Iron Lake by William Kent Krueger Page A

the snowmobile tracks toward the small copse of trees that hid the old foundry. Beyond that was Sam’s Place, and Cork would be waiting. She loved to push her body, to feel how strong it was, how she could ask so much of it and it would deliver. Her body was the only thing she’d ever known that was so reliable, and she took care of it religiously. In summer she ran the forested, back roads or swam long distances in the lake. Winters, she skiied every chance she got. She fed her body in healthy ways, eschewing caffeine and alcohol especially. There had been a time in her life when she wouldn’t have bet money on living past twenty-one. Now she sometimes felt wonderfully invulnerable, as if she could live forever. In a life that had been spent mostly running away from the past, she felt she’d finally come to rest somewhere full of hope.

    As she broke from the trees and saw Cork standing near his Bronco watching her approach, she thought it had been a long journey to reach the place she’d come to, nearly thirty years. But she was glad to be there.

    “I love this snow!” she exclaimed as she stopped beside the Bronco. She opened her arms in a gesture as if hugging the whole world. “I love winter. I adore everything about it.” She leaned to him and kissed him passionately. “And I adore you.”

    “Let’s get those skis on the Bronco,” he said.

    Molly saw that he had his own skis—old wooden things—already on the rack. “We’re going skiing? Together?”

    “I’m using your place as starting point to ski to Meloux’s.”

    “Let’s start from here,” she suggested.

    “Are you kidding? I’d die. Come on, off with those skis. I’ll drive you home.”

    Molly released the toe clips and stepped out. Cork put the skis on the rack and tossed her poles in back with his. He held the door of the Bronco open for her, then got in behind the wheel and pulled away from the Quonset hut. Molly took off her stocking cap and shook out her hair. The heat from her body and the moisture from her sweat steamed the windows and Cork kicked the defrost fan up a couple of notches. Molly watched him closely.

    “You’ve been thinking about Sam Winter Moon and Arnold Stanley,” she said.

    He was surprised, but tried not to show it. “What makes you think so?”

    “I can always tell. Your face gets like a mess of old knotted-up rope.” Molly slid across the seat so that she was against him. “I’ve got an idea. Let’s go to my place, do the sauna, roll in the snow, and screw ourselves blind. That’ll take the knots right out of you, I guarantee.”

    “Can’t,” Cork said.

    Molly ran her hand slowly up his thigh. “Not true.” She smiled.

    “I mean I don’t have time right now. Like I said, I’m on my way to see Henry Meloux.”

    “All right.” She shrugged and slid back across the seat. “Your loss.”

    Although she said it without malice, Cork still felt guilty. “Want to come with me?”

    They turned off onto County Road AA, which curved around the north end of the lake toward Molly’s place and the thick pines of the Superior National Forest. Meloux’s cabin stood on a piece of reservation land just beyond.

    “Does Meloux have anything to do with the judge?” she asked as she watched the endless snowbanks sliding past.

    “You heard, huh?”

    “This isn’t exactly New York City, Cork. Death here is big news. Was it awful?”

    “I’ve seen worse.”

    “Is that supposed to impress me?”

    Cork said, “I put Jo through law school by being a cop in the worst part of Chicago. I saw a lot in those days.” He drove a little way and, out of the corner of his eye, saw the pinched look of disapproval on Molly’s face. “You’re right,” he admitted. “You never get used to something like that. It was pretty bad.”

    “It’s odd. He was just about the last man I would have suspected of suicide.”

    “If it was suicide.”

    “What do you mean?”

    “Like you said, he was