The Kingdom Where Nobody Dies (18 page)

“He tried to go back to leading the kind of life he grew up with. He couldn't see that it just wasn't possible. Prairie Oak colony was a big group, a hundred or more, and they lived well. They had thousands of acres of the best farmland and all the modern machinery. Yes, everybody had their jobs to do, even the smallest children, but there were dozens of them, and they did it together. Work was a social thing, if you see what I mean. It's not the same as sending a seven year old boy out alone before sun-up in the middle of January to pump water. Thirty gallons before he was allowed breakfast, whether we needed it or not. Reuben forgot all about the reasons he left Prairie Oak. He was obsessed with recreating it here. But what he created was closer to the prison he despised than the home he idealized. And when the one of the kids couldn't do something he expected of them, he took it as a personal attack. Like they were doing it on purpose, just to aggravate him. It was especially hard for Jake. He was old enough to remember when he was small and crazy about his father…and when his father was crazy about him.”

It was so terribly sad. “Do you think it was the time spent in prison? The war? I know Reuben didn't fight in the usual way, but—”

“No. My husband was like a horse with blinkers, he couldn't see anything except exactly what he wanted.” The chins bounced again. “At one time that was me, and if it meant being ostracized by his family, so be it. If having a self-supporting farm meant turning his children into indentured servants who hated him, he was more than willing to pay that price, too. But it wasn't Prairie Oak that made Reuben the way he was. I think he was probably born…ruthless, in a way, and leaving the place that…protected him, put limits on what he could do.” She shook her head. “He just wasn't prepared to handle it.”

Maybe it was the colony then, or heredity. From what Claire had told her, Jane Hofer had her own ruthless streak. Mia asked, “Does your sister-in-law have children of her own?”

Mary Frances shook her head. “She was married years ago. Her husband disappeared less than a month after the wedding. Fell off a footbridge trying to drive home some cows in a flood. He was drowned, of course, but they never found his body, so Jane had a good excuse not to marry again no matter how much they hounded her. Well, who can blame her? She's the only one of those women that has any time to herself at all, or anything to say about her own life. The rest of them never leave the farm. They barely speak English. Get married, have children, that's it.”

It didn't sound different from Mary Frances' own life.

“Jane is smart as a whip and not afraid of anybody. She'll take care of things. Prairie Oak will take my kids back now, and be overjoyed to have a couple more farm hands and another kitchen maid for a few years.”

“Is that the best thing for Claire—or Joey?” Would those few years stretch into life?

“It's the best I can do. It will keep the children together, at least until they're grown up.”

Mia refilled the glass and placed it within Mary Frances' reach before she left. “If you should need anything, just send one of the children for me. They know the way, and I'm always at home.”

Joey was in his place under the kitchen window, repairing the damage a night's downpour had done to his stick fences and miniature canals. His face showed such intensity, it was hard to believe he was getting any joy from his play.

Chapter Thirty-four

The last time McIntire visited Greg Carlson in his rustic lair had been the previous October—crisp air, foliage brilliant or lying on the ground, and, more to the point, no bugs. He smashed one of the advance guard on his ear, and rolled up the window.

The road—nothing more than a track for logging equipment, was rutted and still soft from the rain. McIntire gripped the wheel and strove to keep a constant pressure on the gas pedal. Lost momentum could mean a long walk back for a tow truck.

He pulled in behind Carlson's panel truck and winced as the Studebaker's bottom scraped sand. Maybe it was a good sign; at least it wasn't mud. He sat for a time, not thinking, absorbing the green-dappled light and the cool moist air, the only sound the almost imperceptible rustle of leaves. Hypnotic, as long as he stayed in the car.

Entering that jungle was going to take some serious getting ready for. He stuffed his trouser cuffs into his socks and reached for the long sleeved shirt he'd, for once, had the presence of mind to bring along. Turning up the collar still left an enticing expanse of neck at the mercy of the winged vampires. He draped his crumpled handkerchief over the back of his head and snugged his hat down onto it. It was good enough for Lawrence of Arabia, but he'd only had to worry about sunburn.

He gave a blast on the car horn as a warning to Carlson to get decent or hide out, took a deep breath, and launched himself into the breach.

The small brook was now rendered a substantial stream. McIntire congratulated himself on leaping across with only one resulting wet foot, and headed up the slope with long strides, eager to leave the hum of insects behind. It was about a quarter-mile walk to Carlson's camp. Despite the discomfort, McIntire was glad he'd volunteered to make this trip himself. Getting away from what passed for civilization in St. Adele would do him good. He must be in withdrawal from the surges of adrenaline brought on by battling the past winter's snow. Maybe mowing the lawn, which was fast reaching hay-height, would have done the trick.

He hoped he wasn't facing the challenge for nothing, that he'd get there early enough that Carlson would still be hanging around his shack. Why the guy was there at all was a mystery. McIntire was under the impression that most of the places he was snooping into were some distance away. Like, for instance, the Shawanok Club grounds. He could have stayed more comfortably in Thunder Bay. More conspicuously, though, which might well have been the deciding factor. Or possibly Carlson liked a challenge, too.

The man had been indulging in some non-archeological work; the clearing around the cabin was—clear. Brush cut away, ferns and weeds trimmed or trampled, low branches lopped off trees. Light shone into places that hadn't seen the sun in a thousand years, and onto a chair fashioned from split willow. A couple of shirts hung from a line strung between beeches.

Even the cabin looked more civilized. The low roof had its sag pushed up and was covered in corrugated metal. A tidy railing of peeled cedar surrounded the porch leading to the shiny new screen door.

The inner door was open, and the aroma of bacon and coffee vied with that of balsam trees and birch firewood.

Carlson came from behind the cabin—to where he had retreated until he saw whose visit the car horn heralded? At least the man hadn't been intentionally avoiding him. He'd put on weight. Of course when McIntire last saw him it was at the tail end of four or five months in the bush. It was early days of deprivation now. The clearing didn't smell deprived.

The hand Carlson extended in greeting was roughened. “Howdy. My first real guest of the summer, and just in time for a late breakfast.”

McIntire accepted with thanks. It just might be his first real
meal
of the summer.

The interior of the cabin was as spruced up as the outside, right down to a pot of chives on the window ledge. First Guibard with his ironing and now…it was a conspiracy, no two ways about it. Leonie had paid them off.

“What the hell's going on?” McIntire demanded.

“With what?” Carlson pulled a pan of biscuits from the wood-fired oven. His face, normally ruddy, hot-looking, glowed like neon.

“What's with all the domesticity? No dirty socks, no month old bacon grease. You hiding a wife or something?”

“I've only been here a couple weeks. It takes time to get the place lived in.”

“Sounds like a damn feeble excuse to me.”

“I can take my shirt off and spit a wad of snoose into the corner if it will make you feel more at home.”

“No thanks. It might be too much like home. My wife's been away. Maybe you could give me some lessons…or move in?”

“Is that what brings you here?”

“Can't a guy just pay a friendly visit?”

“Is
that
what brings you here?”

“No.” McIntire admitted and explained his errand.

The turquoise eyes lit up. “You got the stuff on you?”

Carlson was only mildly disappointed at the request to come back to town. His eagerness to get on the way was downright uncivil. He stuffed down his breakfast, shoved back his chair, and began pacing the room, while McIntire savored every tidbit. The man was a genius. The bacon was lean and crisp. The coffee robust. Compared to his biscuits, Leonie's scones had all the flavor of wall-paper paste.

After a third cup of coffee and a fourth biscuit, McIntire stood and brushed the last crumbs from his knees. Maybe he
could
get Carlson to give him a baking lesson. As long as he forgot everything he learned when Leonie got back.

***

Pete Koski removed the cigarette from between his lips and dropped the stone into the archeologist's eagerly sweating palm. “Wall thought it might be a weight for a fish net.”

“Good guess.” Carlson's verdict didn't take long. “But, no, it's an earspool. A body ornament. It fit in a hole in the earlobe.” He held it up to his own ear. “It took a bit of stretching.”

“Very becoming. How old would you say it is?”

“Pre-Columbian. Early Woodland period. Five hundred BC or so, at the oldest.”

“Twenty-five hundred years.” The sheriff released a stream of smoke through his teeth. “So it'd be worth a little money then?”

“Some. Not a king's ransom. Maybe a few bucks. It depends.”

“On what?”

“Like anything else, who wants it and how much they're willing to pay. If it can be dated, established where it came from….” He carried the artifact to the window, turning it in the light.

Koski followed at his elbow, oblivious to the scientist's glower at the smoldering Camel. “Could it have come from anywhere around here?”

“That's what I'd like to know. Where was it found?”

“We found it in a kitchen,” McIntire said, “held in a disembodied hand.”

“Damn, you jackpine savages lead exciting lives.”

Koski left McIntire to fill in the details of their exciting lives while he went to fetch the bones.

Carlson squinted and leaned in. “Okay if I take a closer look?”

At the sheriff's nod, he placed the hand on his own palm. “I can't tell you where these came from, but I can tell you this much, they aren't all that old. Not more than a couple years, at most. You'd better get looking for the rest of this guy.”

“Shit.” Koski stubbed out his cigarette.

“Not me,” McIntire said. “I ain't looking for anymore bodies, and if one surfaces, I'll be burying it again—a whole lot deeper. I've had all I can take of dead people. Any more turn up, they can damn well just stay dead.”

“That's up to you. Mind if I take some pictures? Of the earspool, I mean. I got no interest in the latest victim of your Yooper carnage.”

Carlson went for his camera.

“Shit,” Koski said again. “We can't just go out and dig up the whole damn countryside, looking for a body without a hand. Maybe we could put an announcement in the paper. Make it a contest.” He shook the hand like a rattle. “On second thought, maybe not. We'd probably end up with a half dozen.”

“No, we can't dig up everything, but,” McIntire remembered, “we can dig where Reuben Hofer dug.”

“His spud field?”

“Pete,” McIntire prepared to lay out his reasoning, “according to Gary Cooper, when Reuben was at the camp, he was always making some sort of trouble.”

“Ya, so I heard. He wasn't the only one.”

“The common punishment was being put to work filling in a swampy spot behind the buildings.”

“Oh?”

“They had to dig sand from a few hundred yards away and carry it over in a wheelbarrow.”

“That could be punishment.”

“Some of the guys mended their ways, most flatly refused. But Hofer was stubborn, he never learned his lesson, always ended up with that wheelbarrow. Of course he never accomplished much. Just seemed to spend the whole day fiddling around.”

“Are you going to get to the point?”

It was gratifying to see Koski on the begging end for a change. McIntire explained with exaggerated patience, “They got the sand from a big dune, sort of a small hill. That's where Hofer worked all day. Mostly by himself.”

“A dune? Or maybe a mound? Like the ones over on Sand Point, you think?”

“Could be.”

“What's that?” Greg Carlson walked through the door, laden with an amount of photographic equipment that seemed far out of proportion to his unassuming subject.

McIntire ignored the interruption. “So, we could dig up the spot where Reuben Hofer dug.”

“I guess it'd be worth taking a look.”

“Hold your horses! If you're saying that's where this,” Carlson waved the stone, “came from, you can't just go barging in with a shovel—”

“But if the hand died more recently….” McIntire shook his head. It had been six or seven years since Hofer and his compatriots were put to work on that dune.

“Carlson ain't infallible.”

“Who says so?” Indignation was underscored by the sudden glare of a flashbulb. “I could be off by a few years. I didn't look at them that close. Things stay pretty well preserved around here.”

“That's true,” McIntire said. “Look at our J.P.”

“Shit.” The sheriff's favorite word, evoked by the mention of his least favorite person, was accompanied by another flash.

Blue spots danced in McIntire's field of vision. “It wouldn't hurt to find out if any of the COs went missing.”

“You know damn well they didn't. There'd have been hell to pay.”

“Somebody from outside the camp, then.” There had to be some reason that hand ended up in Mary Frances Hofer's kitchen.

“Reuben buried a body in an old Indian mound? Sneaked it in when the guards got their backs turned?” Koski rolled his eyes and lit another Camel.

McIntire turned to the window. The wind had churned up white-capped waves on the bay. A young couple strolled along the shore, the girl's long pony tail lifted above her head in a sooty plume. “Maybe Hofer
found
the body,” he said, “one put there a few years before, when it was a CCC camp.”

“The hand is supposed to be recently deceased, remember. Anyway, If Hofer found a skeleton, why'd he keep it quiet? Seems to me a body turning up in the camp would have had those Conchies dancing in the streets.”

The glare of sun on water was as blinding as the camera flash. McIntire walked to the table. “Unless He had a good reason for keeping things to himself. He spent time digging. A lot of time. Alone. Days poking around, scooping up a teaspoonful at a time. If he dug something up, something like this”—He picked up the earspool, eliciting another protest from the shutterbug—“and maybe more stuff like it, he might not want news of his good fortune to get around. If this was part of his find, he managed to smuggle it out without it being noticed.”

“Or with somebody looking the other way, possibly for a small consideration,” Koski said, and added, “I think we need a conference with Bruno Nickerson.” He scratched his head, “That could get touchy.”

“Touchy for you. Won't bother me in the least.”

“Go ahead then.”

“It's your job,” McIntire told him. “But I'll tag along. I like to see you squirm. Anyway I need to check out the power mowers.”

“We'll have to go separate then.” The sheriff plucked the earspool from under Carlson's exasperated nose, wrapped it in a scrap of paper, and pocketed it. “I ain't hanging around while you window shop.”

***

Bruno Nickerson gave a quick glance up at their entrance and went back to aiding an elderly lady in her search for the perfect picture hanger with more eagerness than he might ordinarily have shown. Koski stalked off to the back room to pave the way with his father.

The lawn mowers sat in a gleaming column by the front window. They didn't come cheap. Maybe McIntire could just get Sulo Touminen to sharpen the blades on his push mower.

The senior Koski came through, nodded unsmiling to McIntire, and took his employee's place behind the counter. With McIntire at his heels, Nickerson headed for the office, a cavern of stacked papers and a markedly oily bouquet.

“Grab a chair.” The sheriff had already grabbed the substantial oak chair behind the gray steel desk, leaving the other two to grab one of the metal folding variety leaning against the wall.

Nickerson turned his around and straddled the seat, arms folded across the back in a caricature of relaxation, belied by a feverish blinking. “What's up?”

Koski leaned back and crossed his ankles, swivelling the chair enough to effect his own fraudulent display of nonchalance. “Just double checking a few things. Talking to people that used to know Reuben Hofer. Making sure we didn't miss anything.”

“So what do you want to know?”

“You haven't seen Reuben since when? Nineteen-forty-three?”