08-A Thousand Bones, page 30
She glanced at Holt, walking at her left. His face was streaked with tears he was not wiping away. She looked to her right, at Mike. Everything about him seemed crystallized. The stiff draw of his lips, the razor crease of his uniform, and the steeled set of shoulders. By default, he was now Acting Sheriff, forced into the role of a different man, a different cop.
The procession left the concrete of Manitou Trail and moved onto the soft grass of the cemetery. They passed under two sentry pines and into the swaying shadows of the graveyard. She saw a white canopy ahead, the riotous colors of the funeral bouquets, a lectern on a raised platform.
They broke ranks as they neared the gravesite, the officers from other agencies spreading out in a wide half-circle. The horses stopped, and someone barked a command.
Joe joined Mike and Holt at the rear of the caisson, and together, with three other officers, they slid Leach’s casket off the platform, hefted it to their shoulders, and waited while six other officers did the same for Mack.
The casket was heavy, the ground uneven, her view blurred by tears she had no will to stop. She stumbled and felt the others raise the casket slightly, taking the weight off her shoulder. When they set it down, they stepped away and paused for a second before making the turn on their heels to assume their positions in the front row.
The Leelanau sheriff’s office deputies lined up shoulder to shoulder. Joe stood in the center, between Mike and Holt. The mayor stepped up to make a short speech. He was followed by a minister from the Lutheran church.
Joe let her eyes drift, taking in the endless rows of uniforms, the colors more vivid now. The blues deeper. The browns more solemn. The hundreds of motionless white gloves.
When the minister finished his speech, Mike broke from the line of deputies and walked to the lectern, holding a sheet of paper. He flattened the paper with his white-gloved palm and started to speak, but his gaze was drawn to the cemetery entrance.
Joe followed it. A state cruiser moved silently toward them and came to a stop on the edge of the grass. A trooper emerged from the driver’s side and opened the back door, sticking his hand into the rear seat to help someone out.
It was Rafsky.
He wore a state uniform. Blue campaign hat, dark blue trousers with a stripe, navy parade dress coat, with state patches and gold and black braids. The coat was draped over his shoulders to accommodate his heavily bandaged right arm and chest. He started across the grass, and when his step faltered, the trooper put a hand on Rafsky’s elbow to steady him.
Mike stood poised and silent, waiting.
As Rafsky made his way to the front row, he stopped as if unsure where he should stand. Joe moved sideways, making room. He stepped in next to her.
Mike cleared his throat and smoothed his paper, holding his palm against it to keep it from blowing away. The crowd of family members, friends, townspeople, and law enforcement officers fell into silence, waiting.
“A week ago,” Mike said, “we were a small department of seven. Today, we number only five. Our loss is great, and our sorrow is deep, but it comforts us to know that we are not alone in our grief. We are comforted to know that the pain we thought we were to shoulder as only five is eased by the sharing of it by so many others. And because of that, we will endure.
“We are angry, we are broken. We are leaderless, and we are lost. But because of the strength and the goodness and the gentle wisdom of the men we lay to rest today, we will endure.”
Mike paused, his eyes down, his hands still spread across the paper in front of him.
“Our home, the home Cliff Leach and Julian Mack loved so much and protected with their hearts and their lives, has been invaded. Our beauty has been violated. Our serenity shattered. Our crystal streams bloodied. But in that same beauty we find our vision. And in the echo of gunshots we find our direction. And in the bloodiness of our waters we find clarity. And because of that, we will endure.”
Joe closed her eyes against the sting of the wind.
“We say goodbye today to two family members. Two men who made law enforcement their life,” Mike went on. “Julian Mack wore a badge for twenty-one years. He was stubborn, sometimes funny, sometimes harsh, often difficult. But he was a man with the purest of motives. He sought only to mend the hearts of other families by bringing home to them a loved one who had been lost.
“Clifford Leach…”
Mike paused and tried to clear his throat. The moment lengthened before he finally went on. “Clifford Leach. Our leader, our teacher, our friend. The hole he leaves in our department and in our hearts will never be filled.
“These men died in the cold, and today we bury them in the same cold. But I believe both these men would ask that you not stand angry at the cold images of how they died but wrap yourself in the warmth and kindness of how they lived.”
Mike did not raise his eyes. He slowly gathered up the paper and walked away from the lectern.
They folded the flags into triangles. Since neither Leach nor Mack were married, both were presented to Mike. Then came the gun salute. The first one jarred Joe’s bones, and she shut her eyes against the image that exploded in her head. She kept her eyes closed through the next two, not opening them until the echo faded.
It was over.
She grabbed a hard breath and wiped her eyes with the Kleenex she had been holding since Mike started his speech. She turned to Rafsky. He was fighting to stay on his feet, face drawn in pain and sadness, eyes gentle and dry. She wiped her face and stuffed the wadded Kleenex into her jacket pocket.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
She looked away from him, at the caskets, the ribbons of brown and blue, the white mums, and finally back at him. “I don’t know yet,” she said. “I need some time. But I’ll be okay. My mother is here with me now.”
Rafsky took a quick scan of the crowd. “Where is Brad?” he asked softly.
“He’s gone home.”
A pause, then, “I’m sorry.”
She shrugged and sighed, again meeting his eyes. There was nothing in them but exhaustion and a tightening grimace of pain.
“How are you doing?” she asked.
He gave her an awkward nod and a shake of his head, as if he had no true answer. “I’m going to Detroit for more surgery,” he said. “Then home to Gaylord for a while.”
He shifted his weight, letting out a small cough that seemed to trigger another spasm of pain through his body. He shut his eyes for a moment, letting it pass.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “If I hadn’t called you—”
“Don’t do that to yourself,” he said quickly. “You were doing your job. I was doing mine.”
She fell quiet, feeling more tears, wishing she still had the Kleenex in her hand. He dug in his pocket for a handkerchief and handed it to her. Behind him, the trooper stepped forward and spoke softly.
“Sir, we should get you back now.”
Rafsky gave him a nod and turned back to Joe. “I guess this is goodbye.”
She hesitated, then held out a gloved hand. “Goodbye, Rafsky.”
“Goodbye, Frye,” he said.
He squeezed her hand and then let it go. He turned, reaching for the trooper’s arm. She watched him walk away, past the caskets and the mums. When he reached the car, the trooper took the coat off his shoulders and opened the door. Rafsky slipped inside. A few minutes later, he was gone.
III
HUNGER MOON
44
He had never seen a place so empty. Not a thing to see but the endless sea of ice and the tall pines, their branches bowed with snow. Not a thing to hear but the harsh breath of the north wind as the storm drifted in.
And not a thing to do but think. And remember.
Roland sat down on the floor in front of the fireplace, legs crossed, shotgun across his knees. His eyes drifted to the newspapers scattered on the floor. He had tried to collect all of them over the last few weeks, and it had been easy at first, because even the Canadian papers carried the story. But after a week or so, there was less and less mention of him, and he had finally resorted to writing to the Echo Bay newspaper and sending money for a subscription so he could find out what was happening down there.
The Echo Bay Banners came every few days, when the postman could get through. And Roland would snatch them from the mailbox and read each page two or three times. He read about the grieving mothers and how they had all gone home now. Read about the two dead cops and about the investigator with the ice-blue eyes and how he survived a blast that almost ripped his body apart. Read, too, about the woman cop he had left hanging in the woods. Read about her bravery and saw her picture so many times he thought he’d be sick.
And he read about Kenny and how he had been buried without a ceremony in the Leelanau County cemetery. The same place Dad was buried.
What do you boys want to do with your father’s body?
We don’t have any money to pay for taking him home, sir. Can he be buried up here in Leelanau?
Roland knew almost every article by heart. The newspapers didn’t speculate about where he was, and he knew the cops would assume he had come to Canada. But they would never find him here, in this remote cabin at the end of this empty road. He’d been lucky finding this place himself. And finding that man living here alone, a man no one seemed to care about. He had let Roland in, thinking Roland was stranded in the snow. Two minutes later, the man was dead. Roland settled into the cabin, eating the man’s food, using his firewood, and sleeping in his bed.
He had even used his name—Otis Deppert—when he called to get the Echo Bay Banner subscription.
Roland held his hands to the fire, hearing a soft rumble move his stomach.
There had been enough food and firewood so that he had not had to leave the cabin for two weeks. But when he opened the last can of stew, he realized he would have to go hunt his own food. It was then he started missing Kenny, because Kenny had always been good at things like that.
You’re a fucking animal, Roland!
But Kenny was gone.
Finally, there had been no choice but to go into the woods. He had set out, shotgun in hand, desperate to hear the skitter of an animal. Any animal. But even they were silent and hidden, sleeping maybe in an attempt to stave off their hunger until spring.
Will you read the book to me, Mommie?
No, you are too young to know the legend. It will scare you.
Then, one night, sitting by the fire as he was doing now, he watched the dance of the flames and listened to the howl of the wolves and the fierce rush of wind. And he suddenly knew what he needed to do.
He would use the weakened state of his body and his gnawing hunger. He would use it in a vision quest for salvation. Outside, he built his bed of pine branches, and for five days, he sat there looking to the sky, tired and hungry and hoping.
The spirit did not come.
I’m not scared, Mommie. Please read it to me.
It is a large creature, as tall as the trees, with big jagged teeth and fearsome breath. Its footprints leave a trail of blood. And when the hunger comes, it hunts, and it eats any man, woman, or child it finds. And those, my son, are the lucky ones.
Roland shivered and moved closer to the fire, bringing his hands up to his face. He felt the unfamiliar prickle of a ragged beard, and he could smell the stink of his unwashed body. There was no mirror in this cabin, and he wondered if he looked different, wondered what he would see in his own eyes, wondered if they now reflected what was inside him. He wondered, would he even recognize himself anymore?
He looked down at the shotgun in his lap. Kenny’s old gun. The one Kenny had shot his first deer with. The one he had killed Dad with.
Dad! Please don’t tie me up. Don’t tie me to the hoist!
I’m going to teach your whiny little ass that there’s nothing out here in these goddamn woods to be afraid of.
Kenny! Help me.
Dad! What are you doing to him? What the hell are you doing? You know he’s afraid. Why do you treat him this way? Stop it!
Mind your mouth, Ken. Go back inside the cabin.
No!
Get back inside.
Shick-shuck. BOOM!
Roland ran a finger down the shotgun and tipped it upright and stared into the barrel. The odor of gunpowder filled his nose.
Tell me more about the legend, Mommie.
Sometimes, my son, the Windigo will choose to possess a person instead. But then the person becomes a Windigo, hunting down those in his tribe and feasting upon their flesh.
He set the butt of the gun on the floor and rested his head against the barrel. No spirit would come here. He knew that now. It was too late.
He set the gun down and stood up suddenly. He walked to the back door of the cabin and threw it open. The man’s body lay in the backyard, covered by a blanket of snow. He went to it and knelt down, brushing the snow from the man’s face and neck.
The blood from his slashed throat looked like black mud on his face and collar. Roland drew his knife from his belt and pressed the blade against the man’s face. He dug out a piece of frozen flesh, holding it in his palm.
Kenny?
Oh, God, Kenny!
Stop screaming, Ro.
You shot Dad! You shot him in the face. I got his blood on me. Get it off! Get it off!
Hold still, Ro. Hold still!
Oh, God. I have something in my mouth…oh, God!
Roland shut his eyes as he placed the flesh in his mouth. It was hard, tough, and almost tasteless, like pork cooked too long and left in the air. Not what he expected. He swallowed it, waiting for something to happen in his body. A feeling of power, or satisfaction, but there was nothing but the lingering dryness on his tongue.
He knew what was wrong. The man was dead. They weren’t supposed to be dead when eaten. He went quickly back inside the cabin and rummaged through the cupboards for the last few crackers. There were three, and he took one out and nibbled on it, to get the taste of the man’s flesh out of his mouth.
How do you kill a Windigo, Mommie?
It takes a very worthy warrior, Roland. The warrior must kill the Windigo and then burn its body to ashes. Only then will it remain dead.
As Roland ate the last cracker, he turned slowly, scanning the cabin. The fire was dying, and he knew there was no more wood. The lamp was flickering and he knew there was no more kerosene. Soon, he would be left alone in the cold darkness, and he knew he would die here.
The woman, the one he had left hanging in the woods…
He went back to the living room and spread the newspapers out on the floor. His eyes locked on a photograph.
She stared back at him, daring him to come back for her. Was she the warrior? Is that what gave her the strength to get out of the tree? Did she have powers the others didn’t have? And if she did, and he were to consume her, what kind of power would he then have?
He picked up the paper and folded it. He thrust it into the dying fire and watched it burn.
45
Joe stood on the backyard deck, robe clutched tightly around her, watching the snow fall. The hours were drifting like the snow. The days were melting together. When she thought about it, she knew it had been twenty-one days. But most of the time, she didn’t think about it. The strength she had found in the first few days after the ambush had waned quickly, and she wondered now how long it would be before she didn’t wake up in sweat-soaked sheets or feel the need to escape into long afternoon naps.
“You’re going to catch cold out there,” Florence called.
Joe didn’t move, her eyes drawn up to a small plane puttering across the gray sky. She watched it until it vanished over the tips of the pines, then she turned and went back inside the cottage.
The living room was strewn with Christmas decorations. A rainbow of flashing lights snaked across the floor. Chips ambled into the room, strips of silver hanging from his snout.
“Ma,” she said, “Chips chewed open a box of tinsel.”
“At least someone around here wants to celebrate the holidays.”
Joe picked the tinsel off Chips and wandered to the kitchen for her fourth cup of coffee. Florence gave her a look as she passed, then went back to her astrology chart. Her books were spread on the table in front of her.
“When are you going back to work?” Florence asked.
“I told you, Ma, I’m not sure,” she said, pouring her coffee. The doctor had released her to go back this coming Monday, but Joe had not yet called Mike to let him know. Maybe it was because she knew there was nothing she could do to find Roland Trader. Or maybe it was the idea of having to put her hands on a suspect and not being able to physically deal with him. Or maybe it was the thought of facing the male deputies and seeing the pity in their faces.
Or maybe it was just the nagging question that still kept her awake night after night: Why had Roland Trader left her alive?
Her eyes wandered to the newspapers lying on the countertop. Three weeks’ worth. Joe wasn’t sure why she kept them. Maybe for the same reason Leach had kept all those articles on John Norman Collins.
She pulled the top one to her. Theo had given daily coverage to the case and the ambush. Yesterday, he had run a feature on local Indian lore and had printed all twelve moon symbols. She wondered what kind of chaos that was causing Kellerman. It was an open invitation for copycats to mark up trees all over the state.
“Do you know the birth date of this Trader guy?” Florence asked.
“Ma, come on,” Joe said.
“What can it hurt?”
Joe took a sip of coffee, the idea of her mother doing an astrology chart on Roland Trader knotting her stomach. She didn’t want Roland Trader anywhere inside her home in any form. But even as she thought that, a date popped into her head. She must have read it somewhere in the paperwork.
“October 17, 1948,” Joe murmured.
