was just under six feet tall, handsome, with a thick shock of wavy brown hair and blue eyes that had an enviably uncomplicated look about them. There was a leanness to his body and a firmness and definition to his muscles that suggested he’d always been athletic. Bascombe had told Cork that Kretsch was the only official law enforcement on the Angle, and he was pretty much part-time.
“You’re O’Connor?” Kretsch asked.
“Yes. Cork O’Connor.”
“And you saw this dead girl, too?”
“I did.”
“And you’re sure it wasn’t the storm that killed her?”
Cork said, “Tom, is it?”
Kretsch said, “Tom’ll do.”
“Tom, I was a deputy and a sheriff for nearly twenty years. I know a murder victim when I see one. I can tell you without a doubt it wasn’t the storm that put a bullet through that girl’s forehead.”
Kretsch chewed on that piece of information and seemed willing to swallow it. He said, “This was on one of the islands out there on the Canadian side?”
“That’s right.”
“Out of my jurisdiction, but I think we ought to have a look before I alert the provincial police in Kenora. Can you find this island again?”
“I’m sure I can.” Cork nodded toward the deputy’s empty belt. “When you go, you ought to take a sidearm at the very least. A good rifle would be better.”
“Why’s that?”
“There’s a man out there with a scoped rifle that looked to me to be a Weatherby. Could be he killed the girl. In any case, judging by his reaction to our presence on that island, he won’t take kindly to us coming back.”
Kretsch looked at the baby in the basket in Jenny’s hands, and in his uncomplicated eyes was the very simple presence of great compassion. “Tough way to start a life.” Then he said to Jenny, “I’ve let Lynn Belgea know what’s up. I think you should take this little fella to her place and have her look him over. When your father and I get back from checking out this dead girl, we’ll figure what to do with him. Probably have to talk to county social services down in Baudette. In the meantime, are you okay taking care of him?”
“Yes,” Jenny said.
“Babs,” he said to a woman standing near him, “can you get these folks over to Lynn’s place?”
“No problem, Tom.” She lifted her hand and said by way of introduction, “Babs Larson.”
Kretsch turned back to Cork. “You got something more than that swimsuit to put on?”
“Not at the moment.”
“You look about my size. I suppose I can rustle up something for you. How about shoes?”
Cork shook his head, then showed Kretsch his wounded soles.
Kretsch whistled. “Let’s go to my office and tend to those feet. I probably can spare you a pair of sneakers, if you can tolerate wearing something. Then we’ll have a good long talk. Seth, you mind coming along?”
“Fine by me,” Bascombe replied.
Cork turned to Stephen and Mal. “Why don’t you two wait here, at that grill across the road. When Tony Ebnet comes in with Annie and Aaron, get him whatever he wants to eat, and yourselves, too, then order something to go for everybody else, okay?”
Stephen seemed uneasy about deserting the others, but Mal clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Remember, son, an army moves on its stomach.”
That was all the encouragement Stephen needed. “I’m starved,” he said. “Let’s go.”
Kretsch had a small place near Young’s Bay Landing, a little square of a house painted green. There wasn’t much furniture, and the clutter made it clear that this was the home of a bachelor. Kretsch had Cork and Bascombe wait in the living room, then he disappeared for a few minutes. He returned with a pair of baggy khakis, an old green Henley shirt, white socks that could have used a good soak in bleach, a pair of oil-stained canvas boat shoes, and a battered canvas hat. He also had some gauze pads, a roll of adhesive tape, and a tube of Bacitracin ointment.
While Cork tended to his feet, Kretsch said, “That’ll keep those cuts from getting infected until we can get you looked at professionally.”
“The cuts are nothing. I’m more interested in getting some answers,” Cork told him.
When Cork was dressed and had slipped on the socks and boat shoes and succesfully tested his ability to walk, Kretsch said, “Let’s go into my office.”
Which turned out to be a small, fishing-gear-filled room off the kitchen. His desk was cluttered with lures. His walls were hung with stuffed and mounted muskies and northerns. Kretsch sat in the chair behind his desk and indicated that Cork should take the chair opposite him. Cork lifted a multibarbed Rapala Husky Jerk from the chair seat and set it on Kretsch’s desk.
“Sorry,” the deputy said. “I don’t get a lot of visitors here.”
Cork nodded toward the lure and said, “Don’t think you’ll catch many with that.”
Bascombe laughed and leaned against the wall, near enough to the open mouth of a mounted muskie that it looked as if the big fish was going to feed on his head. He said, “They have any luck locating the other folks missing in that storm?”
“All accounted for,” Kretsch said and filled them in. Boats had been damaged or destroyed, and some of the fishermen had sustained minor injuries, but all things considered, they’d been pretty lucky.
“Now, down on the south shore of the big water, that whole area between Warroad and Baudette’s been pretty well torn apart. I spoke with the sheriff this morning, and he’s got his hands full. Anything happens up here right now, we’re on our own.”
“What about the Canadian authorities?” Cork said.
“Basically in the same situation as our people. Kenora was dead center in that storm’s path, and I’m sure they’re scrambling, trying to keep things civil and ordered. That’s why I’d like to have a look at the island myself before they have to pull people off other duties to come all the way out here to the boondocks to investigate.”
It made sense to Cork. And the truth was that he wanted another chance to look the scene over himself without having to talk his way across a line of yellow crime scene tape.
“First, tell me about this girl,” Kretsch said. “And then we’ll get to the guy with the Weatherby. Can you give me a good description of her?”
Cork said, “Somewhere between sixteen and twenty years old. Long black hair. Not tall, maybe five-three or five-four. A hundred and twenty pounds. Pretty. Ojibwe.”
Bascombe crossed his meaty arms and said to Kretsch, “Lily Smalldog.”
“Don’t go jumping to conclusions, Seth,” Kretsch said. “That description would fit a lot of First Nations girls.”
“Sure, but how many First Nations girls who fit that description have been missing for four months?”
Cork cocked an eyebrow at Kretsch. “The girl’s been missing?”
“
“What happened?” Cork asked.
Kretsch ran a hand through his thick brown hair, and his boyish face took on a slightly troubled look, as if debating whether to offer Cork the details. Finally he said, “Four months ago, Lily Smalldog disappeared. She’d been working for some religious folks who own a camp on Stump Island, which is way the hell out there, south of Garden Island. One morning those folks woke up and Lily was gone. Just like that.”
“Somebody took her off the island?”
“That was certainly one of the possibilities. None of the camp’s boats were missing, so Lily didn’t take off by herself.”
“One of the possibilities?”
“There was some speculation that she might have thrown herself in the lake and drowned. They found a sweater of hers floating on the water, but we never did find a body to go along with it.”
“Any reason to think she might have killed herself?”
“According to the folks at the camp, she’d become pretty despondent.”
