In the prologue of Anthony Award–winner Krueger’s fine 12th Cork O’Connor novel (after 2011’s Northwest Angle), politician Jubal Little, who most likely would’ve won election as Minnesota’s first Native American governor in a few days, takes three hours to die with an arrow in his chest—an arrow that belongs to his old friend, Cork, with whom he’d been bow hunting. As Cork seeks answers to such questions as who wanted to kill Jubal and who wanted to frame him for the murder, the narrative charts Jubal’s rise from high school athlete to NFL star, from U.S. representative to leading candidate for governor of Minnesota. Cork finds many suspects among the enemies Jubal made over the years, in particular those who disagreed with Jubal’s politics. A second puzzling killing muddies the water more. Krueger’s intimate knowledge of Minnesota’s northern reaches and respect for Native American life, ancient and modern, provide an intricate setting for this gem of a mystery. Agent: Danielle Egan-Miller, Browne & Miller Literary Associates. (Aug.)
Trickster's Point (Cork O'Connor Series #12)
Narrated by David Chandler
William Kent KruegerUnabridged — 11 hours, 31 minutes
Trickster's Point (Cork O'Connor Series #12)
Narrated by David Chandler
William Kent KruegerUnabridged — 11 hours, 31 minutes
Audiobook (Digital)
Free with a B&N Audiobooks Subscription | Cancel Anytime
Already Subscribed?
Sign in to Your BN.com Account
Related collections and offers
FREE
with a B&N Audiobooks Subscription
Overview
Editorial Reviews
While the murder mystery is an essential element of the novel, more important is the look at the relationships of the various characters, to each other and to the locale.
An absorbing plot and a rewarding read.
You might place Cork O’Connor, of this very accomplished series, halfway between Jesse Stone (not that warm) and Jack Reacher (not that hard)—and even add a dash of Douglas Corleone’s wise-guy Corvelli.
Krueger has crafted a strong and memorable series that never fails to surpass itself with each installment. Trickster's Point continues that tradition, containing some of Krueger’s best prose to date in what is perhaps his strongest, most intriguing novel yet.
Unlike many series, Cork and company age and evolve with each book. Time does not stand still and we share in the triumphs and tragedies of Cork. We watch his children grow up and, in some cases, move away. That constant change makes these novels all the more compelling.
Although there's plenty of excitement in this plot, Krueger is moving deeper into psychological territory with each book is this series.
Mystery fans can count on William Kent Krueger for an absorbing book with lots of twists and turns. He's an author who isn't afraid to take chances with his characters.
In addition to having a plot as cunningly treacherous as Trickster’s Point itself, Krueger’s latest mystery has that elegiac tone that’s perfectly suited to O’Connor’s character and to the harsh landscape where he lives and works.
William Kent Krueger can tell a story with the best of them. And he just keeps getting better.
"Krueger’s intimate knowledge of Minnesota’s northern reaches and respect for Native American life, ancient and modern, provide an intricate setting for this gem of a mystery." —Publisher's Weekly
A hunting trip goes horribly wrong when Minnesota's governor-elect is murdered with Cork O'Connor's arrow. The detective becomes the number-one suspect in his 12th outing (after Northwest Angle). [See Prepub Alert, 3/21/12.]
Cork O’Connor holds longtime friend Jubal Little in his arms as Little dies of an arrow to the chest. That fatal arrow, it turns out, is identical to O’Connor’s, making him a prime suspect in the murder of the high-profile Little, who was readying himself to be the first Native American governor of Minnesota. Narrator David Chandler starts off at a slow, perhaps too deliberate, pace at the beginning of this northern Minnesota murder mystery, the 12th in a series. But that pacing problem dissipates as both the story and Chandler pick up steam. Chandler does a fine job differentiating between the many characters as the story moves from the present to the past and back again in an exploration of family dynamics, love, politics, and the things that drive people to kill. G.S.D. © AudioFile 2012, Portland, Maine
The murder of a rising political star who just happens to be one of his oldest friends lands Minnesota private eye Corcoran O'Connor in the hot seat. Even though he wanted to go for help, Cork agreed to sit with Jubal Little for three hours after their backwoods deer hunt was cut short when his old schoolmate was shot by an arrow that closely resembled the arrows Cork made for himself. He listened to Jubal ramble about his romance with their mutual friend Winona Crane, his foreshortened run for the Senate and the mysterious Rhiannon, whose fate was "the worst sin of all." Now all of Cork's friends and former colleagues in the Tamarack County sheriff's office suspect Cork of shooting Jubal. Even Jubal assumed that Cork had fired the fatal arrow. Determined to clear himself, Cork makes the rounds of alternative suspects--Jubal's politically connected widow, Camilla, and her family, Ojibwe activist Isaiah Broom, logger Buzz Bigby, whose bullying son, Donner, met a bad end after one last run-in with Jubal many years ago--with all the finesse of a bull in a china shop, though he can't catch eternal wild-child Winona, who's taken a powder once again. More revealingly, Krueger interleaves the present-day story with a series of flashbacks that trace the winding steps in Cork's relationship with his old friend, whose charm, warmth, wide range of skills and iron ambition made him easy to like but hard to love. The climactic revelations, if they aren't exactly surprising, are as logical as they are poignant. Krueger's 12th (Northwest Angle, 2011, etc.) is alternately muscular and tender, and maybe a tad synthetic--middling for this fine series.
Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940170964437 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Recorded Books, LLC |
| Publication date: | 08/21/2012 |
| Series: | Cork O'Connor Series , #12 |
| Edition description: | Unabridged |
| Sales rank: | 1,094,732 |
Read an Excerpt
Trickster’s Point
The walls of the interrogation room of the Tamarack County Sheriff’s Department were dull gray and completely bare. There were no windows. It was furnished with two chairs and a plain wooden table nudged into a corner. The subject of an interview sat in a straight-back chair with four legs that rested firmly on the floor. The interviewer’s chair had rollers, which allowed movement toward or away from the subject. On the ceiling was what appeared to be a smoke detector but, in reality, concealed a video camera and microphone that fed to a monitor and recording system in the room next door. The interview room was lit from above by diffuse fluorescent lighting that illuminated without glare. Everything had been designed to be free from any distraction that might draw the subject’s focus away from the interviewer and the questions. Cork knew this because he’d had the room constructed during his own tenure as sheriff of Tamarack County.
Although he wore no watch and there was nothing in the room that would have clued him about time, Cork knew it was late afternoon. Around five o’clock, more or less. Captain Ed Larson had removed his own watch, a standard procedure when questioning a suspect in the interview room. Timelessness was part of the protocol for keeping the subject focused only on what was happening inside the small box created by those four bare walls. This was Cork’s third round of questioning about the death of Jubal Little that day and was the most formal so far.
The first interview had taken place at Trickster’s Point while the techs were processing the crime scene. It had been Sheriff Marsha Dross herself who’d asked the questions. Cork was pretty sure nobody really thought then that he’d killed Jubal Little. Marsha was just trying to get a good sense of what had gone down. It wasn’t until he told her that he’d sat for three hours while Jubal died that she gave him a look of incomprehension, then of suspicion.
The second interview had been conducted an hour and a half later in her office back at the department. Ed Larson had been present for that one. He was in charge of major crimes investigation for Tamarack County. He’d let Marsha ask the questions—more of them this time and more probing—and had mostly observed. At the end of that round, he’d asked if Cork was hungry and would like something to eat or drink. Cork wanted nothing, but he said yes anyway.
While the food was coming, they moved to the interview room, just Larson and Cork this time, but Cork knew that Dross would be watching on the monitor next door.
Deputy Azevedo brought in the meal. He looked at Cork as if he didn’t know him at all, though they’d been acquainted for years.
“On the table,” Larson told him, and the deputy set the tray down and left. “Go ahead and eat, Cork,” Larson said. “I just want to look over a few of my notes.”
He pulled a small notepad from the inside pocket of his sport coat. Larson always looked and dressed more like a college professor than a cop. He had gold wire-rim glasses and wore honest to God tweed jackets with patches on the elbows. He was nearing sixty, more than a half dozen years older than Cork, and still had an enviable head of hair that was a distinguished silver-black. He was already on the force when Cork first joined as a deputy more than twenty years before. They’d become friends, and Cork had a great deal of respect for him and his abilities. As soon as Cork was elected sheriff, he’d put Larson in charge of investigating major crimes.
While Cork sat at the table and ate, Larson pretended to go over his notes. Cork knew that, in reality, Larson was more interested in his appetite, knew that people who’d committed a violent crime were often so troubled by what they’d done that they couldn’t eat. So Cork made as if he hadn’t had a bite of food in a month and rammed down every crumb of his cheeseburger and gulped every drop of coffee.
“Thanks,” he said when he’d finished.
Larson looked up from his notepad and, with his index finger, eased his glasses a quarter of an inch higher on the bridge of his nose. It was a gesture he sometimes made unconsciously when he was about to do something that was uncomfortable for him. “Cork, I know you know the drill. I’ve got to make sure that you understand your rights.”
“Miranda,” Cork said.
“Miranda,” Larson acknowledged and went through the litany.
“It’s official then?” Cork said.
“What’s official?”
“I’m officially a suspect.”
Larson squinted, a look of pain. “In my shoes, how would you see it?”
“I’ve been in your shoes. And I know how I’d see it, Ed. If our situations were reversed, I wouldn’t believe for a moment that you’d killed Jubal Little.”
“Tell me why, if I were in your shoes, I would have waited three hours before trying to get him some help.”
“I wasn’t trying to get him help. He was already dead when I left him.”
“Okay, so why didn’t you go for help as soon as you understood the seriousness of the situation?”
“I’ve told you. Jubal asked me to stay.”
“Because he was afraid?”
“Jubal?” Cork shook his head. “No, not Jubal. Never Jubal.”
“You were his only hope of surviving, and yet he insisted that you stay. I don’t understand.”
“He knew he was going to die, and he didn’t want to die alone.”
“You couldn’t have carried him out?”
“He hurt whenever I tried to move him, hurt a lot. It was that broadhead arrow tip tearing him up inside. I didn’t want to give him any more pain. If I’d tried to carry him out, he would simply have died sooner.”
“So you just sat there and watched him go?”
“No. I listened to him. I think that was the main reason he didn’t want me to leave. He wouldn’t have had anyone to talk to. You know how politicians are.”
Larson gave a startled look that quickly turned critical. “There’s nothing humorous in this situation, Cork.”
“I’m not sure Jubal saw it that way. The last thing he did on this earth was smile, Ed.”
He could see that Larson didn’t believe him. Probably he didn’t believe a lot of what Cork had said so far.
“Did you have your cell phone with you?”
Cork shook his head. “We were out there to get away from a world of phone calls. But even if I’d taken my cell phone, it wouldn’t have mattered.”
“Why?”
“Coverage is hit and miss up there. But around Trickster’s Point, especially, nothing gets through.”
“And why’s that?”
Cork shrugged. “Ask the Ojibwe, and they’d tell you it’s just Nanaboozhoo messing with you.”
“Nanaboozhoo?”
“The Trickster. That’s his territory.”
Larson stared at him. His face reminded Cork of a ceramic doll with all the features painted on and none of them capable of moving. Larson looked down at his notes. “You had breakfast at Johnny’s Pinewood Broiler before you headed out. You had a cheese omelet, and Jubal Little had cakes and eggs over easy. When you left, you both spent a few minutes standing out on the sidewalk, arguing.”
Cork said, “Did you find Heidi or did she come looking for you?”
He was talking about Heidi Steger, their waitress at the Broiler that morning.
Larson didn’t answer but said instead, “What did you argue about?”
“We didn’t argue. It was more like a heated discussion.”
“What did you discuss, then, so heatedly?”
“Politics, Ed. Just politics.”
Larson maintained his ceramic doll face for a long moment, and Cork, in that same long moment, returned his steady gaze.
“Okay,” Larson finally went on. “You said he talked a lot as he was dying. What did he talk about?”
“First he talked about that arrow, whether to try to remove it. Jubal wanted to, I didn’t. Then I tried to leave to get help. Jubal wanted me to stay. After that, he talked about life. Or I should say his life. It was so Jubal of him, but understandable under the circumstances. He had a lot of regrets. Toward the end, he was in and out of consciousness. When he was awake, he mostly rambled. It was hard to make much sense of anything.”
“Did he say who’d shot him?”
“He didn’t have to. We both knew who he believed it was.”
“Who was that?”
“He thought it was me.”
“He thought you were trying to kill him?”
“He thought I’d shot him by accident.” Which was the only lie Cork had told in any of the interviews that day.
“Did you?”
“No.”
“You meant to shoot him with that arrow?”
Cork refrained from smiling at the obvious and shallow trap and told him once again, “It wasn’t me who shot Jubal.”
“Who then?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you see anyone else?”
“No.”
“Hear anyone else?”
“No.”
“So, as far as you know, you were both alone out there?”
“Clearly not. Whoever shot that arrow was out there with us.”
In the beginning, Larson had positioned his chair near to Cork, making the interrogation a more intimate affair, just between the two of them. Between friends, maybe. Now he backed off a couple of feet and asked, rather indifferently, “Do you consider yourself a good bow hunter, Cork?”
“Fair to middling.”
“When you hunt, you’re a purist, right? You do still-stalking. No deer blind. You actually track the animal on foot.”
“That’s right.”
“I’m guessing you’d have to be tuned in to all the sounds around you, wouldn’t you? Reading all the signs?”
Cork understood the thrust of Larson’s questions. If there was someone else at Trickster’s Point with them, why didn’t Cork know it?
“Must take incredible stealth,” Larson said.
“That all depends on what you’re after,” Cork replied.
“You were after white-tail deer, weren’t you?”
Cork said, “Ed, what I was really after is something you can’t understand, and if I say it, you’ll misconstrue my meaning.”
“I’ll do my best to understand.” He promised with such earnest appeal that Cork knew he was telling the truth.
So Cork offered his own truth in return. He said, “I was hunting Jubal Little.”
Videos
