the last man anybody would suspect. That in itself makes me wonder.”
“Did he leave a note or something?”
“Nothing.”
“So what, then? Murder?”
“Not my jurisdiction anymore. Ask Wally Schanno.”
She reached out and touched his shoulder. “It must be hard sitting on the sidelines.”
“I’m getting used to it,” he lied. “Here we are.”
Molly’s lane hadn’t been cleared and the plowing of the county road had left a steep snowbank blocking her access. Cork put the Bronco into four-wheel drive and carefully crawled over the bank. He had no trouble in the powdery snow beyond. He stopped in front of Molly’s cabin, got out, and pulled the skis from the rack. He changed to his cross-country boots, and as he bent to clip on his skis, Molly asked, “Is Henry expecting you?”
“He has a way of expecting everything,” Cork replied.
Meloux’s cabin was made of cedar and had been on its small point of the lake—Crow’s Point—for as long as anybody could remember. In winter when the other resorts were closed for the season, Meloux was Molly’s closest neighbor. Just inside the reservation boundary a mile northeast along the shoreline, Crow’s Point was visible from Molly’s sauna. As they started out onto the lake, Cork could see smoke from Meloux’s tiny cabin rising up calm and straight as you please into the perfectly still air above the pine trees. The shoreline curved away from them in a ragged arc of inlets and small rocky points. Three-quarters of the way across the ice, a long tongue of open water stuck out into the lake. It came from Half Mile Spring, a rush of water that issued from ground so near the lake that it didn’t have time to freeze in its journey.
They stayed well clear of the mouth of Half Mile Spring. Crow’s Point was rocky and steep, and they had to remove their skis to climb up to the old man’s cabin. Meloux opened the door to them even before they knocked, and he stood grinning in welcome. An old yellow dog stood patiently at his side, tongue lolling, tail wagging.
“Corcoran O’Connor,” the old man said. “I see you survived the storm.” He laughed in a way that sounded as if he were making fun of Cork’s concern for him the night before. “And Molly Nurmi. It is always good to see a neighbor’s face. Come in, you are both welcome.”
He stood aside and let them enter. The cabin was a clean and simple place, one room, with a wood stove, bunk, a rough-hewn table, and two benches. On the walls hung many objects, some from animals—a bearskin, a bow with string made from the skin of a snapping turtle and ornamented with feathers, a deer-prong pipe; some of wood—a birch-bark basket, a small toboggan, snowshoes. On the floor beside the bed lay a mat of woven cedar bark. Not far from the stove hung an old Skelly calendar—1948—with an elaborate cartoon picture of a pretty young lady in revealing shorts, bent to check her makeup in the rearview mirror, much to the delight of an admiring gas station attendant. Cork handed Meloux a pack of Lucky Strikes, which the old man accepted graciously, then Cork sniffed at the air.
“Somebody sick?” he asked. “Smells like you’ve been burning cedar.”
“I purify the air, I purify the spirit,” the old man said. “Also, I have been baking. I have baked butter-milk biscuits. Will you eat with me?”
They sat at the table and the old man brought the biscuits and butter and a clay jar of honey. “I have blackberry tea,” he told them. He turned to the stove, but before he could move toward it, the blue tea kettle jumped and rattled of its own accord. Molly jerked, startled, and the dog leaped up growling fiercely.
“Go back to sleep, Walleye,” the old man said to the dog.
“What was that?” Molly asked breathlessly.
“A Windigo is about,” Meloux replied, and went to fetch the tea. Cork explained the myth of the Windigo, the cannibal giant whose heart was ice, and Molly
“Did he leave a note or something?”
“Nothing.”
“So what, then? Murder?”
“Not my jurisdiction anymore. Ask Wally Schanno.”
She reached out and touched his shoulder. “It must be hard sitting on the sidelines.”
“I’m getting used to it,” he lied. “Here we are.”
Molly’s lane hadn’t been cleared and the plowing of the county road had left a steep snowbank blocking her access. Cork put the Bronco into four-wheel drive and carefully crawled over the bank. He had no trouble in the powdery snow beyond. He stopped in front of Molly’s cabin, got out, and pulled the skis from the rack. He changed to his cross-country boots, and as he bent to clip on his skis, Molly asked, “Is Henry expecting you?”
“He has a way of expecting everything,” Cork replied.
Meloux’s cabin was made of cedar and had been on its small point of the lake—Crow’s Point—for as long as anybody could remember. In winter when the other resorts were closed for the season, Meloux was Molly’s closest neighbor. Just inside the reservation boundary a mile northeast along the shoreline, Crow’s Point was visible from Molly’s sauna. As they started out onto the lake, Cork could see smoke from Meloux’s tiny cabin rising up calm and straight as you please into the perfectly still air above the pine trees. The shoreline curved away from them in a ragged arc of inlets and small rocky points. Three-quarters of the way across the ice, a long tongue of open water stuck out into the lake. It came from Half Mile Spring, a rush of water that issued from ground so near the lake that it didn’t have time to freeze in its journey.
They stayed well clear of the mouth of Half Mile Spring. Crow’s Point was rocky and steep, and they had to remove their skis to climb up to the old man’s cabin. Meloux opened the door to them even before they knocked, and he stood grinning in welcome. An old yellow dog stood patiently at his side, tongue lolling, tail wagging.
“Corcoran O’Connor,” the old man said. “I see you survived the storm.” He laughed in a way that sounded as if he were making fun of Cork’s concern for him the night before. “And Molly Nurmi. It is always good to see a neighbor’s face. Come in, you are both welcome.”
He stood aside and let them enter. The cabin was a clean and simple place, one room, with a wood stove, bunk, a rough-hewn table, and two benches. On the walls hung many objects, some from animals—a bearskin, a bow with string made from the skin of a snapping turtle and ornamented with feathers, a deer-prong pipe; some of wood—a birch-bark basket, a small toboggan, snowshoes. On the floor beside the bed lay a mat of woven cedar bark. Not far from the stove hung an old Skelly calendar—1948—with an elaborate cartoon picture of a pretty young lady in revealing shorts, bent to check her makeup in the rearview mirror, much to the delight of an admiring gas station attendant. Cork handed Meloux a pack of Lucky Strikes, which the old man accepted graciously, then Cork sniffed at the air.
“Somebody sick?” he asked. “Smells like you’ve been burning cedar.”
“I purify the air, I purify the spirit,” the old man said. “Also, I have been baking. I have baked butter-milk biscuits. Will you eat with me?”
They sat at the table and the old man brought the biscuits and butter and a clay jar of honey. “I have blackberry tea,” he told them. He turned to the stove, but before he could move toward it, the blue tea kettle jumped and rattled of its own accord. Molly jerked, startled, and the dog leaped up growling fiercely.
“Go back to sleep, Walleye,” the old man said to the dog.
“What was that?” Molly asked breathlessly.
“A Windigo is about,” Meloux replied, and went to fetch the tea. Cork explained the myth of the Windigo, the cannibal giant whose heart was ice, and Molly
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