“Inside Stillwater, he was a consummate con man,” Gilman continued. “He played everyone-other inmates, the guards, me. We kept an eye on him, often for his own safety. In prison, you’re conning the cons, and that can get you killed.”
“How did he happen to end up in LaPointe’s cell?” Dross asked.
“Random assignment,” Gilman replied.
LaPointe shook his head. “The official view. Me, I’d say it was the work of the Great Mystery.”
“How so?”
“Nothing in life is random, Sheriff. Frogg came to me for a reason.”
“What reason?”
“For me, a test of my beliefs, I think. He was one of the most difficult human beings I’ve ever dealt with. That’s saying a lot when you live in a prison.”
“What made him so difficult?”
LaPointe didn’t answer at first. It was clear that he was close to the edge of exhaustion. If the man’s knowledge and understanding weren’t absolutely essential, Cork would have called an end to this interview. He found himself feeling deep gratitude toward Cecil LaPointe, who twenty years earlier, he’d helped send to this hell made of stone.
At last, LaPointe seemed to have gathered enough strength, and he went on. “Walter was angry, blameful, paranoid, conniving, smart, and he was my companion day and night. I couldn’t escape him. He talked constantly. Every moment I spent with him, he challenged me to practice what White Eagle teaches, which is acceptance.”
“What did he talk about?” Dross asked.
“His cases, all the wrongs done him by lawyers, judges, prosecutors, cops. Whenever he vented that way, I was simply quiet. Eventually he’d move on to other things, and I’d join him in the conversation. He liked flowers, so we talked about flowers. He liked old movies, so we talked about old movies. He had some ideas about writing books, so we talked about the books he might write someday.”
“You didn’t talk about White Eagle?”
“He sometimes asked, and I would answer, and he would say, ‘Bullshit.’ We left it at that.”
“When he talked about the wrongs done him, did he try to convince you of the rightness of his position?”
“He didn’t. I think that was because he was absolutely convinced of it himself. He talked about those things as if he was giving a history lesson-this happened and then this and this is why.”
“Was he delusional?”
“I would say no, but he was desperate, in so many ways.”
“Desperate for love, you said,” Cork pointed out. “Which he found in you. How did that happen?”
“It was the prison riot that finally cracked his heart open,” LaPointe said. “A lot of inmates saw the chaos during that time as an opportunity for payback, especially guys who belonged to gangs. Walter had pissed off the Aryan Brotherhood, and during the riot, they came for him. I intervened, talked to the inmate who ran the Brotherhood. He gave the order to leave Walter alone.”
“What did you say to him?” Dross asked.
“I White Eagled him,” LaPointe said with a slight smile. “I touched what was common in both our hearts. A violent man is still a man, still human. I spoke to the best of what was human in him. Or more accurately, I channeled White Eagle. I was just the streambed. White Eagle was the water that helped cool the heat of all that anger.”
“And you believe Frogg loved you for this?”
“He was different afterward. He never said it to me outright. I think he didn’t know how to handle that kind of emotion, and it confused him. And then Ray Jay Wakemup came to see me, and his story became public. I think Walter’s perception about being so persecuted got all mixed up together with this love that he couldn’t express, and he seemed to become tormented in a different way. His last promise to me when he was released was that he’d find a way to repay me. I may be wrong, but I think that may have been the nearest he’s ever come to telling someone he loved them.”
Again, LaPointe had to stop to catch his breath. He struggled and wheezed, and Cork found his own chest constricting in empathetic response. Eventually LaPointe was able to continue, but in a voice that was more and more a whisper. “I’m not saying that’s really what’s at the heart of his actions, if he is, in fact, responsible for what’s happened in Tamarack County. But love and vengeance, it seems to me, are often two sides of the same sword.”
“When was Frogg released?” Cork asked.
“Six months ago,” Gilman said.
“And a month later, Sullivan Becker goes down to a hit-and-run and loses his legs,” Dross said.
“Something everyone blames on organized crime,” Cork added.
“And then Judge Carter loses his wife, who’s the only thing that stands between the Judge and the locked unit of a care facility. And it’s made to look like the Judge himself might be responsible. And finally Ray Jay Wakemup, who kept quiet and let an innocent man go to jail, loses his best friend and maybe his best hope for sobriety. It all makes a certain kind of crazy sense. Frogg pays the debt he believes he owes Mr. LaPointe, here, out of love or whatever, and at the same time satisfies that twisted sense of retribution against a system that has consistently persecuted him. And he does it all in ways he thinks are cunning enough that no one could ever trace them back to him.”
“I can buy all this, but what about Marlee Daychild?” Cork said. “Why would Frogg go after Marlee if he’s already made Ray Jay pay for his silence by killing Dexter?”
LaPointe looked at Cork with a calm understanding. “Who was in charge of the investigation that landed me here?”
Cork said, “Me. But I never knew about Ray Jay. I didn’t know until he told his story to the press. I made that clear every time the media brought the question up.”
“That doesn’t mean Walter believes you,” LaPointe said. “He might very well think you’re lying, in the way he believes that everyone connected with the law lies.”
It took Cork only a millisecond to understand what LaPointe was saying. “Frogg wasn’t after Marlee,” he said, thinking out loud. “He was after Stephen.” He looked toward Gilman and tried to keep his voice calm. “I need a phone. I have to call Tamarack County.”
CHAPTER 35
Stephen looked at the gun, then up into the face of the stranger. He thought he should have been afraid, but he wasn’t. A strange calm had settled over him. “Who are you?”
“A pawn of justice, kid. In your way, so are you. Now, why don’t you just walk on down to the lake for another refreshing dip.”
“I’ve seen you before,” Stephen said.
The stranger considered that a moment. “In my pickup, just before you and your girlfriend hit the ice.”
“No. In visions.”
“Visions?” That seemed to amuse him. “Where? There in your sweat lodge?”
“And before.”
“Well then, all this should come as no surprise.”
“What I didn’t see was why,” Stephen said.