Heaven's Keep Read Free Page B

it’s checking IDs and dealing with drunks.”
    “Maybe so, but I’d prefer doing it with a deputy’s badge.”
    Borkman clapped a beefy hand on his shoulder. “Pride cometh before a fall, Cork.” He took one of the little containers of half-and-half from the bowl on the counter, creamed his coffee, stirred in a packet of Splenda. “What about your PI business? You’ve got a good rep.”
    “And not enough work to afford to pay a lawyer.”
    “Why won’t Jo take your case?”
    “She says it’s best to have a disinterested third party handle it.”
    “Even if it breaks the bank?”
    “She’s encouraged me to settle.”
    “What would that mean?”
    “Letting the bastards surround Sam’s Place with a lot of fucking condos.”
    “You’d make a lot of money.”
    “And ruin everything that Sam Winter Moon loved. And, hell, that I love, too. I’m going to win, Cy. I’m going to fight these bastards and I’m going to win.”
    “What did Jo think about you applying for my job?”
    “About what you’d expect.” Cork pushed his cup away. “Got things I have to do. When’s your last day?”
    “Two weeks from tomorrow. They’re throwing me a shindig at the Four Seasons. You better be there.”
    “Wouldn’t miss it.”
    Cork dropped plenty for the coffee and a good tip on the counter and headed outside.
    In Aurora, Minnesota, things got quiet in November. The fall color disappeared. The stands of maple and oak and birch and poplar became bone bare. The tourists lost interest in the North Country. Deer-hunting season was nearly finished, and the orange vests, like the colorful foliage, were all but gone. There were still fishermen on Iron Lake, but they were the hardy and the few and came only on weekends. In town, the sidewalks became again the province of the locals, and Cork recognized most of the faces he saw there. November was usually a bleak month, days capped with an overcast and brooding sky, but the last week had been different, with the sun spreading a cheerful warmth over Tamarack County. Cork wished some of that cheer would lighten his own spirits.
    He drove his Bronco from the Pinewood Broiler to the gravel access road that led to Sam’s Place. He stopped at the chain that had been strung across the road and that had been hung with a No Trespassing sign. He wanted to drive right through, break the chain into a dozen pieces. Instead, he simply drove around the barrier. He followed the road over the Burlington Northern tracks and pulled into the parking lot of Sam’s Place, where he got out and stood looking at what was, in a way, the vault of his heart.
    Sam’s Place was an old Quonset hut built on the shore of Iron Lake. More than forty years before, it had been bought and refurbished by an Ojibwe named Sam Winter Moon. Sam had divided the structure in half. In the front he’d installed a freezer, a grill, a deep fryer, a shake machine, and a soft drink dispenser, and had begun serving burgers, fries, and drinks during the tourist season, May through October. It had become one of Aurora’s icons, a destination, a place for many that, until they patronized it, their vacation wasn’t complete. Sam, when he died, had passed the place to Cork, who’d been like a son to him. Years before, when Cork had lost his job as sheriff, he’d poured himself into keeping the spirit of the wonderful old burger joint alive. He’d brought his own children in to work the windows and flip the burgers and learn, in the way he’d learned, when he was their age, both the necessity and, ultimately, the pleasure of a job well done.
    He heard the water lapping gently against the shoreline, and he walked down to the lake. There was an old dock where folks could tie up their boats, disembark, and order a meal. Ever since the chain had gone up across the access from town, that dock was the only legal way to come at Sam’s Place.
    To the north stood a Cyclone fence that separated Cork’s property from the BearPaw