I’ve grown up to be just like them. My life’s all about me. I could never look at Waaboo the way you do. The kinds of sacrifices you make without thinking twice I could never make.” He stopped and took her hands, and she could feel him trembling. “I can’t be what you want me to be, Jenny. I’d be a selfish husband and such a bad father that I don’t even want to try. Whatever you decide about Waaboo, you need to decide it without me in the picture. I love you, but I can’t do this. Do you understand?”
They stood together a moment, the quiet between them uncomfortable and weighty.
“I hope you get your baby,” he finished.
She thought maybe she should feel as if she’d fallen off a cliff, but she didn’t. She felt strangely free and wasn’t quite sure what she should say. What came to her was simply this: “Thank you, Aaron.” And delicately she kissed his cheek.
At the cabin doorway, Walleye let out a low woof and started barking again, wildly this time, coming up off his front paws as he snapped. In a minute, Meloux stepped from the cabin. Stephen and Rainy were right behind him.
“What is it?” Jenny asked.
“I don’t know,” the old man said. He peered toward the woods. “It’s been a long time since my eyes saw what they ought to. Stephen, do you see anything?”
Stephen stepped forward and studied the trees. “There,” he said and pointed.
Jenny followed the line his finger indicated across the meadow. In the pallid, late afternoon light, the grass was tall and yellow-green. Where the meadow met the pine woods, a dark, sharp line of shade lay. The forest beyond that line was deep and brooding, and the shadows there were thick and almost impenetrable. Then she saw what Stephen saw.
“It’s a woman,” she said.
“What is she doing?” Meloux asked.
“Just standing there,” Stephen replied. “Looking at us.”
Walleye’s barking had grown furious. He charged forward and came back and charged again. He was an old dog, but in his fierce and protective fury, he had become young again.
“There is more in those woods than a woman,” Meloux said. “Walleye may not see much better than me, but his nose is still good. Into the cabin, everyone.”
They quickly retreated inside. Meloux crossed to the wall where a rifle lay cradled in a rack. He took the rifle down and said to Rainy, “The box in the cupboard. There are cartridges.”
She opened a door and pulled out a small, beautifully carved wooden box. She lifted the lid and spilled the contents into the palm of her hand: six cartridges. She looked down at them, then up at Meloux, and asked, “Uncle Henry, when was the last time you fired that old Winchester?”
He worked the lever and pulled the trigger and said, “It will fire just fine.”
“It’s not the rifle I’m worried about,” she said and held out her hand to him. “These rounds look pretty old.”
“They will have to do,” he said. One by one, he took the cartridges from her palm and fed them into the rifle’s magazine.
“Now wait a minute,” Aaron said. “Before we go off half-cocked and shoot an innocent someone, I think we should talk to this woman. Maybe she’s Ojibwe and is coming to you for advice? Or maybe she’s just a lost hiker or something. Hell, maybe she’s not even there anymore.”
“She’s there,” Stephen said from the window. “And she gives me the creeps.”
Meloux started toward the window. In the middle of the room, however, he stopped and stood dead still as if paralyzed. Jenny was afraid that he might be suffering a stroke. But a kind of light had come into his face, and she saw his body change, straighten, draw erect. She watched a new spirit enter him. What had been a thin construct of flesh and quivering muscle and brittle bone became sturdy and strong. As if it were an actual stream of substance, vitality filled Henry Meloux.
“Ah,” he said.
“What is it, Uncle Henry?” Rainy asked.
He put out his right hand, and it held steady in the air. “No trembling.”
“I don’t understand,” Rainy said.
“Neither did I, Niece. But it is clear to me now.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The problem and its answer are out there in the woods,” he said.
“I don’t understand what you mean, Uncle Henry?”
“I believe that you will, Niece,” he said. “Very soon.”
“This is crazy,” Aaron said. “I’m going out to talk to her.”
“She will not talk,” the old man said. “She is here for one purpose. To bring death.” He looked down at the ice chest, where the baby lay watching Jenny with quiet intent.
“Is it Noah Smalldog?” Jenny said. “He’s found us?”
“That’s not Smalldog. It’s a woman, for God sake,” Aaron said. “Henry, you point that rifle at anyone, and there will be hell to pay. Look, you all just wait here. I’ll go talk to her and clear this whole thing up.”
“No, Aaron. Please don’t go.” Jenny grabbed his arm.
“It’s all right. Really. You’ll see.”
“Henry,” Jenny pleaded.
“It is a mistake to go,” the old Mide said to Aaron. “But if it is to be done, then I will do it.”
“It’s my idea,” Aaron said stubbornly. “I’ll go. You stay here with the others. If you’re right, they’ll need someone who knows how to shoot that thing.” He smiled indulgently, gave Jenny a kiss on the cheek, opened the door, and walked out.
“What do we do, Henry?” Jenny asked desperately.
“We honor his wish.” The old man knelt at the open, screen-less window and laid the rifle across the sill. “And we cover his back.”
They gathered behind Meloux and watched Aaron cross the meadow toward the woman, who stood just inside the shadow of the trees.
“He’s right, Henry,” Jenny said, trying to convince herself. “I’m sure she’s just a lost hiker, like he said.”
The old man didn’t reply. He gripped the rifle, laid his wrinkled cheek against the stock, and sighted.
FORTY-EIGHT
Overturf flew a legendary bush plane, a De Havilland Beaver. Rigged as a floatplane, it had a maximum airspeed of 155 miles per hour. The distance from Windigo Island to Iron Lake was almost two hundred air miles. Under normal circumstances, it would have been a beautiful flight over lovely wilderness scenery and would have seemed relatively brief. But to Cork, every mile felt like ten, and every minute like an eternity.
They’d done as Kretsch suggested, gone to Amos Powassin for help. He’d listened, then had called Overturf and said what he needed. He’d told them where on Windigo Island they would find Overturf’s place. They’d found it without any problem; the De Havilland on the water was a dead giveaway. They’d docked, and as they approached, a young collie who’d been drowsing in the porch shade of the little yellow house had scrambled to his feet and began a furious racket.
“Ojibwe burglar alarm,” Cork had said, and they’d waited in the yard until the front door opened and a man stepped out. He was big and wore a ball cap and wrinkled khakis held up by red suspenders. He had on a green T- shirt with a NASCAR logo across the front, faded but unmistakable. He’d stood very still, studying them. Finally he’d said something to the dog, who’d ceased barking and sat on his haunches. The man had lifted his arm and beckoned and hollered, “You the folks Amos called about?”
He had already gassed the De Havilland, and they’d flown out immediately. He’d taken them high over Oak Island. There were four boats still at the dock, Bascombe’s launch and three others, but of the men who’d stayed behind—Tom Kretsch and Noah Smalldog and Seth Bascombe—or of those who’d come from Stump Island, nothing could be seen. And if there was yet gunfire, it couldn’t be heard over the sound of the De Havilland’s engine.
