Jarlait kept going back to the picture of the kids. “Little teeny kids, man. Little peanuts,” he said.
“Bunton knew about it. So did all the others,” Virgil said. “They couldn’t have stopped it, the way they tell it- Warren did all the killing. But they all kept their mouths shut.”
They thought about that for a few seconds. “Little kids,” Jarlait said. “I can see them coming over, to get the killer. But they killed Oren. Oren didn’t do shit… Oren was a nice guy.”
“The guy you shot on the other side. He’s the guy who shot Oren,” Virgil said.
“All right,” Jarlait said. “So we’re all square with him… Wonder how they happened to have the pictures with them?”
“They were going to leave them on Knox’s body, to make their point.”
NOT YET DONE, not by along way.
As they crossed back over the river, Jarlait said, “Now we’ve broken two laws-illegal entry into Canada, then illegal entry into the States.”
“Probably best not to emphasize that when we’re talking to people,” Virgil said.
VIRGIL CLIMBED OUT of the canoe and helped Jarlait drag it on shore, then Jarlait said, “I gotta find out about Rudy.” Queenen had been standing at the end of the driveway, talking on a cell phone, when he saw them land, and came jogging down the slope toward them.
He took the phone down as he came up and asked, “Anything new?”
“Just what I told you on the radio. We hit one of them, though. There’s blood in their boat and there’s a blood trail up through the trees.” He held up the manila envelope with the pictures. “They left this for us.”
Jarlait asked, “How’s Rudy?”
Queenen said, “He’s at the hospital. Raines said they’re gonna do some surgery, but it’s basically to clean out a hole. Shot went under the skin by his armpit, and then back out. My guy’s getting his scalp sewn up, but he won’t need surgery.”
Virgil: “The three Viets…”
“Yeah. They’re all dead,” Queenen said. “All with multiple wounds. Rudy shot one of them when the grenade went off, and then he and the other guy shot each other, and I shot the second guy. The third guy, I guess you guys…”
“Louis,” Virgil said. “Phem threw a flash-bang and tried to come in behind it. It hit a tree and bounced off and I was right there. Almost knocked me on my ass… If Louis hadn’t been ready, they’d of had me.”
“Well-what are you gonna do?” Queenen asked. He looked away, across the river. “I wish we’d gotten the other two assholes.”
“I gotta get up to see Rudy,” Jarlait said. “His mom is gonna kill me.”
Queenen said, “Virgil, you gotta come up and talk to these deputies. They’re getting antsy as hell. The sheriff’s on his way in.”
Virgil nodded and said, “Let’s go.” To Jarlait: “Get your truck, head on out, but stay in touch.”
BEFORE THEY TALKED to the deputies, they took a quick detour through the woods so Virgil could look at the bodies: Phem, Tai, and another Asian man he didn’t know. Had there been some other way to do this? Or had he really
“Lotta blood,” he said to Queenen.
ON THE WAY up the driveway, Virgil got on the cell phone and called Davenport. “What happened?” Davenport asked as soon as he picked up the phone.
“We had a hell of a gunfight,” Virgil said. “We got three dead Vietnamese, and two got away, into Canada. We need to call the Mounties… hang on.” He turned to Queenen. “Did you call the Canadians?”
Queenen said, “I called the office, they’re gonna get in touch.”
Virgil went back to the phone. “I guess Bemidji’s getting in touch. There might be a little dustup coming there.”
“Virgil, tell me you didn’t cross the river,” Davenport said.
“I didn’t cross it by very much,” Virgil said. “I was in hot pursuit.”
Davenport pondered for a moment, then said, “You thought that if these desperate killers encountered any Canadians, they’d ruthlessly gun them down to cover their escape, and so, throwing legal nit-picking to the wind, you decided to put your own body between the murderers and any innocent Canucks. ”
“Yeah-that’s what I thought,” Virgil said.
Davenport said, “We had a good talk with Mead Sinclair. We put him in Ramsey County overnight until we decide what to do. I don’t think he’d run. But-we’ve got a couple of guys coming in from Washington to speak to us.”
“Who’s us?” Virgil asked.
“Rose Marie, me, you, Mitford, hell, maybe the governor,” Davenport said. “They’ll be here this afternoon. You gotta get down here. I’m going to call around, see if I can get you a plane out of International Falls. You got somebody you can give the scene to?”
“We’ve got a crew coming up from Bemidji, and there are two Bemidji guys here. There were three, but one got a scalp cut… One of our guys from Red Lake got dinged up…”
Virgil told him the whole story, a blow-by-blow. When he was done, Davenport asked, “Where’s this Raines guy?”
“Still at the hospital, I think. There were gunshot wounds, so he might be talking to the International Falls cops.”
Davenport said, “Okay… listen. Go talk to the deputies. Tell them to secure the scene. Keep them out of the house. Keep everybody out of the house. Then go in there and take a little look around. You were invited in… are there any file cabinets?”
Virgil said, “You’re an evil fuck.”
Davenport said, “Call me when you can move. I’ll find a plane.”
VIRGIL DID ALL THAT: brought the deputies in, made them feel like they were on top of things. Let them look at the bodies; kept them out of the house. Got Queenen to talk to the sheriff when he arrived.
A little over an hour later, Virgil was climbing into a Beaver float-plane that taxied right up to Knox’s dock. The plane felt like an old friend: Virgil had flown over most of western Canada in Beavers and Otters, and he settled down, strapped in. The pilot said her name was Kate, and they were gone.
Virgil hadn’t found much in Knox’s house. The big computer was used, apparently, for photography and games. There’d been another small desk in the main bedroom, with a satellite plug and a keyboard, and Virgil decided that Knox must travel with a laptop. In a leather jacket tossed on the bed, he had found a small black book full of addresses and phone numbers. There was no Xerox machine in the place, but he went and got his bag, took out his camera, and shot a hundred JPEGs of the contents, to be printed later. When he was done, he put the address book back in the jacket and tossed it back on the bed.
When Davenport had called about the plane, he’d asked, “How things go? You know?”
“Not much, but, um, I found like three hundred names and addresses in a private little book.”
“Not bad,” Davenport said. “For Christ’s sakes, don’t tell anybody about it.”
“Get me a plane?”
“Yup. Got you a bush pilot,” Davenport said.
VIRGIL TRIED TO chat with Kate, who was decent-looking and athletic and outdoorsy and had a long brown braid that reminded Virgil of all the women in his college writers’ workshop; but Kate, probably shell-shocked by being hit on by every fly-in fisherman in southwest Ontario, didn’t have much to say.
So Virgil settled into his seat and went to sleep.
KATE PUT him on the Mississippi across the bridge from downtown St. Paul. Davenport was waiting; Virgil
