“This Smalldog, he’s something else,” Mal said. “I’d like to see him.”
“I have,” Cork said. “We locked eyes when he was hunting us on the island.”
“Did you see the devil there?”
“I saw a man I knew absolutely was capable of killing us.”
“I’ve always believed that, even in the worst of men, there’s still some humanity alive. But I don’t know about Smalldog. If what Seth Bascombe says about him abusing his own sister is true, he’s a piece of work. It would be interesting to talk to him, find out his truth.”
“You can’t save every soul, Mal. It’s not even your business anymore.”
“I’m just talking about understanding someone, Cork. I think it’s the business of us all. Now soul saving, that’s something else.”
Cork stared at the angry lake and tried to make sense of Noah Smalldog.
The blood of the Anishinaabeg ran through Cork’s veins. He had an Ojibwe name, Mikiinak, which meant “Snapping Turtle.” The name had been given to him by the old Mide Henry Meloux, who’d seen the tenacity in him even when Cork was a small child. He loved the Ojibwe people,
Smalldog, Cork decided, was a misshapen spirit. He wondered what Henry Meloux, in all his patient wisdom, might say about the man. Would he, like Mal, believe that even the most grotesque of spirits could be reshaped and brought into harmony? Did Meloux have a ceremony powerful enough to redeem Smalldog?
Maybe it wouldn’t matter, Cork thought, gripping the Marlin tightly. Because if Smalldog tried anything again, threatened Jenny or any of his family, Cork would shoot him down, shoot him down without a moment of hesitation or a measure of regret.
“What about the baby?” Mal said.
It was as if Cork’s conscience had spoken. In thinking about the safety of his family, Cork had excluded the baby.
“As soon as possible, we deliver him wherever it is he should be.”
“And where’s that?”
“I don’t know. The county authorities down in Baudette probably.”
“We get rid of him,” Mal said.
“That’s not how it will be.”
“That’s how Jenny’ll see it.”
“She’ll understand.”
Mal shrugged. “If you say so.”
“Look, Mal.” Cork spoke with an intensity that bordered on anger. “A very bad man is out there in the dark somewhere, and he’s threatening my family. Why? As nearly as I can tell, it’s because of that baby. If the baby’s gone, my family’s safe. It’s as simple as that.”
“Simple doesn’t necessarily translate into right.”
“You think I’m wrong? You think Jenny should keep that child? You think Jenny
“I don’t know what might be possible, Cork. I just know that everything that threatens this family right now isn’t necessarily out there in the dark.”
Cork rose to his feet and glared down at his brother-in-law. “When you have a family of your own to worry about, Mal, then you can start offering me advice on how to take care of mine, okay?”
“Okay,” Mal said without rancor.
“I’m going to check the cabins.”
“I’ll hold down the fort here,” Mal said.
As Cork left, the old dock groaned under his weight. The wind gusted around him, and the lake surged at his back. Wrapped up in his own fury, a rage of uncertainty and worry, Cork was numb to it all.
THIRTY-TWO
Rose had coffee going when Bascombe came into the kitchen. He walked awkwardly, still stiff from sleep. His hair was unbrushed and stuck out in tufts of black and gray. He closed his eyes and stood a moment, his nose raised, as if sniffing the wind.
“Been a long time since I woke to the good smell of strong coffee made by a woman.”
“I’ve pulled out some eggs and cheese and onion for breakfast,” Rose said, setting a wooden cutting board onto one of the counters. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Mind?” Bascombe laughed. “If you weren’t already taken, Rose, I’d get down on my knees and propose.”
“Hold on there,” Mal said, coming in at his back. “I’m a reasonable man, but there are limits.”
“I’ll arm-wrestle you for her,” Bascombe suggested.
“Tell you what,” Rose said. “Whoever’s willing to make pancakes, I’m all yours.”
“Done,” Mal said and got to work.
The others began to drift into the lodge. Bascombe poured them coffee while Rose and Mal prepared the meal. Jenny was the last to arrive, with the baby in his wicker basket.
“How’s the baby this morning?” Cork asked. To Rose, his concern sounded clinical.
“Doing just fine,” Jenny replied curtly.
“Coffee?” Rose offered.
“Thanks, Aunt Rose.”
Aaron sat at the table, silently observing Jenny and the attention focused on her and the baby. He didn’t attempt to greet her in any special way, Rose noticed, just sipped his coffee without apparent emotion. Rose wondered if it was exhaustion or if he was steeling himself against caring or if it was a cover for all the confusion he might be feeling.
When they were settled around the table, Rose and Anne served breakfast, and they ate and planned.
“So where do we go today?” Stephen said.
“I’d like to have a better look at Stump Island,” his father replied. “See if I can figure out what it is those folks don’t want to talk about.”
“It might not have anything to do with Lily Smalldog,” Bascombe pointed out.
“Maybe. But it’s still a question I’d like answered.”
Kretsch said, “I think we need to track down her brother.”
“Got a suggestion how we do that?”
The deputy shrugged. “Talk to some more Ojibwe over on Windigo Island.”
“You’ve dealt with the Ojibwe before?” Cork asked.
“Sure.”
“And as a police officer, do you find them particularly forth-coming?”
“Not especially,” Kretsch admitted.
“So they’d be more inclined to talk now because?”
Kretsch didn’t have an answer.
“How about we talk to Amos Powassin?” Stephen suggested. “He knows us. And if he can’t tell us anything, maybe he could introduce us to someone who can.”
Cork was quiet a moment, thinking. “That’s not a bad idea, Stephen. Mr. Powassin seemed to take to you. Maybe you should do the talking.”
“Who goes?” Anne asked and glanced in the direction of the baby.
Rose understood the reason for the question. Jenny and the baby needed protection. Someone willing to use a rifle had to stay back on Oak Island. That probably wasn’t her or Anne, though Jenny might be willing.
