said.
In the back, Meloux snorted in his deep slumber.
“I don’t understand Henry,” Schanno said. He snapped the cylinder closed. “Why worry about his son after seventy years? What good could it do him?”
“This isn’t about his own good. Henry’s worried about his son.”
“He oughta be. We all know Morrissey wasn’t after any pocket watch. Just between you and me, I think Henry’s setting himself up for a big fall. What kind of son would behave like this Wellington?”
“A sick one. That’s what Henry believes anyway. He also believes he can help.”
“There are some people-and you understand I’m not one of them-who are going to say Henry’s just out to get something, maybe a piece of Wellington’s fortune.”
“Anybody says that, they don’t know Henry. Hell, he’s never taken a cent of the distribution he’s due from the rez’s casino profits. He had Jo set up a fund. The money goes directly into it. After he’s gone, it’ll be used for college scholarships for Shinnobs.”
“A guy like Henry, you’ve got to admit, Cork, seems too good to be true.”
A horrible smell invaded the Bronco. I looked at Schanno and he looked at me. We both looked back at Meloux, who smiled in his sleep.
“I should have warned you about Henry and beans,” I said. “Jesus, roll your window down.”
Schanno took a deep breath of the fresh air that rushed in. “What I just said about Henry? You can forget it.”
After five hours on the road and nearly three hundred additional miles on my old Bronco’s odometer, we came to the outskirts of a small town called Flame Lake. It was the first sign of civilization we’d seen in a long time. Mostly, there’d been the gray pavement down the middle of an endless green corridor, with the occasional blue relief of a lake to break the monotony. Benning pulled off into a roadside park along a little river, and we followed him. He stopped, got out, and came to my side of the Bronco.
I was watching for the SUV in the mirror. So was Schanno. He had his loaded Colt in the glove box.
“Wait here,” Benning said.
“What for?”
“I have to make a call. I’ve got to use a phone in town. Cells don’t work up here. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
“No choice, I guess.”
“That’s right.”
Benning headed off in his Explorer. I got out, walked to the road, and looked back the way we’d come. I hadn’t seen the SUV pass by us, and I wondered where it was. I had to look hard, but I could see it, pulled way off to the side. If we tried to head back to Thunder Bay at this point, it could easily cut us off. I thought about swinging the Bronco around and going back, just to see who it was. My guess was Dougherty. But Wellington was a man with unlimited resources, so, hell, it could have been anybody or, more likely, a platoon of anybodies.
Schanno came up beside me. “What do you think?”
“If they’ve got something up their sleeves, I doubt it’ll happen here. We’ll just have to be careful.”
Schanno grunted, and I took that for agreement.
Meloux had climbed out, too. We were in an area of rugged hills covered with boreal growth, mostly jack pine and black spruce. Meloux stood near a picnic table and studied the hills. There was a little map posted near the parking area. It showed a lake-Flame Lake- curling in a long, lazy, ten-mile arc to the west of the town. It also showed the Flame Lake Mine, a few miles west of where we stood.
I walked to Meloux, who’d climbed onto the picnic table. Like an extra couple of feet would improve his view.
“What do you think, Henry? Familiar?” I asked.
“Seventy years, Corcoran O’Connor. A long time to remember anything. And these old eyes…” He shook his head and slowly climbed down.
The Explorer came back. Benning poked his head out the window. He still had on his shades. “Through town,” he instructed. “At the intersection, keep straight on. Stay well back from me, though. Understand?”
“Not exactly, but I get your drift,” I replied.
The town, what there was to it, was laid out at the eastern end of the lake. It reminded me of a lot of small towns on the Iron Range of Minnesota, places that had exploded with a burly energy when the iron mines were operating, but had had the wind knocked out of them once the operations shut down. Along the one-block business district, several storefronts were vacant. Among those still open were a grocery store, a couple of bars, and a little Mexican restaurant with a sign in the window hyping the blue margaritas. The variety store, a place called the Outpost that sold clothing, sporting goods, hardware, hunting and fishing licenses, and Minnetonka moccasins, seemed to be doing okay. We passed it all quickly and followed Benning north, out of town.
A couple of miles farther on we came to a turnoff onto another road that curved along the shoreline of Flame Lake. A large sign was posted at the intersection: PRIVATE ROAD, NO TRESPASSING. We took the turnoff and headed west on the private road. I tried to stay far enough back from the Explorer that we weren’t eating the dust it kicked up. The cloud my Bronco left behind us kept me from seeing if the green SUV was still following.
After eight miles of this, the road ended. Benning pulled up before an expansive, two-story log house built on the lakeshore. It wasn’t a new structure, but it had been well cared for. The logs were pine the color of dark honey. There were green shutters on the windows. A small apron of grass separated the house from the surrounding trees. Beds of flowers lined the foundation. We parked behind Benning, who got out and walked to the Bronco.
“Wait here. I’ll let Mr. Wellington know you’ve arrived.” He left us, jogged up the steps to the front porch, and went in the door.
Meloux slid from the Bronco and headed around the side of the house, toward the lake.
“Henry?” I called.
He didn’t pay any attention. Schanno and I followed him. Meloux crossed the backyard, which was maybe a hundred feet of coarse grass, and stood at the edge of the lake, staring across the water toward the ridges on the far side.
We stayed back, giving him the space and time he seemed to need.
With his back to us, he said, “I stood here and watched Maria swim.”
“Here? You’re sure?”
“She was like an otter, sleek and beautiful.”
For the first time since I’d brought him north across the border, he sounded deeply satisfied. I felt happy for him.
“Hey!”
We turned toward the house. Benning had come out onto the large rear deck.
“Inside,” he called. He jammed his thumb toward the sliding glass door that stood open at his back. “Mr. Wellington is waiting.”
FORTY-FIVE
We mounted the steps of the back deck and trailed Benning into the house. It was furnished sparely, but what was there was beautifully made. The whole place was strongly scented with the good smell of wood smoke, a scent comforting and welcoming, the essence, it had always seemed to me, of where the human experience and the wilderness met.
Benning led us to a room at the southwest end of the house. It was full of books and sunlight and Henry Wellington.
He was less imposing than the legends about him suggested. He stood six feet at most, taut, slender. His hair was white and thick. For a man of seventy, he had skin that was remarkably smooth and unblemished. His dark eyes regarded us calmly. He was dressed in white drawstring pants and a loose shirt of white cotton. He wore sandals. He didn’t offer to shake hands, but he did invite us to sit, and he offered us something to drink. We
