William Kent Krueger - Thunder Bay: A Cork OConnor Mystery

Also by William Kent Krueger

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Mercy Falls

Blood Hollow

The Devils Bed

Purgatory Ridge

Boundary Waters

Iron Lake

A CORK OCONNOR MYSTERY

WILLIAM KENT KRUEGER

A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2007 by William Kent Krueger

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Atria Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

First Atria Books hardcover edition July 2007

ATRIA BOOKS is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-800-456-6798 or business@simonandschuster.com

Interior design by Davina Mock-Maniscalco

Manufactured in the United States of America

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Krueger, William Kent.
Thunder Bay : a Cork OConnor mystery / by William Kent Krueger.
1st Atria Books hardcover ed.
p. cm.
1. OConnor, Cork (Fictitious character)Fiction. 2. Private investigators MinnesotaFiction. 3. MinnesotaFiction. I. Title.
PS3561.R766T48 2007
813.54dc22
2006047991

ISBN-13: 978-0-7432-7841-6

eISBN-13: 978-1-4165-4649-8

ISBN-10: 0-7432-7841-0

To my coconspirators in the Minnesota Crime Wave,
Ellen Hart and Carl Brookins;
weve never traveled a road together that we didnt like.

Of course, buckets of gratitude to all the members of my writers group, Crme de la Crime, for their suggestions, large and small, that make all the difference.

To Danielle Egan-Miller and the whole crew at Browne & Miller, thank you for your hard work on my behalf. Weve come a long way together, and theres still plenty of road ahead.

Im deeply indebted to my editor, Sarah Branham, whose insights keep me honest and whose enthusiasm keeps me hopeful; and a huge thank-you is due to David Brown, publicist extraordinaire, for all the gymnastics, verbal and otherwise, in his efforts to get the word out.

Finally, as always, heres to the St. Clair Broiler. During half a century, Jim Theros and his staff have created a haven, a comfortable place for folks to gather in order to connect and to gossip, to eat and to drink, to enjoy a little time away from the mad crush, and sometimes even to write. May its famous neon flame never be extinguished.

The promise, as I remember it, happened this way.

A warm August morning, early. Wally Schannos already waiting at the landing. His trucks parked in the lot, his boats in the water. Hes drinking coffee from a red thermos big as a fireplug.

Iron Lake is glass. East, it mirrors the peach-colored dawn. West, it still reflects the hard bruise of night. Tall pines, dark in the early morning light, make a black ragged frame around the water.

The docks old, weathered, the wood gone fuzzy, flaking gray. The boards sag under my weight, groan a little.

Coffee? Schanno offers.

I shake my head, toss my gear into his boat. Lets fish.

Were far north of Aurora, Minnesota. Among the trees on the shoreline, an occasional light glimmers from one of the cabins hidden there. Schanno motors slowly toward a spot off a rocky point where the bottom falls away quickly. Cuts the engine. Sorts through his tackle box. Pulls out a pearl white minnow flash, a decent clear-water lure for walleye. Clips it on his line. Casts.

Me, I choose a smoky Twister Tail and add a little fish scent. Half a minute after Schannos, my lure hits the water.

August isnt the best time to fish. For one thing, the bugs are awful. Also, the water near the surface is often too warm. The big fishwalleye and bassdive deep, seeking cooler currents. Unless you use sonar, they can be impossible to locate. There are shallows near a half-submerged log off to the north where something smaller perch or crappiesmight be feeding. But Ive already guessed that fishing isnt whats on Schannos mind.

The afternoon before, hed come to Sams Place, the burger joint I own on Iron Lake. Hed leaned in the window and asked for a chocolate shake. I couldnt remember the last time Schanno had actually ordered something from me. He stood with the big Sweetheart cup in his hand, not sipping from the straw, not saying anything, but not leaving either. His wife, Arietta, had died a few months before. A victim of Alzheimers, shed succumbed to a massive stroke. Shed been a fine woman, a teacher. Both my daughters, Jenny and Anne, had passed through her third-grade classroom years before. Loved her. Everybody did. Schannos children had moved far away, to Bethesda, Maryland, and Seattle, Washington. Ariettas death left Wally alone in the house hed shared with her for over forty years. Hed begun to hang around Johnnys Pinewood Broiler for hours, drinking coffee, talking with the regulars, other men whod lost wives, jobs, direction. He walked the streets of town and stood staring a long time at window displays. He was well into his sixties, a big manshoes specially made from the Red Wing factorywith a strong build, hands like an orangutan. A couple of years earlier, because of Ariettas illness, hed retired as sheriff of Tamarack County, which was a job Id held twice myself. Some men, idle time suits them. Others, its a death sentence. Wally Schanno looked like a man condemned.

When he suggested we go fishing in the morning, Id said sure. Now were alone on the lakeme, Schanno, and a couple of loons fifty yards to our right diving for breakfast. The sun creeps above the trees. Suddenly everything has color. We breathe in the scent of evergreen and clean water and the faint fish odor coming from the bottom of Schannos boat. Half an hour and we havent said a word. The only sounds are the sizzle of line as we cast, the plop of the lures hitting water, and the occasional cry of the loons.

Im happy to be there on that August morning. Happy to be fishing, although I hold no hope of catching anything. Happy to be sharing the boat and the moment with a man like Schanno.

Heard you got yourself a PI license, Schanno says.

I wind my reel smoothly, jerking the rod back occasionally to make the lure dart in the water like a little fish. There arent any walleyes to fool, but its what you do when youre fishing.

Yep, I reply.

Gonna hang out a shingle or something?

The line as I draw it in leaves the smallest of wakes on the glassy surface, dark wrinkles crawling across the reflected sky. I havent decided.

Figure theres enough business to support a PI here?

He asks this without looking at me, pretending to watch his line.

Guess Ill find out, I tell him.

Not happy running Sams Place?

I like it fine. But Im closed all winter. Need something to keep me occupied and out of mischief.

Whats Jo think? Talking about my wife.

So long as I dont put on a badge again, shes happy.

Schanno says, I feel like Im dying, Cork.