The bar brightened for a moment, and Cork turned back to where the door had just been opened. He saw one of the customers walking out.

“Jesus, see that?” Cedarholm said. “You’re killing my business.”

Cork eyed a gnome carved of wood perched above the liquor shelves behind the bar. The craftmanship looked familiar. “Tell me about Erno Paavola.”

“What about him?”

“Regular customer?”

“He came in sometimes. Heard he died a while back.”

“Did he pay for his drinks or did he barter?”

“I don’t remember.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s his handiwork up there.”

Cedarholm glanced to where Cork was pointing at the gnome. “Yeah, maybe.”

“Did he happen to barter anything else? Blueberries maybe?”

“I don’t remember. Look, are we done here? I got a bar to run.”

“Don’t be taking any vacations for a while,” Dross said. “We may want to talk to you some more.”

They left. As they headed toward the sheriff’s cruiser, someone hollered, “Hey!”

The man stood at the side of the Howling Wolf, in the shadow the building cast. With a flick of his hand, he motioned them to him. Cork realized he was the customer who’d just left the bar. He was maybe in his late forties, with a brown beard that reached nearly to his chest. He wore a stained green ball cap and, although it was hot, a flannel shirt with its sleeves rolled up to his biceps, which were like bowling balls. Cork figured him to be a logger.

“Mind if I have a look at that photo?” the man asked.

“Why?” Dross said.

“Might know him.”

She pulled the photo from the pocket of her uniform blouse and handed it over. The man studied it, then said, “Seen him a few times. Usually comes in with another guy. Work buddies, I gather. That pipeline, as I understand it.”

“Got a name for this other guy?” Cork asked.

The man shook his head.

“Can you describe him?”

“Maybe six feet. Good build on him.”

“Hair color?”

“Always wears a stocking cap, no matter how hot it is. Pretty sure it’s because he’s got this funny-looking ear, kind of misshaped. You only notice it if the stocking cap rides up a bit and you look at him from the side. Right side, I think.”

“Anything else?” Dross said.

“That guy with the bad ear, he never talks about women without calling them sluts.”

“Were they here the night Olivia Hamilton went missing?”

“Don’t know. Wasn’t here that night.”

“Mind giving me your name?”

He spelled it for her, and Dross wrote it down, along with a cell phone number.

Cork said, “Why are you helping us?”

“I got a daughter,” the man said. “And I hate the word slut.”

CHAPTER 23

Waaboo wasn’t on Crow Point. Jenny explained to Daniel that he’d gone into the woods with Meloux and Prophet, who were teaching him how to track.

“Deer?” Daniel asked.

“People,” Jenny said. “Prophet is leaving a trail, and Henry is showing Waaboo how to read the signs.”

“I could have shown him that.”

“You’ve been busy. How’s it going?”

Daniel filled her in.

“That poor woman,” she said when she’d heard about Daisy Blacksmith. “To lose your child and your grandchild, my God.” She looked across the meadow toward the deep woods where, Daniel assumed, Waaboo had gone. “It would kill me to lose our son.”

“Native people lose family all the time. To alcohol or drugs or gangs or jail or they just go missing.”

“Like Crystal Two Knives?”

“Like Crystal.”

“Still bothers you,” she said.

“The numbers bother me. So many. But I knew Crystal. I should have been able to do more.”

“Do you think she’s… like Fawn Blacksmith?”

“She’s been gone a long time. Not much hope left. I keep thinking of her lying buried in a shallow grave somewhere.”

“Do you think you have a chance of arresting whoever is responsible for Fawn Blacksmith’s murder?”

“We’re pulling threads, as your dad put it. We’ll see what unravels.”