“It’ll be hard, I imagine.”
“We’ll do okay. We’re a team.”
“Hard on you, I meant.”
“It sucks, but that’s the way it is.”
“Who’s pitching in your place?”
“Meg Greeley.”
“She won’t last more than four innings.”
“Kris Evans will relieve her. She’ll bring the game home just fine.”
“I’ll try to be there.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m proud of you, you know that, don’t you?”
She stared at the hard morning blue of the lake and didn’t meet his eyes. “Thanks.” She turned toward Grant Park, south beyond the vacant field. “Let’s finish the run.”
At ten A.M. Cork was parked in the driveway of the burned-down Blessing home. He’d been waiting fifteen minutes when he saw Tom Blessing’s Silverado coming from the south. Blessing hit the crossroads, took a right, and half a minute later, pulled up behind Cork’s Bronco. They both got out.
“ Boozhoo, Tom. Beautiful morning, huh?”
“This better be good, O’Connor.”
“Good, I don’t know. Necessary, definitely.”
“You said you knew something about the fire.”
“I’ve got a confession, Tom. I lied.”
“What’s going on?”
“You tell me.”
Cork turned back to his Bronco, opened the back door, and pulled out Lonnie Thunder’s license plate: RedStud. He handed it to Blessing, who stared at it, and then darted a look toward the old gas station across the road.
“His Xterra is still there, Tom, although he’s not. But you know that.”
“This doesn’t prove anything.” Blessing flung the plate into the ruins of the house as if he were throwing a Frisbee. It landed with a clatter and a small puff of ash.
“It makes a pretty good case for aiding and abetting.”
“Big deal.”
“Maybe a good case for murder as well.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Thunder’s dead, Tom. Did you kill him?”
“You’re crazy.”
“Or did Kakaik?”
“What makes you think he’s dead?”
“Because on the rez you can’t get around for very long without someone spotting you. Nobody’s seen Thunder in a while.”
“He split. He knew he was fucked if he stayed, so he left.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. Couple of days ago.”
“How? His Xterra is still here.”
“Got a ride.”
“Who with?”
“One of the Red Boyz.”
“Which one?”
“Fuck you. I don’t have to answer your questions.”
Blessing turned away, ready to leave, but he stopped when he saw the line of vehicles coming down the road from the west.
“Maybe you don’t have to answer my questions, but I think you’re going to want to answer theirs.”
The vehicles-half a dozen dusty SUVs and pickups-turned into the drive and blocked any hope Blessing might have had for an escape. George LeDuc led the procession in his Blazer. Chet Everywind was with him. When they got out, Everywind was cradling his deer rifle. The others, Ojibwe all, left their vehicles and sauntered over, putting Blessing at the center of a ring of men and rifles.
Blessing’s eyes swung right and left. “What is this?”
LeDuc spoke. “Cork stopped by my place this morning, Tom, and we had a long talk. After that, I spoke to a few of the others here. We decided to form our own gang. We call ourselves the Red Menz ’cause we’re a little older and a little wiser.”
“What do you want?”
“The truth, Tom. Just the truth.”
“Going to beat it out of me?” Blessing tried to laugh, but it came out feebly.
“We thought we might go about it another way.”
LeDuc nodded and two of the men-Jack Gagnon and Dennis McDougall-grabbed Blessing’s arms. They were both big men, but it didn’t matter. Blessing didn’t put up a struggle. He kept his eyes on LeDuc, while the men bound his outstretched arms to the grill of his Silverado.
“Lester,” LeDuc said, “get your stuff.”
Lester Neadeau was a master plumber. He went to his truck and came back with a propane torch and a flint striker.
LeDuc said, “I’m going to ask you some questions, Tom-”
“My name is Waubishash.”
“First question: What happened to Lonnie Thunder?”
“Fuck you.”
LeDuc signaled Neadeau, who opened the valve on the torch, and sparked a flame with the striker.
“You’ve been branded before, Tom. This shouldn’t be much different. Jack, Dennis, let’s see some red skin.”
The two men tore open Blessing’s shirt, exposing his hairless chest.
“Lester,” LeDuc said.
Neadeau stepped up to Blessing and moved the torch toward the young man’s bared chest. The sharp blue tongue of flame licked Blessing’s skin. Blessing screamed and Neadeau stepped back.
“You brought violence to the rez,” LeDuc said. “You brought fear, you brought dishonor-”
“We brought power,” Blessing cried.
“Power? Hooking the Reinhardt girl on dope is power? Using our own girls in the way Thunder did was power?”
“We didn’t hook the chimook girl,” he said, using the unflattering Ojibwe slang for white people. “She was already deep into meth. And it was Lonnie who used those girls, not the Red Boyz.”
“He’s one of you.”
“He wasn’t.”
Cork said, “Wasn’t? Don’t you mean isn’t?”
“What happened to Lonnie Thunder?” LeDuc said again.
Blessing refused to reply. LeDuc nodded to Neadeau, who started the torch toward Blessing’s chest.
“He’s dead,” Blessing said, a second before the flame connected.
“Who killed him?”
“He killed himself.”
“Sure he did. Lester, a little more flame.”
“I’m not lying,” Blessing said. “Kakaik gave him a choice. He could kill himself or Kakaik would do it for him.”
“Why did Kingbird want him dead?”
“He didn’t want him dead, but it was the only way. Lonnie stole drugs from the Red Boyz. He traded them for
