LeDuc’s pickup slowed and stopped in the dark on the road fifteen yards back of the spread of cars that had penned in Broom and Hamilton and Meloux. As George LeDuc stepped from the cab, the FBI car that contained Agent Cordell’s team closed in from behind. LeDuc froze, blinking in the glare of their headlights, trying to make sense of the whole scene. Cordell and two other agents leaped from the car and leveled their weapons. The men in the back of the pickup-a half dozen of them, all with the powerful upper bodies of men who logged timber-stood up, holding weapons of their own. Axes and chainsaws.
Special Agent Margaret Kay called out, “This is the FBI. I want you men to empty your hands.”
None of the Anishinaabeg made a move to comply. Cork recognized them all. Jesse Adams, Hollister Defoe, Bobby Younger, Dennis Medina, Eli Dupres, and Lyman Villebrun. All were loggers, either independent contractors or working for the Ojibwe mill in Brandywine, and all of them lived on the rez. More importantly to Cork, they were all good men with families.
“I’m George LeDuc, Chairman of the Iron Lake Tribal Council,” LeDuc shouted, angrily standing his ground.
“I know who you are,” Kay said. “And I repeat: You men in the truck, empty your hands.”
“The hell we will,” Bobby Younger hollered back. “You put down your damn guns.”
“Look at them,” Cork said to Kay. “Those aren’t weapons they’re holding. They’re logging tools, for Christ’s sake.”
“Cork? Is that you?” George LeDuc yelled.
“It’s me, George. Just be cool.”
“What’s going on?”
“Stay back, Mr. O’Connor,” Kay ordered.
Cork ignored her and strode into the beam of LeDuc’s headlights. “Where were you headed, George?”
“Our Grandfathers. Word is there’s a fire burning up there, and we intend to put it out.” LeDuc peered beyond Cork. “We could use Isaiah there, and that Bobcat of his.”
“Have your men empty their hands and we’ll talk about it,” Kay offered in a stern voice.
Cork walked near to LeDuc.
“A lot of badges, Cork. What the hell’s going on?”
“A big misunderstanding, George. I think the men should put down those saws and axes; then we can talk and clear this whole thing up and you can be on your way.”
LeDuc’s face was still taut with anger, but his dark brown eyes offered Cork their trust. He gave a nod. “Put ‘em down, guys,” he said over his shoulder.
The truck bed rumbled with the clatter of sharp, heavy tools laid to rest. The federal agents, who didn’t yet holster their firearms, moved in.
Kay approached LeDuc. She flashed her ID and said, “I’m FBI Special Agent Margaret Kay. We have reason to be concerned about the explosives Mr. Broom is transporting in his truck.”
“He uses dynamite all the time,” LeDuc replied. “Everybody knows that.”
“Agent Kay,” Gooden called.
She held up a hand to LeDuc, a sign to wait, and she went to the van. Gooden showed her something, and she called BCA Agent Mark Owen over to confer. After that, she spoke briefly with Earl and Schanno. When she returned to where LeDuc and Cork waited, Agent Owen accompanied her. “Show them,” she instructed him.
Owen held up a clear evidence bag. It contained a small length of iron pipe capped at one end. “We found this in a hidden compartment built into the floor of the van. There’s more. Powder, fuse, detonators, airplane glue. Everything necessary to construct the kind of bomb that killed Charlie Warren.”
Kay cast a grim eye on Cork and LeDuc, then she called, “Cordell, read them their rights and bring them all in.”
• • •
“They must have a sick kind of radar.”
Lindstrom stood at the window in Wally Schanno’s office looking down at the parking lot. The media were gathering, newspaper and television journalists. Schanno had two deputies out front to keep them at a distance.
Lindstrom shook his head. “They’re like bugs that feed on misery.”
LeDuc and the men who’d been with him in the pickup had been put in a large holding cell. Isaiah Broom, Joan Hamilton, and Henry Meloux had been separated from the others and were being questioned individually by the FBI. An APB had been issued on Brett Hamilton, who hadn’t yet been apprehended.
A big metal thermos sat on the sheriff’s desk, and Lindstrom and Schanno held mugs full of coffee. Cork, who felt as if he’d talked LeDuc into that jail cell, was angry. “Wally, George and those men had nothing to do with anything, and you know it.”
“It’s out of my hands,” Schanno replied. “This is a federal investigation now.”
“This county’s on the edge of something tragic. Pulling in those men may be all it will take to push everyone, white and red, over the line.”
Lindstrom turned from the window. He’d come from Grace Cove as soon as he’d received word. He looked drawn out, beaten down. “They were helping Broom and the Hamilton woman. The evidence in the van is pretty damning. Maybe they did have a hand in the bombings, Cork. Maybe they took our families. People can fool you.”
“Not these people,” Cork said. “And certainly not Henry Meloux. Wally, you want to hold onto Joan Hamilton, fine. Even Isaiah Broom. But for Christ’s sake, let the others go. While they sit here, Our Grandfathers burn.”
“Damn it, Cork, I talked to the Forest Service-” a tired Schanno began to argue. He was interrupted by Agent Kay, who stepped into the room.
“Ms. Hamilton is ready to make a statement. However, she’s asked that the two of you be present.” Her eyes moved between Lindstrom and Cork.
“Did she request an attorney?” Schanno asked.
“She’s waived her right to counsel. Gentlemen, if you’d come with me.” Kay led the way.
Joan Hamilton sat erect at a small table in the room the sheriff’s department used for serious questioning. It was wired for sound and had a two-way mirror set in one wall. Cork had lobbied for the money to create the room during his tenure as sheriff. Although the funds had been allocated, he’d lost his job before construction began. When he stepped in with Lindstrom and Kay, it was the first time he’d set foot there, and he was struck by how cold and sterile the bare walls felt. Joan of Arc was staring at her hands clasped near a microphone in front of her on the walnut table. Her eyes lifted when Cork came in, but nothing else about her moved.
“Sit down,” Kay said to the men. When they had, she instructed Joan Hamilton, “Please state your name for the record.”
“Joan Susan Hamilton.”
Her voice was far more subdued than the time Cork had heard it challenging Lindstrom from atop her van as she shouted into a bullhorn.
“Ms. Hamilton, do you wish to have legal counsel present during your statement?”
“No.”
“Are you giving this statement of your own free will and under no duress?”
“Yes.”
“Go on, then.”
“They told me about your families,” she said to Cork and to Lindstrom. She fell silent and stared again at her hands. Eventually, she took air in deeply and confessed, “I am Eco-Warrior. I admit that. No one else knew, not even my son. I acted entirely alone. But I had no part in the taking of your wives and your children. Someone has used Eco-Warrior as a cover. I swear this to you.”
Cork said, “If you are Eco-Warrior, you’re responsible for Charlie Warren’s death. Why should we believe that you wouldn’t kidnap our families?”
“Charlie Warren was an accident. A terrible accident. I intended to attack the mechanisms responsible for the destruction of the trees. Machines, not people.”
“Am I a machine?” Lindstrom asked caustically. “You nearly killed me at the marina.”
“That wasn’t me. After what happened at the mill, I realized Eco-Warrior was a mistake and I decided that was the end. I thought about issuing a statement denying the incident at the marina but figured it wouldn’t do any good.”