Free Mercy Falls by William Kent Krueger Page A

he did that?”
    “He appreciated the culture?”
    “He was in love. With my Grandma Dilsey, who convinced him to do the right thing. He was a decent man, but it was my grandmother who guided his heart. People on the rez respected my grandfather but they loved Grandma Dilsey.
    “My mother chose to marry a white man, too. And a law enforcement officer, to boot. My father was a man of strong beliefs. He tried to be fair, and I think he did a pretty good job of it, but not everybody saw it that way. A lot of white folks called him a squaw man behind his back, like they did my grandfather. The Anishinaabeg called him odeimin . Know what that means?”
    Rutledge shook his head.
    “Strawberry.”
    “Because of his sweet disposition?”
    “His ruddy Irish complexion. Now here I am, a little Indian and a lot of Irish. When folks, white or Shinnob, don’t like what I’m doing, often as not they blame it on my blood.” Cork glanced at Rutledge who was looking at the sky. “You find anyone who seemed pissed enough to shoot me dead?”
    “You know the Ojibwe. For all the emotion they showed, I might as well have been talking to sticks. Nothing they told me was very useful.” He yawned. It had been a long day for him, too. “We’ve got an agent in St. Paul who’s going to St. Joseph’s Hospital tomorrow to interview Lydell Cramer. We’ll see what he has to say for himself.”
    Cork heard the dismissive tone of his voice. “But?”
    “I’ve got to tell you, the Indian connection seems pretty strong. Whoever the shooter was, he knew the territory, knew the Tibodeaus’ schedule, and knew it would most likely be you who responded to the call.”
    “Could mean it’s just someone who’s a good strategist.”
    “You make it sound like a war.”
    “I don’t think it’s over. Do you?” Cork said.
    Rutledge put his hands in his pockets, hunched his shoulders. “He went to a lot of trouble and didn’t get what he wanted. No, I don’t think it’s over.”
    Cork looked up and down the empty street. “Then it is a war. What do we do in the meantime?”
    “Follow up on the tire castings and see what ballistics can tell us about the weapon.” He saw Cork scrutinizing the neighborhood. “Worried?”
    “He drew me out where there wouldn’t be witnesses. I don’t think he’ll try anything here.”
    “Even so, it might be best to confine yourself to your office for a while. No rural calls.”
    “I’m not going to hide, Simon.”
    “That’s not what I meant.”
    “I won’t be stupid.”
    “All right.” Rutledge started down the porch steps. “I’ll be in touch.”
    Cork watched the agent get into his car and drive away. Night was pressing hard against the last stubborn light of day. He stood a few minutes longer on the front porch, peering deeply into the places where night and shadow already met. He turned his back to the street, felt a prickle run the length of his spine, the brief anticipation of a bullet, then he stepped inside.

8
     
    H E WAS FOLLOWING his father through a stretch of pine woods he didn’t recognize, following him at a distance. Liam O’Connor loped ahead, a giant of a man, putting more and more distance between himself and his son with each stride. He broke through shafts of sunlight, flashing brilliant for a moment, all gold. In the next instant he dropped into shadow. Cork tried to call out to him, to bring him back, but his jaw felt rusted shut, and all he could push through his lips was a desperate, incoherent moan. He struggled to run faster, to catch up so that he could throw his arms around his father and hold him forever. From somewhere in the pine boughs above came the harsh taunts of crows. He realized that everything around him had been perfectly still until the birds shattered the silence, and he became afraid. The cawing turned into the rattle of gunfire, and he saw that it was not his father he was chasing but Marsha Dross. As he watched, blood bloomed on the blouse of