could put to a vote.
As light as a butterfly, she touched Cork’s wounded ear. “How are you doing?”
“Holding up.”
“You didn’t sleep much.”
“A lot on my mind.”
“You left this morning before the girls were up. They were disappointed they didn’t see you.”
“There were things I needed to do.”
She pressed her palm gently to his chest. “I understand, Cork, but they’re scared. Their father could have been killed last night.”
“I wasn’t.”
“And thank God for that. But they need some reassurance and it needs to come from you.”
When he’d agreed to step in again as sheriff, Cork had promised himself and Jo that, as much as possible, his job wouldn’t affect his family, especially the children. Deep down he knew it was a futile pledge. He was the son of a sheriff himself, and he understood what the job demanded. He’d said yes for the most selfish of reasons. He missed the badge. He missed the camaraderie that came with it, the challenge, the feeling that he was doing something that mattered. It was also satisfying to have the Board of Commissioners come to him, hat in hand, after the people of Tamarack County elected Arne Soderberg, a man as near to being a cop as a duck was to being an eagle. They’d screwed themselves royally, and they needed Cork. That felt good. Damn good. So he’d said yes knowing full well the sacrifices it would require of his family.
He took her hand and kissed it. “I’ll be home for dinner, promise. I’ll talk to them then. Was that all you wanted?”
“And this.” She kissed him softly. “Take care of yourself out there, cowboy.”
In the early afternoon, he drove out to Allouette on the Iron Lake Reservation to meet with the tribal council. Simon Rutledge followed in his state car.
Allouette was the largest of the communities on the reservation. Even so, there wasn’t a lot to it. From one end of town to the other was just over half a mile. A few years before, the housing had been mostly trailers and HUD homes in desperate need of repair, but lately things had improved considerably thanks to the Chippewa Grand Casino that was owned and operated by the Iron Lake Band of Ojibwe. Typically, the tribal council met in the new community center, which had been built with casino money. In addition to the large room where the tribal council gathered and where meetings open to the reservation at large were held, the center housed the offices of a number of tribal organizations, a health clinic, a day care center, and a gymnasium. Cork had spoken earlier in the day with George LeDuc, chairman of the tribal council, and had arranged to meet with that body to discuss the incident at the Tibodeau cabin.
In 1953, Congress passed Public Law 280, which allowed responsibility for law enforcement on Minnesota Indian reservations to be transferred from federal jurisdiction to the state, if that’s what the enrolled members wanted. The Iron Lake Ojibwe had chosen to be policed by the state’s local authority, which was the Tamarack County Sheriff’s Department. As sheriff and as a man part Ojibwe, Cork had always tried to be a judicious presence on the rez. For the most part, he’d succeeded. But this time he was bringing Simon Rutledge of the BCA with him, and he wasn’t hopeful about how well that would go over.
Seven of the eight members of the council had managed to be there and were waiting in the meeting room. Seated at the conference table with George LeDuc were Judy Bruneau, Albert Boshey, Roy Stillday, Edgar Gillespie, Heidi Baudette, and Thomas Whitefeather.
“Anin,” Cork said as he entered, offering the traditional Ojibwe greeting.
He shook hands with LeDuc and the others and introduced Simon Rutledge all around. When everyone was seated again, he explained what had occurred at the Tibodeau cabin the night before. He also explained why Rutledge would be in charge of the investigation. He was pretty sure they’d all heard about the shooting-heard some version of what had gone down, anyway-but it was impossible to tell from their faces, which showed little expression. They simply nodded now and then as he spoke. He’d been to lots of meetings on the rez, tribal council and otherwise. When there were only Ojibwe-or Shinnobs, as they often referred to themselves-present, discussions were almost always heated, with long digressions and references to obscure relatives and old incidents that had little if any bearing on the issue at hand. With Rutledge there, an outsider and a white law officer to boot, the council’s silence didn’t surprise Cork in the least.
When he was finished, there was a long silence, then George LeDuc spoke. In the dark, LeDuc might have been mistaken for a bear, an old bear, because he was seventy and huge. Although his long hair was streaked with silver, he still had a powerful look and feel about him. Only two years before, he’d fathered a child with his third wife, Francie. He and Cork had been friends for a lot of years.
“First of all,” LeDuc said in a gentle growl, “we’re all real sorry about Marsha Dross. We sure hope she’ll be fine.” He paused a long time, looking implacably at Cork. “As for that chunk of ear you’re missing, well…” He glanced at the woman on the far side of the conference table. “Heidi, there, told me a little while ago she thinks a few scars on a man is sexy, so maybe it’ll prove a blessing in the end.” He almost smiled. “We’ll do everything we can to help Agent Rutledge with his investigation.”
“George, it would help most if you could encourage anyone on the rez who might know something to step forward. Talk to Agent Rutledge, or give me a call at my office, if they’d rather.”
“We’ll get the word out,” LeDuc promised.
Thomas Whitefeather, an old man who was not an elected member of the council but was a part of it because he was a hereditary chief, spoke up. “Should we be afraid for the safety of the people on the rez?”
Rutledge fielded that one. “Until we know for sure the reason for the attack on Sheriff O’Connor and his deputy, I’d advise that any suspicious activity you observe warrants concern. However, at the moment we’re operating on the belief that this was an isolated incident. I’ll be spending time here today, and later in the general vicinity of the shooting. I’ll be available to speak with anyone who might be able to shed some light on what’s happened.”
Rutledge stayed after, but Cork left and walked to the Pathfinder with George LeDuc.
“You must’ve really pissed somebody off,” LeDuc said.
“Looks like.”
“Folks on the rez, we’ve been glad to see you back in that uniform. Most of us. We hear anything, Cork, you’ll know. But don’t count on anyone talking to your BCA friend.”
“I already told him that, George.”
LeDuc shook his head and his long white hair shivered. “Out here, you can always tell a white man, but you can’t tell him much.”
7
A little before three that afternoon, Larson strode into Cork’s office. The sun was bright and cast a long blade of light with a sharp edge that cut across Larson’s thighs as he sat down.
“What have you got?” Cork asked.
“A good cast of the tire tracks,” Larson said. “Excellent casting, actually. Rutledge’s people are going to do a pattern match and then we can start checking sales around here. We dug the bullet from the ground, and that’s on its way to the BCA lab. We didn’t find any more shell casings, or anything else on the hilltop.”
“You saw the tracks down the back side of the hill?”
“There were definite signs someone had gone that way, but we didn’t find a good boot print. You took Rutledge out to the rez?”
“Yeah. He’s there now, interviewing, hoping he’ll find somebody who noticed something unusual. Problem is, there’s nobody for a couple of miles in any direction from the Tibodeaus’ place,” Cork said. “And even if they’d seen something, they’re not going to tell Simon.”
“He’s good. Let’s wait to see what he comes up with.” Larson’s mouth went into a tight line, as if he were trying to keep something from slipping through his lips. “Cork,” he finally said, “you need to see Faith Gray.”
