“But not a lot who’d know about that bunker under Paavola’s cabin,” Daniel said.

“Which brings us back to Mathias Paavola, who’s dropped off the radar,” Cork said.

Bonhomme said, “Tell me about your investigation of the night Olivia Hamilton went missing. Any indication at all that Paavola was at the Howling Wolf?”

“We got the call at eleven twenty-three P.M.,” Dross began. “Altercation at the bar. By the time my guys responded, the worst of it was over. Cy Cedarholm, who owns the bar, didn’t want to press any charges. But that was when Harvey Green, the kid who brought Olivia Hamilton there, claims to have lost track of her. Claims he looked high and low before going back to the camp.”

“But he didn’t report her missing?”

“Not until the folks at the camp became aware that Olivia was gone. The kid might not have fessed up except another counselor ratted on him. We leaned on Green hard. It was clear the kid probably didn’t have anything to do with her disappearance aside from helping her sneak off to the Howling Wolf. He told us she seemed pretty comfortable with the rough crowd there.

“The problem is that we don’t really have a good idea who all was at the bar that night. We got a list of sorts from the bartender and the barmaids. Some of them were regulars or semis at least. And we can’t be certain we got every name in that biker gang from Fargo. Pretty uncooperative bunch. So…” Dross shook her head. “We could well have missed someone. But that’s as far as we got before the Feds and the BCA came in and took over the investigation.”

“I’ve got the photo Paavola’s sister gave me,” Cork said. “Why don’t I have Cedarholm and whoever was working there that night take a look, see if they recognize Paavola and if they saw him at the bar when Olivia Hamilton was there.”

“If he was there that night, it might explain Olivia Hamilton, but what about Fawn Blacksmith?” Agent Shirley said.

Cork shrugged. “Pull one thread, maybe it’s attached to another.”

“I’m going with you,” Dross said.

“I’ve been thinking about Fawn Blacksmith,” Bonhomme put in. “Her grandmother told us that before she went to that school for problem kids, she’d been living in a house with a bunch of druggies in Duluth. I’m wondering if she might have gone back after her release from the detention center. I’d like to know about that house and who was in it. I’ve got a friend in Duluth PD. I’ll give him a call, see if he can track down an address for me.”

“I can’t help thinking maybe there’s more that Waaboo might sense at the blueberry patch,” Daniel said. “Something that might help us understand what happened to Fawn.”

“He was just out there yesterday,” Cork said. “You can’t be serious about taking him back.”

“He was at the cabin yesterday. That was about Olivia Hamilton. This is about Fawn. The blueberry patch is where Waaboo touched her spirit.”

“Jenny’ll kill you.”

“I think I have to try.”

“What do you want written on your headstone?”

“Maybe I can enlist Uncle Henry’s help.”

“Now I’m thinking two headstones,” Cork said.

“Let us know if you’re still alive and if you’ve got anything,” Bonhomme said.

As they dispersed it felt to Cork as if they were dandelion seeds catching the wind, and God alone knew where they might end up.

Cork knew Yellow Lake and the Howling Wolf well. The bar had been a thorn in his side when he was sheriff of Tamarack County, a frequent source of incident reports.

“If I could, I’d put a fence around the joint with barbed wire on top,” Dross said as they drove to the tiny community.

“When my dad was sheriff, he tried to close the place down,” Cork said. “Back then it was mostly loggers who drank there. The county commissioner was part owner of the place, and Dad got nowhere. When I was sheriff, I tried to get an ordinance passed about the number of calls we would respond to before we began to charge the bar for our time. Trouble was that whenever an altercation occurred, even if things started inside the bar, Cedarholm made certain that it took place outside, usually in the street. Broke up some big to-dos in my time.”

“It hasn’t changed,” Dross said.

“Figured as much.”

The town of Yellow Lake was a smattering of run-down abodes and trailer houses set among pines next to a small body of water that was more mire than lake, more likely to attract mosquitoes than investment. It was on no main highway, so unlikely to get unwary visitors. You had to want to get lost to go to Yellow Lake, and the Howling Wolf provided the alcohol to do just that. It was an old log construction, with a dirt parking area. When Dross pulled her cruiser to a stop, there were a half dozen other parked vehicles, all of them pickups covered in a patina of road dust and dried mud.

It was midafternoon, and when Cork stepped inside the bar, it was so dark that it took a few moments for his eyes to adjust. When they did, he saw the faces of the drinking men turned his way, all of them stone. They weren’t so much eyeing him as they were Dross in her sheriff’s uniform. Two of the men got up from their chairs and walked out. The others, after a few moments, simply turned back to their drinks. No one said a word.

Cy Cedarholm stood behind the bar. His head was as bald and smooth as a river boulder, and just as big. His arms were like sections cut from the trunk of an oak tree and fitted to either side of his massive chest. His eyes were as black as beetles that had dug into the skin below his jutting brow. He looked like a man who could handle trouble as easily as most people could swat a fly.

“Jesus Christ, ain’t I been harassed enough?” Cedarholm said.

“Not by me, Cy,” Dross replied, walking up to the bar.

“Ain’t seen you in a month of Sundays, O’Connor. Which is just fine with me. You ain’t a cop anymore, so what the hell are you doing here?”

“Just along for the ride, Cy.”

Dross had printed a photo of Mathias Paavola from the birthday picture his sister had texted to Cork. She put the photo on the bar and slid it toward Cedarholm. “Familiar?”

Cedarholm said, “No.”

“You didn’t even look at it, Cy,” Cork said.

Cedarholm lowered his black beetle eyes for a nanosecond. “No.”

“Take a good look,” Dross said.

Cedarholm picked up the photo, studied it, put it back down on the bar, and said, “Like I said, never seen him before.”

“Who was working here the night Olivia Hamilton went missing?”

“I’m always here.”

“Behind the bar. What about your barmaids?”

“They been talked to by cops till they’re silly. Don’t bother them no more, okay?”

“Their names, Cy.”

“Look, they’re about to quit on me. This whole Hamilton girl thing. You go harassing them, and I swear if they do quit—”

“Names, Cy,” Dross said.

He offered them reluctantly, and Dross wrote them down.

“Got addresses?”

“Use a phone book.”