He knocked at the front door, waited, then knocked again. He checked his watch. A couple of minutes past seven.
“Willie,” he called at the curtained front window. “It’s Cork O’Connor.”
He heard an outboard purring on the lake behind Grandview, the sound growing distant. He followed the flagstone walk around to the deck in back. From there, he could see the long stretch of darkness that was Iron Lake at night. Far across the water, the lights of the Quetico marked the newest resort complex on the lake. Condominiums, tennis courts, a par-three golf course, a pool in a Plexiglas dome, a large marina with a flotilla of rental boats, the best wood roast restaurant north of the Twin Cities. There were cabins, as well, isolated in woodland settings, each with its own Jacuzzi and sauna and one hundred twenty-five channels on a big screen television.
Much of the shoreline of Iron Lake was being devoured in this way. The success of places like the Quetico was a direct result of the success of the Chippewa Grand Casino. The casino attracted money, lots of it, for the whites as well as the Anishinaabe. Although Cork was happy to see that many good things had come from the new wealth-upgraded services and an increase in the levels of health and education on the reservation, and an economic boom to the rest of Tamarack County-it made him uneasy. Money changed things. Usually for the worst. He’d loved Aurora in part because of its isolation. He felt a deep sadness as he realized a world of strangers was slowly pushing in.
The gas lamps on the deck were turned low, creating lighting that would have been perfect for a romantic dinner at the big picnic table. The table was empty. Cork mounted the steps and approached the sliding glass doors. The doors were closed, but the curtain was drawn back slightly.
“Willie?” Cork called again, and tapped on the glass.
He peered through the slender gap where the curtain hadn’t closed completely. He saw a big brown leather sofa, a coffee table, a beige carpet, a brass lamp, a fireplace without a fire. Grandview looked empty.
Then he felt a slight shaking of the deck. And he heard something.
He grasped the sliding door. It opened easily.
From the other end of the cabin came a sudden, jarring thump followed by a muffled cry. Cork followed the sound down the hallway. Just past the bathroom was a heavy cedar door with a temperature control mounted on the wall next to it. A sauna. The sauna door had been wedged shut, a length of two-by-four jammed between it and the opposite wall of the hallway. As Cork looked the situation over, the door shook from a blow delivered from the other side. Inside the sauna, Willie Raye swore loud and long. Cork slipped under the board and pried it loose with his shoulder. As soon as the door was freed, Raye burst out, naked. His silver hair lay plastered to his forehead. His body, surprisingly lean and powerful for a man of his age, glistened with a thick sheen of sweat. His right shoulder was reddened where he’d slammed uselessly against the door. He gulped in the cool air of the hallway.
“Goddamn, I’m going to sue somebody,” he swore breathlessly, as he rubbed his shoulder. “That sauna’s a menace. Christ, somebody could get killed in there, door sticks like that.”
“It wasn’t stuck, Willie.” Cork held up the two-byfour. “Somebody used this to make sure you couldn’t get out.”
Raye stared at the board. “Shee-it.” His face suddenly lit with the fire of a fearful thought. “My things.” He shoved past Cork and made for the stairs.
Cork followed and caught up with him standing dead still in the doorway of an upstairs bedroom.
“Jesus,” Raye gasped.
The room was torn apart. The drawers had been thrown open and a lot of Willie Raye’s clothing had been tossed on the floor.
“Sons of bitches cleaned me out,” he said with disbelief. He checked the top dresser drawer. “Except… they didn’t take my wallet or Rolex.” He turned suddenly to the open closet. The racks of clothing looked untouched, but Willie Raye slammed an angry fist against the wall so hard his naked flesh quivered. “Them goddamn sons of bitches. They took my briefcase. It was in the closet. The ball-less bastards took my briefcase.” From the pile of clothes that had been thrown on the floor, be grabbed a pair of boxer shorts, some socks, a pair of jeans, and a white pullover sweater. He began hurriedly to tug the clothing on.
“What are you doing?” Cork asked.
“Hell, I’m going after ’em.”
“That won’t do any good, Willie.”
“You don’t understand,” Raye said. “Shiloh’s letters were in that briefcase.”
“Whoever it was, they’re gone,” Cork told him.
Willie Raye slumped onto the bed. “What do we do now?”
“In her letters, did Shiloh ever mention anybody out here by name?”
“Nope. She seemed pretty careful about not doing that.”
“What about the name Ma’iingan?”
“That’s a name?”
“It might be.”
“Never heard it before.”
Cork walked slowly around the room, noting where fingerprints might have been left, where, if he’d still been in charge of investigations, he would have made sure they dusted. “What did Shiloh talk about in her letters?”
“The past mostly. Our past.”
“Her mother?”
“Not really. She doesn’t remember much about her mother.”
“Willie, do you know a woman named Elizabeth Dobson?”
“No. Should I? Why all these questions, Cork?”
Cork stood in the closet doorway. A big walk-in closet. A closet bigger than his entire kitchen at Sam’s Place. The walls were lined with cedar. He turned back to Arkansas Willie Raye.
“I just had a talk with some federal agents. They’re here looking for your daughter, too.”
“Federal agents? What on earth for?”
“This woman, Elizabeth Dobson, was apparently a friend of Shiloh and had been receiving letters from her, too. She’s been murdered, Willie. The FBI thinks it was because of those letters.”
“I don’t get it.”
Cork continued moving around the room. Near the window, he bent and studied carefully a yellow birch leaf that lay on the rug.
“The therapy that Shiloh was involved in might have brought back the memory of the night Marais was killed. Or at least that’s what the federal agents are speculating.” He picked up the leaf. “They think someone might be trying to make sure she doesn’t leave the Boundary Waters.”
“Christ, Marais died fifteen years ago. Shiloh was only six. What could she possibly remember that would be of any use now?”
“Maybe it’s not important what she remembers. Maybe what’s important is what someone is afraid she remembers.”
Willie Raye’s eyes settled on the board Cork still held in one hand. His mouth opened and he took in a quick breath. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I guess I was lucky.”
“Luckier than Elizabeth Dobson,” Cork agreed. “I’m going to have a look around.”
Cork checked the rest of the inside of Grandview, then went outside and followed the flagstone walk as it curved toward the lake. He passed through a small stand of birch where a pile of boards lay, a lot of them two-by- fours, that looked like debris from a building project. Finally, he came to the dock. The water stretched away in unbroken darkness. The nearest signs of life were the lights of the Quetico on the far shore. Cork considered the outboard he’d heard when he arrived. A small boat could easily have pulled up unseen and left the same way. He thought it interesting that Harris and the other agents were staying just across the water, and that the interview with the FBI in Schanno’s office had delayed him just long enough for someone to steal the letters from Grandview.
Raye was fully dressed and watching through the sliding doors when Cork came back.
“I’m going to leave you now and go talk to someone who may be able to help us.”
“Who?”
“Just a man I know. You’ll be okay here?”
