He fed a few shells into his Winchester. Then he took off his coat and his red flannel shirt, which left him dressed in his jeans-the denim had been washed so many times they were nearly white as ice-his white wool thermal top, white Nikes, and a light gray stocking cap. In the pale winter colors, he was less likely to be seen, but he was also likely to freeze if he had to spend a lot of time dressed that way. He hoped he wouldn’t.
The mission stood in the middle of a meadow beyond a hill at the end of the marsh. Cork approached the top of the rise in a crouch, keeping to the gray shadow of the snowbank. A hundred and fifty yards ahead, rising white from the white of the snow in the meadow, stood the old mission building. Smoke feathered up from the stovepipe toward the high blue-white of the sky. He knelt and watched the mission for a while. In the wide flat of the meadow and along the dark wall of pine trees and bare birch that surrounded it, nothing moved. He was to the north of the building and a little east. It was nearing two o’clock and the sun was low and bright. Staring into the glare off the field of snow made his eyes water. Finally he had to look away. The images behind him seemed darker then. The tamaracks, the swamp alders, the bare oaks. A shadow flickered over the road and a large crow alighted on a branch of a young tamarack near Cork. It cocked a yellow eye at him, but seemed content to be quietly curious. To the Anishinaabe, the crow was a symbol of wisdom. As he crouched shivering from the cold, Cork hoped the bird was a good sign that he’d find some answers before he froze to death.
He glanced again at the mission and immediately hunkered lower.
Someone stood outside the back door. He couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. Whoever it was stood very still and seemed to be looking across the meadow to Cork’s right where a white-tail doe and her two yearlings had come out of the woods. They stepped carefully in the deep snowdrifts. The yearlings had to leap to keep up. The doe would take a few steps and pause, her body poised in an alert stance, her ears flickering left and right as she watched and listened. Each time she stopped the yearlings took the opportunity to bound to her side. All three were coming straight at Cork. If he didn’t move, the deer would lead the eyes of the watching figure right to him. If he did move, the deer would bolt. In either event, he stood a good chance of giving himself away. He sat frozen in place, watching the deer approach.
From behind him came the sound of a vehicle on the reservation road. Cork glanced back. He couldn’t see anything yet, but in only a few moments the vehicle would round the curve and drop down into the flat of the marsh and whoever it was that was coming would clearly see him. But there was no way to move without being seen from the mission. He was trapped.
It was the crow who saved him. The black bird suddenly let out three shrill caws that broke like thunderbolts through the stillness of the meadow. The doe’s eyes darted toward Cork and she lurched away with the two yearlings leaping wildly after her. The figure at the mission watched the deer intently as they fled. In the moment before the animals disappeared again into the woods, when the eyes of the watcher were turned farthest from Cork, he threw himself and the Winchester over the snowbank and sunk facedown into the soft snow on the far side. He lay unmoving as the vehicle-an old truck, he guessed from the deep sound of the engine and the rattle of the undercarriage-followed the road into the low-lying marsh area, came up the rise, and passed on the other side of the snowbank. He heard it pull to a stop at the mission and heard the sound of its old doors squeaking open and slamming shut. He heard voices briefly, but didn’t want to look for fear of being seen.
Several minutes passed before he finally risked a peek. There was no one to be seen at the mission. The vehicle that had come along the road had parked on the far side of the building and wasn’t visible to him. He grabbed the Winchester, made a dive over the snowbank, and rolled onto the road. Crawling to the shelter of the snowbank’s shadow, he crouched, shivering violently. He was wet from lying in the snow, and he knew he had to do something quickly. He could head for the Bronco and warm up, but if he did he might miss a chance at uncovering something important at the mission.
He moved toward the building, staying below the snowbank and in its shadow as much as possible. As he approached the mission, he saw that both Lazarus and Father Tom Griffin’s old Kawasaki motorcycle were parked behind it. Cork dashed to the side of the building, where he stood in a thigh-deep drift and pressed himself against the old white wood planking. The shades over all the windows had been pulled. He leaned near the glass of a front window and listened.
Inside, someone whimpered as if being hurt.
40
Cork crept to the back of the mission building and peered around the corner. A half cord of split wood lay stacked near the back door. The snow behind the building was hard packed by a lot of comings and goings. The deep snow off to the sides of the back entrance was stained yellow where someone had done a good deal of urinating. He edged his way to the door. Leaning close, he listened again for the whimper. This time the only sound he heard was the click of the latch as the door was throw open and the long blue barrel of a rifle came at him out of the dark inside.
“You alone?”
“Alone.” Cork nodded. He slowly lowered the Winchester and leaned it against the side of the mission.
Wanda Manydeeds motioned him back with the rifle and risked a glance out the door, right then left. She jerked her head toward the room behind her. “Inside.”
She moved back to let Cork through, then closed the door behind him. Only a dim light filtered through the drawn shades into the mission’s single room. Cork’s pupils were still contracted from the sunlight outside and he felt blind, as if he’d stepped into a dark cave. He stumbled over something soft, but caught himself before he fell. Near one of the windows he identified the black, bulky silhouette of a potbelly stove, the source of the warmth in the room. Not far to his left, stacked against a wall under a window, lay a clutter of two-by-fours along with a couple of sawhorses, evidence of St. Kawasaki’s continuing efforts to refurbish the old structure. Directly ahead, worn gray benches marched away in rows toward the far, as yet impenetrable, dark at the front of the mission. From that dark came a whimper.
“Shhhh, Makwa. Shhhh,” a soft voice cooed.
Another voice suggested firmly, “Put the rifle down, Wanda.”
The old floorboards squeaked and groaned as St. Kawasaki came forward out of the dark. He was followed by Darla LeBeau. Someone else came a few steps behind Darla. It was Paul LeBeau. He carried a squirming bundle of blanket in his arms.
“Poo-wah,” Paul said, speaking in Ojibwe slang. It stinks. “He needs his diapers changed, Aunt Wanda,” he said in English.
Wanda Manydeeds set the rifle against the wall and took the baby.
The priest was grinning. “Here Darla and I spent all morning trying to find you, and it was you who found us. How’d you know to come here?”
“I was looking for Lazarus,” Cork replied. “It keeps rising from the dead.” Cork glanced at the stove. “I’m freezing, Tom. Mind if I warm up?
“Go ahead. By all means.”
Heat rolled off the stove, and Cork stood turning first one side of his body then the other to the hot cast iron.
“You saw me coming?” he asked.
“Paul saw someone,” Tom Griffin replied. “We didn’t know it was you.”
“You’ve been here the whole time?” he asked the boy.
Paul looked to the priest, who gave him an almost imperceptible nod. “Mostly,” Paul answered. “Father Tom thought it was the safest place.”
Cork, whose eyes had just about adjusted to the faint light inside the mission, noticed the sleeping bag rolled and tied on the floor. That was the soft obstacle he’d stumbled over on entering the mission. He also saw several sacks of groceries lined up on one of the benches.
“Safe from what?” he asked.
No one answered his question. He studied the boy-hardly a boy anymore. Paul stood nearly as tall as he. If he kept growing, he’d easily reach his father’s height.
“Someone drove Lazarus out to Harlan Lytton’s place yesterday,” Cork went on. “Was it you, Tom?”
