“He insisted I bring him down from Aurora. He and Anne are with your son right now.”
Cork looked to Jenny. “Any change?”
She shook her head. “He still can’t feel his legs, Dad.”
Meloux walked into the room and said, “Boozhoo, Corcoran O’Connor.”
Cork tried to read the old Mide’s face, but those ancient features gave away nothing.
“How is he?” Cork asked.
“Strong.” Meloux inclined his head toward Jenny. “All the children you have been given are strong, Corcoran O’Connor. This is both a good thing and a hard thing.”
“Hard?” Jenny asked.
“You are the light. The darkness will always try to snuff you out.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” Jenny said.
“You are not unrewarded,” Meloux replied with a gentle smile.
“Waaboo?”
“Who is strong, too,” Meloux told her.
“What reward for Stephen?” she asked.
The old man opened his empty hands. “We will have to be patient.”
A sudden fire rose up in Cork, a burning immediacy, and it came out in hot words. “I don’t understand all this, Henry. I don’t understand why us, why my children, why Stephen. To hell with patience. Right now, all I want is to get my hands on Walter Frogg and tear the heart out of his chest. Will the Great Mystery give me that satisfaction?”
“If we understood the spirit that moves all things, Corcoran O’Connor, we would not call it the Great Mystery. I do not know what the purpose of this is, but I try to wrap my heart around the belief that there is purpose. I have been trying to help Stephen do the same.”
“And I appreciate that, Henry. Now I’m going to go see my son, and then I’m going to hunt down Frogg, and I’m going to hold to the belief that the Great Mystery will deliver him to me.”
Meloux looked at him, looked directly into his eyes, and spoke in a way that was, at the same time, like rock and like feather. “Anger blinds, Corcoran O’Connor. To hunt, if that is what is in your heart, you will need a clear eye. For that you will need a clear mind. The animal you hunt does not act out of anger. It acts in the way it does because that is its nature.” He laid his open palm against Cork’s chest. “Your nature is different.”
The hallway outside exploded with voices, and a moment later, a small crowd entered the waiting room. Stella Daychild and Marlee were in the lead, and behind them came half a dozen familiar faces from the rez. A nurse was with them, caught up like a piece of flotsam in a flood.
“You can’t all be up here,” she was saying. “You can’t be making this kind of disturbance.”
“You think this a disturbance, lady, just try to kick us out. Hey, Cork. Boozhoo, cousin.”
On the Iron Lake Reservation, Ojibwe of a similar age often hailed each other as “cousin.” In this case, however, it happened to be familialy accurate. Tom Bullhead was the grandson of Cork’s grandmother’s sister. Grandma Dilsey had married a white schoolteacher. Bullhead’s grandmother had married a fishing guide who was true-blood Iron Lake Ojibwe. Bullhead, who was big, broad, black-haired, and high-cheeked, looked every inch an Indian. Like his grandfather and his father, he made his living guiding hunters and fishermen deep into the Superior National Forest and the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness. He was also a maker of mandolins, which he sold in a little shop he kept in Allouette and on the Internet.
Along with him, Bullhead had brought a motley assortment of Shinnobs, all of whom Cork had known his whole life—Chuck Daydodge, Oliver Hudson, Bob Rainingbird. Carson Manydeeds was with them, wearing a VFW ball cap with gold braid on the crown. Ray Jay Wakemup was there as well, his first full day as a free man after two months in the county jail. They all exchanged greetings, and Cork said, “What the hell are you guys doing here?”
The nurse said, “Making trouble.”
“Not at all,” Bullhead assured her with a big grin. “We’re the rez cavalry. We’re here to help. We heard the guy who went after my cousin’s son is still out there, maybe thinking of trying something again. We figured we’d help cover here, give that son of a bitch something to think about if he was considering taking another crack at Stephen. You understand that, right?”
“The police—” the nurse began.
“Are nowhere in sight.” Bullhead spread his arms toward the waiting room, indicating the complete absence of uniforms. “They show up, we’ll take a powder, promise. In the meantime, wouldn’t you rather have someone making sure no one brought violence onto your floor?”
She eyed him with suspicion, obviously trying to decide if violence hadn’t already arrived.
“We’ll be a quiet presence, I promise,” Bullhead said and used his index finger to make a little cross over his heart.
“If there’s any trouble—”
“It won’t be coming from us, I guarantee it.”
The nurse considered this, then considered the gathering, and finally gave a perfunctory nod. “I’ll be watching.”
“A comfort to us all,” Bullhead said with a pleasant smile.
The nurse retreated.
Bullhead turned to Cork. “So what’s the plan, cousin?”
* * *
“There’s someone here to see you,” Stephen’s father told him. “Marlee.”
Since he’d come out of post-op, Stephen had been drifting in and out of sleep. The sleep wasn’t peaceful. It was a disturbing mix of images from Crow Point—the stranger on the shoreline, the gun, the frigid water—and things that had nothing to do with reality—walking through an empty house that he didn’t recognize and that was full of secret rooms, running a cross-country race in his underwear. Each time he came back to consciousness, it was with the realization that he could not feel his legs and feet. At last, he’d awakened and found Henry Meloux beside him, and the old Mide’s presence and calming voice and wise perspective had helped ease some of his anxiety.
He wasn’t certain at all that he wanted to see Marlee now.
“If you’d rather not,” his father said, “that’s all right.”
“No, it’s okay,” Stephen replied. “For a little while.”
Cork signaled Anne, who’d been at Stephen’s bedside constantly, to come with him, and a couple of moments later, Stephen found himself alone with Marlee Daychild.
She looked awful. And she looked beautiful. Her face was bruised, and she walked as if it was terribly painful for her, and she wore a worried expression. But that didn’t matter, because the moment he saw her, he felt an ember deep inside him begin to glow.
“I know,” she said and almost turned away. “I look awful.”
“You look wonderful,” he said.
“You look—” She began to cry. “Oh, Stephen, I’m so sorry.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know. I don’t want you to be this way. It hurts me.”
“I watched you walk in. I think you hurt enough already.” He smiled and reached out and took her hand. “How’re you doing?”
“I was afraid you were going to die. And I wanted to die, too.”
“But here we are. Both alive.”
Her eyes shot to his legs under the sheet and blanket, and he could guess her thinking.
He squeezed her hand. “The doctors say there’s hope. And Henry tells me there’s purpose in this.”
“What purpose?” she fired back angrily.
Stephen pretty much repeated what Meloux had told him. “In time, we’ll understand.”
She hit his shoulder lightly with her free hand, a gentle but irritated tap. “You’re so damn calm.”
“I can’t do anything about what’s happened except prepare myself to accept the way things are.” Which were words, only words. The truth was he was terribly afraid, and every quiet moment he had to himself, he prayed desperately not to have to live his life crippled. Because he didn’t want her to see his fear, he looked down at her hand and asked, “Would it make a
difference if I couldn’t walk?”
She didn’t answer, and her silence became an unbearable weight. He finally looked up, right into the dark, wet satin of her eyes.
“I would carry you everywhere,” she told him. “And I would be happy.” She leaned down and kissed him a very long time.
* * *
Cork stood with Stella in the hallway outside Stephen’s room.
“You know, I’ve always thought I was kind of screwed up,” Stella said, “but then a guy like this Frogg comes along and makes me realize what crazy really is.”
She wore jeans, a white sweater of some soft knit, a necklace of amber-colored stones, and matching earrings. Cork thought it was odd, maybe inexcusable, that under the circumstances he noted such inconsequential things. But he and Stella had shared a night that felt to him as if it had significant consequence, and even the small things about her had become important. She held a paperback book in one hand.
“What’re you reading?” Cork asked.
“To Kill a Mockingbird. It’s been on my bookshelf forever. I thought it might be a good way to pass the time in the waiting room.”
“How are you and Marlee doing?”
She looked at him, as if perplexed. “You’ve got all this crap to deal with and you’re asking about Marlee and me? Are you for real?”
“If you’re doing okay, then it’s one less thing I need to worry about.”
She reached up with her free hand and cupped his cheek. On her wrist he smelled that alluring fragrance he could not name. “Cork, I don’t know what this is between you and me. I didn’t mean for it to get serious, but I think it is.” She waited a moment. “Isn’t it?”
“When everything settles down, that’s an area we need to explore,” he answered. “It’s an area I’d like to explore.”
She lifted her face to his, and he closed his eyes and let himself, amid all the chaos that had descended, enjoy for just a moment the pleasure of her lips.
“I’d like that, too,” she whispered as she drew away.
Stephen asked if Marlee could stay with him awhile longer, and that was fine with Cork. In the waiting area, Tom Bullhead and the other Shinnobs from the rez had set up a guard rotation. Each would take a turn standing post outside Stephen’s room for an hour and then be relieved. The others would bide their time playing pinochle for pennies with a deck that Bob Rainingbird had brought along. Cork pulled Jenny and Anne aside for a family discussion. At some point, they had to head back to Aurora. Jenny needed to take Waaboo off Skye’s hands, and they were all due for a shower and a change of clothing. If possible, they all needed some rest as well. The O’Connors returned to Stephen’s room to discuss the situation with him. Meloux accompanied them.
“Are you going, too?” Stephen asked the old Mide after Cork had explained things.
Henry said, “There is nothing waiting for me. If you want me here, here is where I will be.”
“Thanks, Henry,” Stephen said.
Cork said, “I’ll be back tonight. But if anything changes, the doctors will let us know, and I’ll come right away.”
“Me, too,” Anne said.
“I’ll be fine,” Stephen told them.
Cork knew it was mostly bravado, but he also knew that Stephen was surrounded by good people and good energies. Cork had things to attend to, and one in particular that was eating at him like acid.
He kissed the top of his son’s head. “I love you, guy.”
Jenny and Anne said their good-byes, and they all returned to the waiting area, where Cork explained things to Bullhead and the others. To Hank Wellington, he said, “Henry’s determined to stay here as long as Stephen wants him. What are you going to do?”
Wellington eyed the Ojibwe men, who’d cleared a plant off a table in preparation for dealing a hand of pinochle. “If these guys’ll let me, I’ll do my best to take their pennies.”
“Sit down, rich man,” Bullhead said. “You may know high finance, but when it comes to pennies, Indians always have the inside track.”
It was nearing four o’clock in the afternoon when Cork and his daughters climbed into the Land Rover and pulled away from the hospital. The sun hung low in the west. Rising below it was a bank of dark clouds. He turned on the radio, and just before they headed north out of Duluth, they heard the weather report: More snow was moving in, with significant totals possible before morning.
It had been a long day. They were quiet, drained. There’d been no sleep for any of them the night before, and Cork figured that for him, at least, there’d be no sleep in the night ahead. It seemed to him that he was trudging up an incline, with a great distance still to go before he reached the top.
And what was at the top? Walter Frogg. Frogg in handcuffs or Frogg dead.
“You’re not going home to rest, are you, Dad?” Jenny said.
She knew him too well.
“Miles to go before I sleep,” he replied, one of his favorite retorts.
“Frogg?” Anne asked.
Cork didn’t reply. He simply looked toward the west and thought that if he had any luck at all, a hard snow would add only a small measure of difficulty to what he was planning for that night.
CHAPTER 42
Skye had Waaboo bathed and in his pajamas when the O’Connors walked in the door.
“Mommy,” he cried and ran to Jenny’s waiting arms.
She lifted him and nuzzled his neck and said, “Did you and Skye have fun today?”
“We pwayed,” he said.
“You prayed?”
“No, pwayed. We pwayed wif Bart.”
Skye held up the stuffed orangutan. “All day.”
“Make him talk, Aunt Skye,” Waaboo said.
And she did. A wonderful monkey voice that had Waaboo laughing with delight.
Jenny thanked Skye, and Deputy Reese Weber, who was still on duty, and took her son upstairs to put him to bed.
“Any trouble?” Cork asked Weber.
“Except for Bart there, who’s a little bit of a rogue, everything’s been real quiet.”
“I made sandwiches for the gentlemen in the truck out front,” Skye said. “I used all your bologna. I hope that was okay.”
“If I’d had prime rib, I would have insisted they eat it,” Cork said. “I’ll go out in a minute and thank them myself. Isn’t it about time for a shift change, Reese?”
“Marsha called a few minutes ago. Ken Mercer is on his way to relieve me.”
“You go on back to the department. We’ll be fine until Ken gets here. Thanks, Reese. Thanks a million.”
“No trouble. Skye, you were a pleasure.” The deputy gave her a broad smile as he prepared and then departed.
“I can throw together some chili for dinner,” Anne said. “Any takers?”
“I could eat,” Cork replied. “But first I’m going out to see the Studemeyer brothers.”
As he descended the front porch steps, Cork could hear John Mellencamp blasting on the radio in the cab of the pickup. The windows were a little fogged, but when he looked inside he could see that both men were sleeping. He tapped on the glass, and they woke up. Wes lowered his window. The smell of beer and cigarettes rolled out from inside. Not much heat came with it, and both men sat bundled in their heavy parkas.
“You guys are off duty,” Cork said. “Go on home, get warm, and get some sleep. And next Saturday you’re coming to dinner here. I’ll grill you a couple of the juiciest steaks you ever ate.”
“How’s the boy?”
“He’ll be fine,” Cork said.
“Glad to hear that. Any more word on the bastard who shot him?”
“I’m just about to check in with the sheriff on that.”
“You need anything,” Randy said from the other side, but through a yawn, “you let us know.”
“I’m much obliged,” Cork said.
The Studemeyer brothers took off. Cork stood in the cold and felt the first flakes of the predicted snow light on his face. He looked u
p into the darkness of the night and the clouds, then stared down Gooseberry Lane, which was illuminated by streetlights, then at his house, which at the moment, held everything that was precious to him.
He would not let the threat go on any longer. He spoke to the darkness.
“Tonight,” he said, as if striking some kind of bargain. “Tonight, whatever it takes.”
He listened, but heard in reply only the sweep of the wind that was blowing in the next storm. Even so, he believed that something had changed. He sensed a deepening of the dark that had nothing to do with the night or the storm, a hardening that had nothing to do with the freezing cold.
He’d no sooner returned to the house than Dross called him on his cell phone.
“Azevedo’s back from Babbitt,” she told him.
“Anything?”
“Nothing helpful.”
“Is George still with you at the department?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be right there.”
Anne and Skye were working together in the kitchen. The place already smelled of frying hamburger and onions and garlic and cumin.
“Ken Mercer should be here any minute,” he told them. “I’m heading over to the sheriff’s department.”
“How long will you be gone?” Anne asked.
“I don’t know.”
“What about dinner?”
“Save me some chili. I’ll eat when I get back.”
He turned away, ignoring the look she gave him, trying not to see in it the plea to be reasonable. He had not forgotten Meloux’s advice about letting go of anger for the sake of clarity in the hunt. Anger wasn’t what drove him now. It was something he didn’t know a name for, a force that overrode hunger and the need for sleep and any feeling of emotion. He was the blade of the guillotine. He was the lead in the executioner’s bullet.
Azevedo was with Dross in her office. Cork joined them and Azevedo gave his report. He’d talked with Joe Kovac, chief of police in Babbitt. Frogg’s cousin, Eustis Hancock, was a troublemaker, always on Kovac’s radar. Hancock had done hard time, and a lawman’s badge didn’t mean much to him. The chief had insisted on going along on the interview. Azevedo admitted that he was grateful for the backup.
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