Manitou Canyon by William Kent Krueger Page A

great building, all white stone, glass, and glinting copper. In the years since, an eighteen-hole golf course had been added, along with a 150-room hotel, a large restaurant with a fine wood-fired grill, and an auditorium that could seat a thousand.
    Although it was a Monday morning and long past the tourist season, the parking lot was surprisingly full. They walked into the cacophony of bells that rang out false promise and into a world without clocks because time was not an encouraged consideration in a casino. Nor was restraint. Casino profits had brought marvelous things for the Iron Lake Reservation: a good water and sewer system, paved roads, a new community and government center, a health clinic, and a number of economic initiatives. But Rainy was a healer. She was dismayed that these good things sometimes came from preying on those who battled a gambling addiction, or those who should be using their money instead to pay rent or buy food and medications.
    â€œWhat’s he look like?” Daniel asked.
    â€œOh, crap,” Rainy said. Because it wasn’t something she’d thought of. She’d figured Trevor Harris would just come down to meet them at the Four Seasons, and the difficult part would be convincing him to do the sweat. She had no idea who to look for inside a lively casino.
    She was saved by fate, although she knew that Henry might have said it was something else.
    â€œHey, Rainy. Hello, Daniel.”
    Ernie Champoux approached them. He was a relative, one of Meloux’s great-nephews. He worked at the casino in some capacity that Rainy never quite understood. Something technical.
    â€œNever figured you for a gambler, Rainy.”
    â€œI’m not here to lose money, Ernie. I’m looking for someone.”
    â€œAnybody I know?”
    â€œA man named Trevor Harris.”
    Champoux was square-built and square-faced with black hair that he wore in a crew cut. “Harris? Sure. Follow me.” He started down one of the aisles between two rows of slot machines. “How’re the wedding plans going, Daniel?”
    â€œGood.”
    â€œYou’ve hooked a good woman in Jenny. I’ve known Cork and that family my whole life. Fine people. And little Waaboo? Icing on the cake.”
    â€œAre you coming to the reception, Ernie?” Daniel asked.
    â€œWouldn’t miss it.” Ernie stopped abruptly. “There. That’s him.”
    He pointed toward a blackjack table, where a slender young man sat with an impressive stack of chips before him.
    â€œLooks like he’s winning,” Daniel said.
    â€œSeems to happen a lot for him,” Ernie replied. “One lucky son of a gun. Gotta get back to work. I’ll see you both at the wedding reception.”
    Rainy and Daniel headed to the blackjack table, where the young man sat hunched over his cards and chips.
    â€œTrevor Harris?”
    He turned his head and looked at them. His eyes were blue and a little unfocused. At his elbow sat a glass with the last of what looked like it had been a Bloody Mary. “Yes?”
    â€œCould we talk to you?”
    â€œI’m in the middle of something here.”
    â€œIt’s about your vision.”
    â€œI can see fine.”
    â€œThe vision you had about Stephen O’Connor.”
    He stared at them. “Who are you?”
    â€œMy name is Rainy Bisonette. This is my nephew Daniel English. We’re friends of the O’Connor family.”
    â€œOh, sure.”
    â€œCould we talk somewhere else?” Rainy said.
    â€œOf course. Hang on a minute.”
    He finished the hand, slid a blue chip across the table as a tip to the woman who’d been dealing, and gathered his winnings.
    â€œHow about the bar?” he suggested.
    â€œThat would be fine,” Rainy said.
    It was still early and the Boundary Waters Lounge was quiet. They sat at a table. A waitress came and took their orders: iced tea for Rainy, a Coke for Daniel, a