you made commitments in life and, come hell or high water, you stood fast by them. That loyalty was the lifeblood of friendship. That the love of family was the deepest root that tapped your heart.
But he’d also left material things, among them, the house on Gooseberry Lane, his sheriff’s uniform with its bloody bullet hole through the pocket over the heart, a fine basket weave holster, and a .38 caliber Smith & Wesson Police Special revolver.
In his own time as sheriff, Cork had proudly worn his father’s sidearm. He’d kept it cleaned and well oiled, and it fired perfectly. Three years earlier, after a bloody incident that had turned his stomach against their mindless potential, he’d divested himself of his firearms and had given them into the keeping of Henry Meloux. What the old Mide had done with the firearms, he’d never said. Cork had never asked. But as he sped north along the back roads of Tamarack County toward Crow Point with mounting concern, that’s exactly what he intended to do.
He parked his Land Rover near the double-trunk birch that marked the trail to the old man’s cabin. He walked quickly, going over and over in his head thoughts and questions that plagued him.
Meloux, in his parting words the last time they’d met, had revealed that Liam O’Connor knew about the sink on reservation land, about the other way into the mine. Cork’s father, better than anyone, was in a position to thwart a criminal investigation. His father owned the same kind of weapon that had killed Monique Cavanaugh. What the hell had gone on forty years ago? And what the hell was going on now?
With an angry bound, he leaped Wine Creek and, a few minutes later, broke from the pine trees into the meadow, where he fixed his eyes on the solitary cabin ahead.
“Stop!”
He spun to his right, startled by the woman’s voice.
She knelt among the wildflowers and, like them, seemed to grow up out of the earth itself. She wore a straw hat with a wide brim that shaded her face. She’d braided her long hair, and it hung over her left shoulder and fell between her breasts. She glared at him from the shadow of her hat.
“My uncle is resting. He shouldn’t be disturbed,” she said.
“I’ll talk with Henry,” Cork replied and started forward again.
“Are you always this rude?”
“Visiting your uncle was a hell of a lot easier before you arrived.”
“That’s one of the reasons I’m here.”
Cork altered his course and waded through the meadow grass to the place where she knelt. Despite the rising heat of the summer day, she wore a long-sleeved shirt of thin cotton embroidered with tiny flowers around the cuffs and collar.
“What exactly is going on with Henry?” he asked. “Is he sick?”
“I don’t know. He doesn’t either.”
“The shaking?”
“It began a month ago. It’s getting worse.”
“Parkinson’s?”
“Maybe. Without tests, it’s hard to know.”
“And he won’t be tested?”
“No.” She looked toward the cabin. “He tires easily these days.”
“He’s within a stone’s throw of having lived a hundred years. Maybe he’s entitled to a little fatigue.”
“This isn’t just age,” she said. “This is something else.”
“Did he ask you here?”
She plucked a wildflower, a touch-me-not, and dropped it in a basket woven of reeds. “I came under the guise of wanting to learn more about his healing techniques. The family sent me. We’re all worried.”
Cork almost smiled. “And you think Henry hasn’t seen through you?”
“I’m sure he has. But he hasn’t objected.”
“He wouldn’t.” Cork glanced toward the cabin. “I need to talk to him. It’s important.”
She considered him and finally stood. She lifted the basket, which contained many gathered wildflowers. “Very well,” she said and led the way.
She quietly opened the door. In the cool inside, Meloux lay on his bunk. Walleye was sprawled on the floor nearby. They both turned their heads as Cork entered with Rainy. Walleye’s tail wagged sluggishly across the floorboards. Meloux simply smiled.
“Two visits in one day. I am a blessed man, Corcoran O’Connor.” The old Mide rose slowly and swung his feet over the side of the bunk. “My niece is going to make blackberry leaf tea, I think. Will you have some?”
“
Rainy went to the old stove, opened the door, and threw in a few sticks of wood to stoke the fire. The old man stood up and said to his niece, “We will be by the lake.”
Cork walked beside his old friend down a path that threaded between two great rock outcroppings. On the far side, very close to the shoreline of the lake, lay a circle of stones that contained the deep black char of many fires. Sectioned tree trunks had been placed around the circle for seating. Meloux eased his old, narrow butt onto one of these, and Cork sat next to him. Meloux’s breathing was rapid and shallow, and he seemed exhausted. Cork thought about commenting on this but figured if Henry wanted to discuss it he would.
Meloux stared at Iron Lake. There was no breeze, and the surface of the water lay flat and silver. The air near the fire circle smelled of the ritual burning that was often a part of the old Mide’s work.
It was a long time before Meloux spoke. “You visited Millie Joseph?”
“Yes,” Cork replied. “She was helpful.”
The old man nodded.
“Henry, I need to know what you did with my revolver.”
Meloux turned his face to Cork. His eyes were brown and watchful. “I put it with your rifle in a safe and sacred place.”
“Where?”
“A place I do not think even you know, Corcoran O’Connor. It is a place remembered by only the oldest of The People, a place of
“It is a place where things that have blocked the way of our people, the path toward wholeness, have been put aside for good.”
“I want to see the revolver, Henry.”
The old man seemed puzzled. “Do you need it?”
“No, I just need to know that it’s still there.”
“Why would it move?”
“Humor me, Henry. Just tell me how to find it.”
While Meloux considered this request, Rainy appeared, carrying three white ceramic mugs, which she brought to the stone circle. She handed one to Meloux, one to Cork, and kept the other.
“Shall I stay?” she asked her uncle.
Which seemed to Cork clearly her intention, considering the cup she’d brought for herself.
“For a few minutes,” the old man said. “Then you will show our guest something.”
Cork glanced up at her. She seemed as surprised by this as he.
She sat down. Her presence felt awkward, and Cork was reluctant to continue the discussion. But perhaps as far as Meloux was concerned the discussion was finished anyway. They sat for several minutes in an ill-fitting silence. Cork was used to silence; the Ojibwe were quite comfortable with saying nothing for a long time. But the woman struck an alien chord in him. He wanted to be rid of her. Meloux seemed blithely clueless. He drank the tea, which smelled both sweet and pungent, and contemplated the silver lake. For her part, Rainy did the same.
“The home of Judge Parrant,” Meloux finally said. “It is a place of bad medicine. There are many diseased places, but there are also those places of healing, places of
“Do you remember where the blackberry bushes grow? I showed you.”
“Of course. East along the lakeshore about a mile. On top of a cliff.”
The old man gave a nod. “There is a cave in that cliff. The opening is small and hidden by blackberry
