Red Knife by William Kent Krueger

the mail and lines appeared on his brow as he considered. “I would say it’s to love him, to respect him, to support him, to create and raise a family with him, to help as he strives in his service to God and the Church. If we look at scripture, Ephesians tells us that a wife should respect and obey her husband.”
    “What if a wife is afraid of something?”
    “Afraid of her husband?”
    “No, no. Afraid for him.”
    “Then I think she does all that she can to help him.”
    “What if he doesn’t want her help?”
    “Can you be more specific?”
    “I’m sorry, Father, I can’t.”
    “Well then, this is what I think. But, Lucinda, it’s only what I think, not necessarily advice. I think sometimes people don’t really know what they want, but I’ve never seen a situation where giving a loving hand was a mistake.” The lines on his young brow deepened and he leaned toward her confidentially. “Is there something you want to tell me, something I might be able to help with?”
    “No, Father. It’s all right. Thank you.” Misty was awake and had begun to fuss in her stroller. Hungry, Lucinda thought. “I should get home.”
    “All right, then. I’ll see you on Wednesday for the service and burial.”
    “Thank you, Father.”
    She left the church. On the sidewalk that ran along the street, she glanced back. Through his office window, behind the reflection of that cloudy day, the priest was watching.
    When she arrived home, she heard voices coming from Uly’s bedroom. Her son had stayed home from school that day, something she’d insisted on, although Will had pressed for Uly to proceed with life as usual. It was rare that Will gave in to her, but in this she’d prevailed. She took Misty from the stroller and as she headed to the baby’s room, she stopped and knocked on her son’s door. He didn’t answer, and she knocked again, louder, and called, “Uly?”
    He opened the door and looked at her without speaking, looked at her as if she was an unwelcome stranger.
    “I thought I heard you talking to someone,” she said.
    Lucinda saw that the chair at Uly’s computer desk was occupied. From the clothing the visitor wore—all black—and the black-dyed hair, she knew immediately that it was Darrell Gallagher, a boy Uly hung out with a lot these days. Darrell didn’t acknowledge her, didn’t even look away from the computer screen, where he was probably surfing the Internet. He and Uly spent a good deal of time on the Internet, communicating with people in cyberspace. She wished Uly would spend more time with real people in real space.
    “I was just chilling with Darrell,” he said.
    “Why isn’t he in school?”
    “He took the day off to keep me company, okay?”
    “Yes. Of course.” She tried to think of it as a nice thing for a friend to do.
    Uly smiled at the baby. “How’s Misty doing?”
    “She’s fine.”
    “Hey there, chiquita. ” He gently stroked the baby’s cheek. “Later, Mom.” He closed the bedroom door against her.

SEVENTEEN
    A fter his talk with Meloux, Cork stopped at the sheriff’s department, but neither Marsha Dross, Ed Larson, nor Simon Rutledge was there. He left word for the sheriff to call him on his cell, then he turned to the chore he’d meant to do that day before the Kingbird killings had grabbed his attention.
    He had closed Sam’s Place the week after Halloween. November was always a grim month. The fall colors vanished. The stands of maple, oak, birch, and poplar lost their brilliance and became stark and bare. The days were blustery and overcast. The lake was gray, agitated, and empty. The flow of customers to Sam’s Place dried to a trickle. He’d put plywood over the serving windows and hung a sign that read: THANKS FOR YOUR BUSINESS. SEE YOU NEXT SPRING. He’d tipped the picnic table against the big pine beside the lake, turned off the gas to the grill, emptied and shut down the freezer for the winter. That part of the old Quonset hut devoted