At first light, they hit Mudd Lake. The tall man, the woman, and Lindsay took the lead canoe. Cork and the kid followed in the other. They’d cut Cork’s hands free so that he could handle a paddle. The tall man had warned him again against attempting to escape. The woman gave him a look that told him she’d love to have him try.
The kid had limped badly that morning. The tall man had looked at the stitches.
“Inflamed. Probably some infection. How’s it feeling?”
“Hurts, but I’ll make it,” the kid had said.
“No other choice,” the tall man had told him. “We’ll get you looked at as soon as we’re out.”
On the water now, the kid sat in the stern on his pack and kept his leg stretched out in front of him and didn’t lean hard into his work. That was fine with Cork. He was tired from his sleepless night and gave his own effort less than his all. As a result, their canoe slipped farther and farther behind the other.
The sun had risen and cracked the hold of the deep chill the night before. Cork felt warmed and, in a way, buoyed. He hadn’t been able to spirit Lindsay Harris to safety, but he knew that he had time now to figure out a different plan. From what he’d overheard of the tall man’s sat phone conversation, he understood that whoever was supposed to pick them up and fly them out was, at the moment, behind bars somewhere. Also, he’d heard the tall man mention the RCMP, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. The party was headed north, and there was nothing north but Canada. Without a plane to fly them out, it would take a lot of paddling and a lot of portaging to get there. He looked at the blue sky and knew time wouldn’t be the only thing he’d need. The good weather would have to hold, which, if winter came in the usual way, would be asking a lot.
“I’ve got a son about your age,” Cork said. “His name’s Stephen. What’s your name?”
Behind him, the kid said, “Doesn’t matter.”
“Is that French?”
He heard the kid laugh.
“O’Connor,” the kid said. “Irish?”
“Some. Anishinaabe, too.”
“Shinnob? Us, too. Odawa.”
“Flynn’s death was an accident,” Cork said. “I hope he wasn’t related to you.”
“He claimed to be by clan,” the kid said. “Not blood. I don’t know if it was true.”
“I’m Ma’iingan,” Cork said. Wolf Clan.
“Makwa,” the kid said. Bear Clan.
“The others? Odawa, too?”
“My uncle. Mrs. Gray and Flynn, Ojibwe, I think, like you. They’re from another reserve. I don’t know which one. I don’t know anything about them, really. Didn’t even know his name was Flynn until she said it. Before that he was just Mr. Gray, like she’s just Mrs. Gray. Didn’t know he was her brother, either. I figured they were married.”
“If you don’t know them, why are they with you?”
“Fox brought them in to help.”
“Fox?”
The kid must have realized he was talking too much, and Cork got no answer.
“What do you all have against Harris and his granddaughter?”
Again, the kid didn’t reply.
“Kidnapping’s a pretty big deal. It’ll get you thrown in jail for a long time.”
Cork glanced over his shoulder, and the kid gave him a dark look.
“Ever been in jail?”
“Don’t talk anymore,” the kid said. “Just paddle.”
At the north end of Mudd, they portaged along a thread of water nearly a mile to the next lake. Cork tried to remember the lake’s name and if it was one he’d been on before. But there were so many in the Boundary Waters, he couldn’t pull up any recollection. The portage, however, was a new twist because it was common knowledge that there wasn’t an easy way onto or off Mudd Lake. As far as Cork could tell, the tall man in the lead wasn’t consulting a map. He seemed to have a good sense of the land and where they were headed.
When the sun was directly overhead, they put in to a little cove and the woman pulled food from one of the packs—beef sticks, nuts, and an orange, which she gave to the kid. They sat on the shore in the warm sunshine and ate, and for a long time no one said a word.
“Quetico by sundown,” Cork said.
“Shut up,” the woman said.
“Quetico?” Lindsay Harris said. “We’re crossing into Canada?”
The tall man said, “The border is only a line on a map.”
“Aandi wenjibaayan?” Cork said. Where are you from?
The tall man eyed him, and although he didn’t respond, Cork knew that he understood.
“You’re Odawa,” Cork said. “Anishinaabe like me.”
“You’re wayaabishkiiwed,” the tall man said. A white man.
“He’s chimook,” the woman said. White bastard.
“Anishinaabe indaaw,” Cork said. I am Anishinaabe.
“In your heart?” the tall man questioned. “Would you die for The People?”
“Is that what you’re planning on doing?” Cork looked at the kid. “All of you?”
“I’m gonna shut you up,” the woman said and started to rise.
“Relax,” the tall man told her. “The time will come, O’Connor, when the reason for all this becomes clear. I wouldn’t mind having you alive to see that. You might understand. But your life, the lives of us all, don’t matter much in the long run.”
“My life matters to me,” Cork said. “I’m sure Miss Harris feels the same about hers.”
“You think we care what matters to you?” the woman said. “There are more important things at stake than your life.”
“Or Flynn’s?” Cork said.
“You say his name one more time . . .” the woman began.
“Leave it,” the tall man said. “No more talk.”
“Tell me one thing.” Lindsay Harris said, a demand.
The tall man considered her. “What?”
“My grandfather, is he still alive?”
“Yes. But that might change, depending on you.”
“Me?”
“No more escape attempts. If we come out of this wilderness and you’re not with us, your grandfather is dead.”
“Why?” Her voice was strained, taut. “What difference do I make in anything?”
“You know the bargain,” the tall man said. “Do you agree to it?”
Cork watched her body, saw how rigid she held it, trying to keep her rage in check. “I don’t have much choice, do I?”
“Neither do I,” he told her.
The tall man looked at Cork. “The lives of this woman and her grandfather are in your hands. Will you put them in danger again?”
“I won’t try to escape,” Cork said. “You have my word.”
“The word of a chimook,” the sour woman said.
“All right then. We all understand each other.” The tall man stood. “I’m going to check in on the sat phone.”
He pulled the phone from the pack and walked away from the others.
The kid touched his knee and squeezed his eyes shut. A little moan escaped his lips.
“Are the stitches holding?” Cork asked.
“I have a friend who makes a wonderful willow tea for pain.”
“Uncle Aaron gave me some aspirin.”
“Shut up,” the woman snapped.
Cork couldn’t tell if the hurt in the kid’s eyes at that moment came from the pain of his knee or the harshness of her voice.
Lindsay leaned to Cork. “I haven’t had a chance to thank you.”
“What for?”
“Coming back last night. You could have left me.”
“Shut up,” the sour woman said.
Lindsay paid her no mind. “I’m sorry I got you into this.”
“Let it go,” Cork said. “My choice.”
The tall man returned. “Cheval won’t be getting out of jail today, but maybe first thing in the morning.”
“So what do we do?” the kid said.
“Keep going. If someone comes looking for these two, the farther we are from Raspberry Lake the better.”
They loaded the canoes, shoved off, and headed north. As he paddled, Cork thought, Aaron. Uncle Aaron. And the woman’s alias is Mrs. Gray. He didn’t have any idea at the moment what to do with these pieces of information, but he understood that everything you knew about your enemy was important.