Copper River by William Kent Krueger
A low growl preceded the impact. Ren was slammed against the cabin wall. He didn’t even have time to scream before he hit the ground with the animal on top of him.
Then the animal laughed and said, “You’re dead meat, dude.”
“Get the hell off me, Charlie. Goddamn it, get off.”
He struggled, awash in adrenaline and a killing rage. Charlie, usually about as sensitive as a brick, seemed to realize the depth of his anger. She jumped off him and stepped back.
“Dude, I’m sorry. I was just joking with you.”
Ren bounded to his feet, his hands fisted. He was on the verge of laying into her, held back from throwing blows by the thinnest of threads.
Charlie had been in more fights than she could probably remember, but she didn’t lift a finger to defend herself. “Ren, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
In the moonlight, her face became a silver mask of pain and Ren was caught by surprise, as startling in its way as Charlie’s ambush had been. She was the most fearless, pigheaded person he knew, and she never apologized.
“Come on, Ren. Please don’t be mad at me.”
He understood that it wasn’t just an apology. It was a plea. Charlie needed him. His anger vanished and he lowered his hands.
“Your old man on a bender?” he asked.
“No worse than usual. He’ll drink himself to sleep in a while.”
“Want to sleep here?”
“Naw. I’m going to look for Stash’s dead body.”
“The one he saw in the river?”
“You catch on quick, Einstein.”
“You told him you didn’t think there even was a body.”
“You coming or not?”
He was so wide awake now, it would take him forever to get back to sleep. Besides, the truth was that the idea of looking for a dead body in the middle of the night appealed to him.
“All right, sure.” He bent and picked up the flashlight and the baseball bat. When he straightened up, Charlie was grinning at him.
“What?” he asked.
“You were going to try to kill me with that bat? Dude, I’ve played baseball with you. You’ve got the lamest swing in the whole world.”
She turned from him, laughing, and led the way through the dark.
From the shed where the now unused resort equipment was stored, they took two mountain bikes. They followed the lane to the county road, navigating by moonlight. It was almost a mile to the picnic shelter overlooking the Copper River. Because the cold had already driven away the crickets and the tree frogs, they biked in a silence broken only by their heavy breathing and the rattle of the bike chains.
They left the bikes at the shelter and walked a hundred yards down a tree-lined path that led to the mouth of the river, where the fast water seemed to have no impact at all on the vast, deep stillness of the lake. On either side of the river mouth lay small beaches of smooth, rounded stones. After big storms, Ren loved to walk the shoreline searching for agates washed up by the waves. There were also large boulders that had tumbled down the river over aeons and come to rest on Superior’s shore. That night the lake was peaceful. The sky was a sweep of stars melting into the glow of a gibbous moon. There was plenty of light for Ren and Charlie to see their way without a flashlight. Ren preferred it that way. He liked the eerie feel of the moonlit scene. Although he didn’t believe they’d find a body, he’d let himself open up to the thrill of an expedition with such a dark purpose, and he was glad Charlie wanted him along. In a way, it was like telling a ghost story. He didn’t believe it, but he loved the creepy feel and the grim distant voice in his head that said Maybe …
The water lapped at their feet. After a while, they sat on two boulders that gave a view of the river mouth and the scattering of lights to the east that was Bodine.
Charlie had been unusually quiet. Ren wondered if she was still upset because he’d been mad at her. For as long as he could remember, they’d been best friends. There’d been times when they’d been royally pissed at each other, but it had never been a big deal. Lately, however, Charlie was different. Things seemed to bother her more. Moods held her a long time in their grip. Sometimes she was distant, and Ren wondered where she’d gone.
Charlie had never had an easy life. Everyone in Bo-dine knew it. Just about the time she was learning to walk, her mother had run off with a logger named Vernon Atwater, and nobody’d ever heard from either of them again. Charlie’s father raised her alone. He was moody and had a lazy eye that never quite looked at you straight on. Summers he worked for a nursery this side of Marquette. Winters he bolted a plow onto the front of his pickup and cleared snow. He wasn’t a mean man, exactly, but neither was he affectionate. Saturday nights he drank too much, and then he got loud and angry. He’d rant about how he ended up consigned to life’s craphouse, and he’d blame everybody from his bastard old man to the lying sons of bitches in Washington for his misery. Somewhere along the way, he’d usually include Charlie. Which might have been somewhat tolerable if he’d only taken out his disappointment verbally.
When she was eleven, Charlie was sent to live with a foster family in Marquette while her father, under court order, got himself on more stable footing. When she finally returned to Bodine, she wouldn’t talk about her experience. The one thing she would say, and said adamantly, was that she’d never go to a foster home again. Even drunk, her old man was better.
Now when things got too bad, she’d run off for a while. Sometimes she showed up on Ren’s doorstep and his mother let her stay in the guest room. Sometimes she needed to get away completely and she hitched to a safe house for homeless teens in Marquette. Eventually she’d return to Bodine. She told Ren that whenever she was gone she could always tell that her father was happy to see her again. Even his lazy eye, for a short while, would focus entirely on her.
“Maybe it’s on the other side.” Ren pointed toward the rock beach on the far side of the river mouth.
“What?” Charlie asked.
“The body.”
“Oh,” Charlie said. “Yeah, maybe.”
Ren realized she wasn’t even thinking about the body now. Probably she’d never even believed in it, but looking was better than being home.
“You want to go back?” he asked.
“Not yet.”
She reached down, picked up a rock, threw it far out into the lake. Ren saw a burst of silver.
“Careful,” he said. “You’ll wake up Pressie.”
“Who?”
“Not who. What. The Presque Isle Monster. The monster of the lake.”
“Bullshit.”
“No, really. I can’t believe you’ve lived here your whole life and never heard of it. You know, like Nessie, the Loch Ness monster. It’s that kind of thing. The big ore boats have seen it for years. Every once in a while a boat disappears out there without a trace. Nobody knows why or where. I heard that one time the Coast Guard got a radio transmission from a fishing boat a few miles off Marquette saying their nets were caught on something that was pulling them under. That was it. The boat was never heard from again. If the lake weren’t so cold and people actually swam in it, I bet there’d be lots of folks who ended up dinner for Pressie and everybody would know about it.”
She was stone silent and her face turned from Ren toward the lake that was a great, flat plate of pale reflected moonlight.
“You’re so full of shit,” she said, although she didn’t sound convinced.
He could see that Charlie was intrigued, which was good. He wanted to coax her out of the quiet dark into which she’d slipped.
“Think so? Look, here it comes.”
His finger directed her attention to a long black shape sliding along the surface of the lake, following the shoreline on the far side of the river mouth. It moved slowly, silently rippling the moonlit water.
“What is it?” Charlie whispered.
“I told you. Pressie.”
Charlie watched a while longer. “It’s just
“Where are the running lights? And if it’s a boat, what’s it doing out here now?”
“Fishing, probably.”
“It’s Pressie. You woke it up with that rock you threw.” Ren made his voice sound afraid.
There was something about fear that was like fire in dry grass. It spread easily. Ren could feel Charlie tense up as the black silhouette crept nearer.
Then a spotlight popped on, the long beam sweeping the surface of the lake.
“Asshole,” she said, and slugged Ren’s arm.
They could hear the low thrum of the engine now, idling as the boat sat in the water with the beam poking at the rocks on the shore.
“What are they doing?” Charlie asked.
“Who knows?”
She watched a minute, then turned to Ren. Even in the dark, he could see the devil in her eyes.
“Let’s moon ’em.”
“Let’s not.”
“Come on, dude. It’ll be totally awesome.”
“Go ahead if you want to. Me, no way I’m going to freeze my butt.”
“You don’t think I’ll do it, do you?”
Ren said, “Dare you.”
Charlie stood up. “Hey,” she yelled. “Hey, over here.”
Ren thought, Oh, shit, and hid behind the boulder he’d been sitting on.
The beam swung toward Charlie and suddenly she was on fire in the light.
“You looking for a dead body? How about looking at this.”
She turned her back to the spotlight and in a few swift, graceful motions, bent, tugged her jeans down, and waggled her bare ass at the boat. Hunkered down, Ren couldn’t see it all clearly, but he caught the look on Charlie’s face, which was pure delight.
Suddenly the boat engine roared and Ren heard the craft cut toward them.
“Run,” he shouted.
Charlie hiked her pants into place and leaped ahead of him toward the path back to the shelter, zipping and buttoning as she went. She was also laughing hysterically.
At the shelter, they finally stopped, breathless.
“Dude, what did I tell you? Totally awesome.” She hit his arm with her fist, hard. “You are such a wuss. Know what? I feel like getting high.”
She grabbed the flashlight from Ren and leaped onto the picnic table in the shelter. She shined the light along the rafter and pulled down the cigar box bound with a rubber band.
“Here.” She handed the box to Ren. “Roll a spliff. I’m too electric.”
Ren sat down on the cement table and opened the box. He took out the Baggie of weed and the papers.
“Dude, what do you think was up down there?” She paced, as if walking off the rush.
“I told you. It was Pressie. That was his eye of fire. You better be careful. He’s seen you. He knows you. He’ll come for you.”
Charlie howled, not a laugh but an actual howl like a wolf. She was full of the old Charlie energy, and Ren was glad to see it. He became intent on the work of his hands.
“Dude, kill the light.”
The quiet intensity of her voice made Ren look up. Charlie stood still, facing downriver toward the lake.
“Turn the light off,” she said, a little desperately this time.
Ren obeyed. He stared where she stared, and then he saw what she saw. A beam of light scanning its way up the path they’d just followed.
“Jesus, you really pissed somebody off.”
“Pressie?” There was still a touch of devilment in her voice.
“Let’s get out of here,” Ren said.
“I hear you.”
He threw everything back into the cigar box, slipped the rubber band in place, and stood on the tabletop, reaching toward the rafter. He thought he had it in place, but when he let go, the box fell to the ground.
“Come on,” Charlie growled.
The light was less than fifty yards down the path. Ren kicked the box under a pile of leaves in a corner of the shelter and ran for his bike. Charlie was already mounted.
They heard the heavy footfall of boots pounding rapidly toward them on the path. They shot off, pedaling hard for the main road. When they reached the bridge, they finally risked a look back. The light was gone.
“Guess nobody ever mooned them before,” Ren said.
“Screw ’em if they can’t take a joke.”
“Want to come home with me?”
“Naw, my old man’s probably asleep by now. I’ll be okay.”
“Take the bike.”
“Okay.” She didn’t move. “Ren?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for … you know.”
“Sure.”
He watched her head into town, and felt something immeasurably sad in seeing her go, knowing what she was heading home to.
Ren’s father was dead, but despite what people said, he’d never been a drunk, nor had he ever laid a hand on his son. Even in death, he’d left something precious behind for Ren.
If Charlie’s old man were to die, all he’d leave behind was an empty bottle and a huge sigh of relief.
8
Jewell woke early and lay in bed, staring at the ceiling while big tears rolled down the sides of her face. Sunday mornings were still hard, maybe always would be. Often on Sunday mornings, she’d awakened to Daniel slipping quietly from the bed. He would go to the bathroom, shave, brush his teeth, run a comb through his long black hair, and come back to bed smelling of aftershave. He’d press himself gently against her, nuzzle the nape of her neck, cup her breast. Usually she was already awake, but she liked to pretend she was still sleeping, let him believe he had to wake her, coax her to his pleasure. But, oh, it was her pleasure, too. She looked forward to those mornings that began with lovemaking. She adored being loved by her husband, and she loved him fiercely in return.
She had never much considered the other side of love, thinking vaguely that if love were gone, what was left was sadness or perhaps simply emptiness. It surprised her to find there was no emptiness, that many emotions rushed in to fill her heart along with the sadness. Self-pity. Bitterness. Anger. Sometimes even hate.
Sunday mornings, it was often loneliness, and that’s what held her in its grip as she lay crying silently, dreading the day.
At last she drew back the covers and planted her feet on the floor. Once summer was past, the floorboards were cold. Her father, who’d built all the cabins himself, didn’t believe in carpeting. Although many rooms had an area rug, hand-loomed or -braided, to add a splash of color, mostly the floors were left bare to show off the beautiful grain of the polished maple.
In the kitchen, she began coffee dripping, then sat down at the table and lit a cigarette. She’d given up smoking when she was pregnant with Ren; she’d gone back to it after Daniel was murdered. Mornings, she often sat like this, alone with a cigarette and her coffee, waiting for the dawn.
She’d always been an early riser, but it seemed that no matter how early she got up Daniel was up before her, the coffee made, the good aroma filling the cabin along with her husband’s whistling, which was generally cheerful and a little off-key. She’d find him in the kitchen at work on breakfast making blueberry pancakes or waffles, of which he was duly proud. His specialty, though, was omelets with wild rice and Gouda cheese.
Now breakfasts were usually cold cereal and juice.
The walkie-talkie on the kitchen counter crackled to life.
“This is Cork. Anybody there?”
Jewell held off for a few seconds, taking her time putting out her cigarette, savoring just a bit longer the feel of her aloneness before picking up the unit to reply. “Go ahead.”
“Sorry to bother you, Jewell. I saw a light on. This is a little embarrassing but my bedpan’s full.”
“I’ll be right there.”
She threw on a robe and slippers, picked up her medical bag, and headed to Cabin 3. Cork was sitting up, the curtains above his bunk opened to the gray light of early morning.
“If you think you can walk a little, I’ll put you on an oral antibiotic.” She emptied the bedpan, washed her hands, then removed the IV needle. She took his pulse and checked the bag that collected the drainage from the wound in his thigh.
“You seem to be healing nicely,” she said.
“My saving grace: I heal good.”
“Hungry?”
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
“I’ll bring you some breakfast.” She looked down at him and made no move to leave. “But first I want to know exactly what’s going on. I want to know names: who shot you and why. And at the end, I want to be convinced that there’s no way Ren and I could be in any danger.”
“It’s complicated,” Cork said.
“Give it a try.”
“Pull up a chair then.”
When she was seated next to the bunk, she said, “Go ahead.”
“It began ten days ago,” Cork told her. “Someone ambushed me on the Iron Lake Reservation outside Aurora. I lost a piece of my earlobe. One of my deputies was badly wounded. A couple of days later a businessman from Chicago was brutally murdered at a place called Mercy Falls, not far from town. His name was Eddie Jacoby, and he was not a good man. The Jacoby family turned out to be wealthy and powerful, and headed by one hell of a bastard named Lou.
“Lou Jacoby had a second son. His name was Ben. A long time ago Ben Jacoby had been in love with my wife.”
“With Jo? How long ago?”
“Back in law school,” Cork replied. “As I began to uncover more and more truths about the incidents in Aurora, I became more and more convinced Ben Jacoby was responsible for the ambush on the rez.”
“He wanted Jo? And—what?—he was willing to kill you to get her?”
“That’s how it looked to me. Then someone planted a bomb in my car that could have killed me or anyone else in the family, so I sent Jo and the kids away. They went to Evanston, Illinois, to stay with Jo’s sister, Rose. Turned out that was just a hop, skip, and jump from Ben Jacoby’s home in Winnetka.”