Northwest Angle by William Kent Krueger Read Free Book Online Page A

crushed table and chairs lay. She made her way into a tiny open space behind the logs and stopped. A woman lay on the cabin floor, facedown, her cheek in a puddle of coagulated blood. She was utterly naked.
    Light came into the cabin through the shattered roof and fell across the body in a swath of bright yellow-orange that was like a satin ribbon. Jenny stood a moment, absolutely stunned. Slowly, and with great reluctance, she knelt and checked the woman’s neck for a pulse. Nothing, and the skin was cold to her touch. She drew her hand away, then reached out again and carefully rolled the woman onto her back. Young, Jenny saw. No more than seventeen or eighteen. Her hair was long and black and done in a braid. Her skin was the same color as the child’s, faded sandstone. Her cheekbones were high and proud. She was clearly Indian. Jenny knew that in this area it meant she was probably Ojibwe or Odawa or maybe Cree. The side of her face that had been pressed against the floor was covered with clotted blood. The other side was a mottle of deep bruising. There were burns on her breasts, little singes dark and round as old pennies. And there was also a bullet hole dead center in her forehead.
    Jenny turned away. She rose and stumbled back, scrambledthrough the gap she’d created in the tumbled logs and stood shaking. She wished her father was there. Her father would know what to do.
    But he wasn’t. There was no one but her.
    Whoever did this may be back,
said the voice inside her head.
    “They’ve already killed her,” she said aloud. “Why would they come back?”
    Do you want to take that chance?
    She knew then that there would be no bonfire. Although it might bring rescue, it might also bring back a murderer. She looked the damaged cabin over carefully, forcing herself to think clearly. She knew she had to leave that place, find shelter somewhere else. She said aloud but quietly, “I’ll take the stove, a pan, some formula, and a few canned goods.”
    They might see that some things are missing,
the voice told her.
    “Can’t be helped.” She took the damp blanket from the bunk, spread it on the floor, and threw in a few canned goods, the canister of formula, some utensils, a can opener, the pan she’d used to boil water, a couple of candles, and the Ball jar of kitchen matches.
    “Clean diapers,” she reminded herself.
    She grabbed a handful of diapers and tossed them onto the blanket with the other items. She brought the four corners of the blanket together and tied them.
    Water,
she thought, grabbed one of the unopened jugs of distilled water, and put it beside the blanket. She went to the propane stove, closed the lid and flipped the latch. As she drew the stove off the long, hand-hewn table, she spotted a knife. It was a clip point hunting knife with a five-inch fixed blade and black rubber handle, a good utilitarian knife that might have been used to cut meat for cooking. She grasped it and slipped it into her knapsack with her useless phone and camera. A final time, she scanned the room.
    Then she looked at the sleeping baby. He’d been well cared for, she understood. The dead woman, his mother, had loved him, it was clear.
    “I’ll find somewhere to hide us, somewhere safe, and I’ll be back for you, little man,” she promised.
    The voice said,
Is there anywhere safe on this island?
    For that one, Jenny didn’t have an answer.

SEVEN
     
    M al piloted the houseboat while Rose tried in vain to raise someone on the radio. The dismal scratch of static was all she got, and finally Mal said, “Give it up, sweetheart. I think the beating from that storm did it in. We’re lucky our GPS still works.” He tapped the unit on the console.
    “What about your cell phone?” Rose asked.
    “I haven’t been able to get a signal on that thing since we left Kenora.”
    They’d motored out of the bay and come around the end of the island where Anne and Stephen had disappeared. Rose looked at the destruction,