although she was heavy then, she was heavier now, and at thirty-five was completely without the prospect of marriage in her own life. There were times when Cork felt sorry for Rose and guilty because all the care she could have given to a family of her own was lavished on his instead.
“I put the guest room in order for you,” Rose said as she wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “That’s my last batch tonight. I’m going to bed.”
“Any idea when Jo—” Cork began.
The back door opened before he finished speaking, and Jo stepped in. She took in the sight of Cork at the table and his things on the floor.
“A little late for a visit, isn’t it, Cork?”
“It’s not a visit, Jo.”
“What is it, then?” She eyed his gym bag again and the box and bearskin.
“I’d like to stay for a day or two.”
“I invited him,” Rose jumped in. “His furnace is broken and he has no heat.”
Jo went to the cookie jar, lifted Ernie’s head, and took out a cookie. She leaned against the counter and considered the situation as she nibbled.
“A day or two?” she said.
“Until Monday,” Cork told her. “Art Winterbauer can’t come out until Monday at the earliest.”
She didn’t appear pleased by the prospect.
“It’s his house,” Rose argued with a note of anger. “For goodness sake, Jo, what harm will a couple of days do?”
Jo sighed and seemed to go a little limp, looking suddenly very tired. “All right,” she said.
“I have the guest room ready for him.” Rose began to undo her apron.
“I’m tired,” Jo said. “It’s been a long day. I’m going to bed.”
“Shouldn’t somebody wait up for Jenny?” Cork asked.
“She’s been on dates before.” Jo headed toward the living room. “She’ll be fine.”
Cork picked up his things. “Guess I’m tired, too.”
“Go on,” Rose said, shooing him with her hands. “I’ll lock up.”
Cork followed Jo upstairs. He looked in on Stevie, who lay twisted in his blankets. He carefully straightened out the bedding. The door to Anne’s room was slightly ajar and he peeked in. The reading lamp was on beside her bed.
The Diary of Anne
Frank
lay open at her side, but she was sleeping soundly. Cork put the book on the stand and switched off the light.
Jo watched from the door of her bedroom. She leaned against the doorjamb with her arms folded. Behind her on the bed, her briefcase lay open, files laid out on the side of the bed that used to be Cork’s.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I told you. My furnace is on the blink.”
Jo looked skeptical. “I mean really. What’s this all about?”
“Circumstances beyond my control.” He shrugged.
She chewed on the inside of her cheek a moment, a long-standing habit when she was considering saying something against her better judgment. This time she only said, “Don’t hope for too much.”
“I’m not hoping for anything.” He moved past her toward the guest room. Her door closed at his back.
He spent a while in the bathroom tending his ribs, which had turned a sick-looking yellow. He swallowed three ibuprofen tablets, went to the guest room, stripped to his boxers and T-shirt, and crawled under the covers. He could hear Rose moving around in the attic room above him. That room was cozy, with a brass bed, mahogany dresser and vanity, flowered curtains, and a rocker where Rose sat at night for a long time reading. She read mysteries and romance novels and, although she wouldn’t admit it, kept a drawer full of
National
Enquirers.
Cork lay in his bed listening to the squeak of her rocker as she read in the warm light of her lamp.