Purgatory Ridge by William Kent Krueger Page A

to think. There was only one reason he wanted to go, and he knew if he thought about it too much, he’d have hated himself. Not enough time had passed since the days when Jo had lied to him about the places she was going and who she would be with and what they would do. He’d believed her then. Against all evidence. Now he had to see. He had to see her on the reservation. He hoped she was following up on Charlie
    Warren. But God help him, he had to know absolutely.
    He pulled into Alouette a little before noon and stopped at LeDuc’s store. Inside, he found George LeDuc standing beside the magazine rack at the broad front window, staring down the street.
    “
Anin
, George,” Cork said, using the traditional Anishinaabe greeting.
    “
Anin
, Cork.” The darkness in LeDuc’s face came from more than just the genetic coloring of his skin. “You’re the first person to walk through that door today who wasn’t a reporter.”
    “Bad, huh?”
    LeDuc shook his head. “I don’t have any answers for them, except that Charlie Warren wasn’t the kind of man to make bombs.”
    “What was he doing out there?”
    “Got me.” LeDuc walked to the counter where the cash register sat, reached into a tall glass jar, and drew out a stick of beef jerky. He offered it to Cork, who waved it off. LeDuc tore off a bit and worked the tough meat around in his mouth. “It was always Charlie Warren’s voice advising us to be patient, be reasonable, be strong. This just doesn’t make sense.”
    “Have you talked to your guests?”
    Cork was speaking of the scores of tents that had been erected in the new park just north of town. The tribal council had voted to open the site to those who’d come to Aurora to join them in the battle to save Our Grandfathers. They represented a variety of interests and were almost entirely white.
    “They didn’t know Charlie Warren. When I speak with them, they nod, but I see distrust in their eyes.” He swallowed jerky and took a deep breath.
    Cork saw something in LeDuc’s own dark almond eyes. “You don’t trust them, either.”
    “We fight a different cause, Cork. They want all logging halted. We’re just interested in protecting Our Grandfathers. They don’t seem to care that if all logging is prohibited, we suffer, too.”
    Cork knew he was speaking of the mill in Brandywine, the other community on the rez. The mill was operated by the Iron Lake Ojibwe and was supplied with timber cut by Ojibwe loggers.
    “Like always, they have their own agenda. It’s not really about helping us Shinnobs.” He stepped back to the front window again and stared down the street. “Another thing. They don’t often shower.”
    “George,” Cork asked finally, “have you seen Jo?”
    “Not today. I called her office and left a message. She out here?”
    His stomach gave a little twist. “I thought so.”
    “Tell her we need to talk. If you see her.”
    “I’ll do that.”
    Cork walked through Alouette. The distance from one end of town to the other was just over half a mile. A few years earlier, most of the three or four dozen houses and trailers in town were in desperate need of renovation or bulldozing. Now the influence of the casino could be seen in new siding and shingles and paint. Old cars still sat on blocks in the backyards, but there were new vehicles in the drives. And money didn’t mean that a man who didn’t cut his grass before would cut it now. Still, on the whole, Alouette wore a new look. Within the last two years, a big community center had been built, as well as a clinic run by the People and staffed by a doctor, a physician’s assistant,and two nurses, all Ojibwe Anishinaabe. The businesses—LeDuc’s store, Medina’s Mobile station, and the Makwa Café—were all doing well and looked it.
    The heat was oppressive. As much as possible, Cork stayed in the shade of the huge oaks that lined the street. When he didn’t see Jo’s car at the community center, he simply kept