Blood Hollow co-4

by William Kent Krueger

  “Who was it?” Cork finally asked.

  “You’re going to love this,” Solemn said. “It was Jesus.”

  Cork looked at Meloux, who seemed unperturbed at this startling declaration.

  “Jesus?” Cork said.

  “The Son of God,” Solemn said.

  “He appeared to you?”

  “We had a good, long talk.”

  Cork peered hard at Solemn’s face. He saw no indication that it was a joke, a hoax, a diversion. In fact, what he saw in those dark eyes was utter calm.

  Cork said, “What was he wearing?”

  “Jeans. An old flannel shirt. Minnetonka moccasins, I think.”

  “He was dressed like a Minnesota tourist?”

  “Maybe in Mexico He wears a sombrero,” Solemn said.

  Cork felt fire on his fingers, and he realized he’d forgotten about his cigarette. The ember had burned all the way down to the point where it was singeing his skin. He dropped the cigarette and jerked his hand to his mouth to suck away the pain.

  “Did he give you a message to deliver?”

  “We just talked.”

  Cork blew on his fingers. “About what?”

  “He told me He understood what it was like to be accused of a crime you didn’t commit. He told me it was okay to be afraid, but that all things occurred for a purpose, and to believe that all of this was happening for a reason.”

  “Did he tell you the reason?”

  “Just to believe.”

  “What happened then?”

  “He told me he knew I was tired and that I should lie down and sleep. So I did. When I woke up, he was gone.”

  “When you woke up,” Cork said.

  “You think it was just a dream,” Solemn said.

  Cork looked toward Henry Meloux. “What do you think?”

  Meloux finished his own cigarette, ground the ember against the side of the maple stump, and threw the butt into the ashes inside the stone ring.

  “The concern on a vision quest is this: Has the vision guided the life? Solemn Winter Moon went into those woods lost. When he came out, he had found himself. Look at him, Corcoran. You can see the change for yourself.”

  “Henry, do you really think Jesus visited Solemn?”

  The old Mide gave it some consideration. “In a thing like this,” he finally said, “what one man thinks, or even what many men think, isn’t important. A life has been changed. A good man walks with us today. This is always a reason to be glad.”

  Cork looked back at Solemn. “Just like that, it happened?”

  “Just like that,” Solemn replied. He licked his fingers, pinched the ember of his cigarette to extinguish the glow, and tossed the butt into the ashes with Meloux’s. “I figure your coming here is a sign that it’s time to go back.”

  Solemn stood up, then Henry and Cork. Walleye, when he saw the others rise, yawned and stretched, and slowly got to his feet.

  “Migwech,” Solemn said to Henry. Thank you.

  Henry, a man of few words, closed his eyes, and nodded once.

  15

  Cork and Solemn walked back toward the Bronco as night swept the light from the sky. Cork was careful because the way was growing dark. They came to Wine Creek. As they prepared to cross, Solemn spoke at his back.

  “You don’t believe me.”

  “I believe you believe what you saw,” Cork said.

  “But it wasn’t real, right? Just a dream. Or maybe a hallucination brought on by the fast.”

  Cork turned back. “What did he look like? What was the color of his hair?”

  “Black.”

  “Long or short?”

  “Long.”

  “Eyes?”

  “Dark brown, kind of like walnuts, but so soft you could lie down in them.”

  “You’ve just described a Shinnob. Isn’t it possible that you did hallucinate? Or you know the Shinnob sense of humor. Maybe somebody played a joke on you that, in your weakened condition, you bought hook, line, and sinker.”

  “What I saw was real. It’s important that you believe it.”

  “What’s important is what the sheriff’s people are going to believe. Put yourself in their place. A guy with your background bolts in the middle of a murder investigation, and next thing they know, you claim to have talked with Jesus Christ. They’re going to think one of two things. Either you’re trying something you hope will give you a shot at an insanity plea. Or you really are crazy.”

  “Because people don’t talk to Jesus?” Solemn said.

  “Because Jesus doesn’t just step out of the woods wearing Minnetonka moccasins.”

  “I’m here to tell you that sometimes He does.”

  Solemn leaned very close to Cork so that his face was less than a foot away. For an uncomfortably long time, he looked into Cork’s face, something the Ojibwe did not normally do. To look into the eyes of another was a piercing of sorts. And Cork felt pierced.

  “What did you see,” Solemn finally said.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “It’s in your eyes. You saw something, too, but don’t understand it. What?”

  Was Solemn referring to the gray visage that had guided Cork to safety during the whiteout on Fisheye Lake? How could he know?

  “You’re wrong.” Cork turned away, studied the creek in the dark, looking for the stones over the water.

  “You told me before that if I turned myself in, you’d stand by me,” Solemn said. “Will you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even though you don’t believe me.”

  “I believe you didn’t kill Charlotte.”

  “I appreciate that.” Then Solemn said something strange. “What’s ahead won’t be easy.”

  “That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to tell you,” Cork said. “You’re in deep shit.”

  “I mean for you. I’ve talked with Jesus. I have that to give me strength and comfort. But I know that you doubt God.”

  “For me, God doesn’t matter. What matters is that I gave you my word.”

  His foot found the first stone, and he crossed Wine Creek.

  From the pay phone in the waiting area of the sheriff’s department, Cork called Jo at home. He called Dot Winter Moon but got her answering machine and left her a message. Finally, he called Sam’s Place to apologize to his daughters for having deserted. When they heard his reason, they didn’t give him a hard time, and they agreed to close.

  Randy Gooding came out of the secured area and seated himself on the hard plastic bench where Cork sat waiting for Jo.

  “Winter Moon’s taking all this pretty calmly.”

  “He’s had time to think things over.”

  Gooding scratched the back of his head. “How’d you find him?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “You convince him to come in?”

  “That was his idea.”

  Gooding nodded. “Sheriff’s on his way. We had some trouble tracking him down. He was at a swank dinner thing out at the Four Seasons. He’ll probably show up in a tux.”

  “Nobody in Aurora wears a tux except to their wedding.”

  Gooding smiled slightly. “Having Winter Moon in custody is such an occasion for Arne, I wouldn’t be surprised if he took the time to stop by home and put one on. He’s been taking a lot of grief for letting Winter Moon get away. But if he closes this case, he’s got his future wrapped up like a big, fat cigar.”

  Cork leaned forward and clasped his hands. “Solemn didn’t do it.”

  “Sure a lot of evidence that says otherwise.”

  The front door opened and Jo walked in. She’d come in a hurry. She had on jeans and a gray sweatshirt. Her reading glasses were still propped on top of her head. She held Stevie by the hand. In the years when he’d have been old enough to remember, Stevie had never been in the sheriff’s office. His eyes were like two big, shiny chunks of coal as he took the place in.

  “I didn’t have anybody to leave him wi
th,” Jo said in response to Cork’s look of surprise. “The girls are at Sam’s Place, and Rose is at the rectory.”

  “No problem,” Cork said. “Come on over and sit with me, Stevie.”

  The moment Jo appeared, Randy Gooding had politely stood up. Stevie settled himself in the spot vacated by Gooding.

  “Where’s Solemn?” Jo asked.

  Gooding said, “We’ve got him in a holding cell at the moment. The sheriff hasn’t arrived yet.”

  “Did anybody talk to him?”

  “I read him his Miranda rights, but he’d already been strongly cautioned against making any statements without an attorney present.” Gooding cast a glance at Cork. “He was pleasant but he didn’t say anything.”

  “I’d like to see him.”

  “I’d rather you waited until the sheriff-”

  Arne Soderberg swept through the front door. It wasn’t a tux he was wearing, but it was a dark blue suit that probably cost enough money for Cork to have damn near retired on it. The sheriff’s eyes quickly took in everyone in the waiting area, but he spoke only to Gooding.

  “He’s in lockup?”

  “Yes.”

  “Question him yet?”

  “He asked to have an attorney present.”

  Soderberg looked at Jo. “Lost cause, counselor. County attorney says we’ve already got enough to nail him.”

  “That’s what county attorneys are supposed to say,” Jo replied.

  Soderberg finally deigned to speak to Cork. “You bring him in?”

  “Solemn came in on his own. I just provided the transportation.”

  “Fine.” Soderberg smiled and clapped Gooding on the shoulder. “Great day, Randy. Great day. Shall we go have a talk with Winter Moon?”

  Soderberg and Gooding started toward the security door. Jo looked at Cork.

  “I’ll stay here and keep Stevie company,” he told her. “You see to Solemn.”

  Jo spoke quietly, but with great firmness. “I’m not taking his case, Cork. I’ll just see him through things until he can secure representation, that’s all.”

  “He wants you to represent him.”

  “That’s tough. He’s getting somebody else.”

  “Try telling him that.”

  Jo gave him a cold eye, but he knew it wasn’t even half the chilly look Solemn would get when he made his request.

  “Where do they keep the bad guys?” Stevie asked once everyone had gone.

  “Just because someone’s under arrest that doesn’t make him a bad guy. The police sometimes make mistakes, too.”

  It was nearing his bedtime, and Stevie settled against his father and yawned. “Can I see the jail?”

  “Not tonight.”

  “Were you ever in jail?”

  “Lots of times. But fortunately, I always had the key.” He tickled his son’s cheek.

  Stevie laughed and pushed at his father’s hand. “Will Mom be long?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  Stevie slid down, laid his body out along the bench and put his head on his father’s lap. Cork stroked his son’s hair. It was oily, in need of a shampoo. By the time they all got home that night, it would be too late for washing. Tomorrow would have to do.

  “Solemn is a funny name,” Stevie said. He stared at the bright light in the ceiling, his dark eyes reflecting the glare. He seemed mesmerized. Or more likely, just tired.

  “I suppose,” Cork said.

  Stevie’s eyes continued to glaze over. In a few minutes, his eyelids began to droop under the weight of his weariness. He finally let them close.

  It was almost an hour before Jo came out again. She walked slowly toward the bench where Cork sat cradling Stevie’s head in his lap. Her normally sharp blue eyes seemed dulled, a little bewildered.

  “Are you okay?” Cork asked.

  “I’m not sure,” she said.

  “What happened?”

  She spoke as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was saying. “I agreed to take his case.”

  A wind came up and blew all night long. Jo lay in bed next to Cork, listening to the trees groan and shiver, to the wind as it rushed through the leaves with a sound like floodwaters. The curtains did a frantic dance. Finally she got up and closed the bedroom windows. When she came back to bed, she said, “By morning all the lilac blossoms will be gone.”

  Cork took her hand as she slid back under the covers. “How’re you doing?”

  “Worried. I don’t think I’m the right person to help Solemn. I don’t know if there’s anything I can do.”

  “You haven’t had time to think about it much. I’m sure when you do, you’ll know the way.”

  “The evidence is pretty damning.”

  “Then why’d you take his case?”

  Jo sucked in a long breath and shook her head. “I looked into those eyes and I couldn’t say no.”

  “Something’s happened to him, there’s no doubt about it.”

  Jo rolled to her side and studied Cork’s face. “Do you believe his story?”

  “He believes his story. What I believe is that he didn’t kill Charlotte Kane, no matter what the evidence looks like. What about you?”

  “I wish I knew what to think. About his story, his innocence.”

  “You looked into his eyes, and you couldn’t say no. What does that tell you?”

  “That I’m getting soft in my old age.” She laid her arm across his chest. “Oh, Cork, I don’t know how I can do this by myself. With the work I’m doing for my other clients, I already feel overwhelmed.”

  “What do you need?”

  She thought a moment. “Well, I suppose an investigator would help. Someone who can do interviews, and track down leads, and help me think about evidence and all the things I don’t know about a homicide case. I need you, Cork.”

  “I’ll find a way to swing it.” Cork lifted her hand to his lips and softly kissed her palm. “You’ve got yourself a gumshoe, ma’am.”

  In the relative quiet that had come with the closing of the windows, Cork heard a slight sniffle at the bedroom door. He rose up on his elbows and saw the small, dark shape of Stevie in the doorway.

  “What is it, buddy?”

  “I keep hearing things.”

  Stevie heard things even when there was nothing to hear. Cork and Jo never chided him for the fears caused by night noises, real or imagined. They’d decided the best way to help their son was to let him know he was never alone.

  “I’ll go,” Jo said. “I can’t sleep anyway.”

  She went to the door, put her arm around her son, and the two of them walked back down the hallway.

  The wind pushed through the trees outside like something huge and panicked. Alone, Cork lay staring at the ceiling, thinking about Solemn Winter Moon, about the evidence, about what Jo would be up against. He finally sat up and turned on the light on the nightstand. He pulled a pencil and a notepad from the drawer and set about making a list of all the factors stacked against Solemn.

  Breakup with Charlotte Kane.

  Seen arguing with Charlotte at the New Year’s Eve party.

  No alibi.

  Murder weapon is his; his prints all over it.

  Fingerprints on a beer bottle at the scene of Charlotte’s death.

  He looked at his list and knew that in Aurora these were not the only things that could influence the thinking of a jury. He added two more notations.

  Troubled past

  Solemn is an Indian.

  He drew a line under these items to separate the page and began to list the factors that might help Solemn’s case.

  No confession. Denies guilt.

  This was important, because despite what movies and television said about the value of forensic evidence in securing a conviction, the truth was that in the vast majority of homicide cases the killer’s confession was the most damning exhibit the prosecution could present in a murder trial.

  No eyewitnesses.

  At the moment, there
was no one who could actually place Solemn at the scene when the crime occurred. That meant that all the evidence against him so far was circumstantial, and a good defense attorney could mount an effective attack on that basis alone. Still, with circumstantial evidence, what a jury would finally decide was anyone’s guess.

  Cork tried to think if there was anything else working in Solemn’s favor. Only one possibility occurred to him, and he wrote it down.

  Talked with Jesus.

  Cork looked at that one a long time, weighing the effect it might have on anyone’s thinking about the case. Solemn seemed to believe truly in what he’d experienced, and that belief had changed him dramatically. But it might be that not everyone would see that change, or believe it to be sincere. Maybe Cork’s own thinking was influenced by his love of Sam Winter Moon and by what he thought he owed Sam’s great-nephew. In a town like Aurora, once the opinion about a thing was set, changing that opinion was like trying to reverse the rotation of the earth. Solemn was a wild kid, a troublemaker, a hoodlum. It wouldn’t be a hard stretch at all to believe he’d killed Charlotte Kane. He was also the desecrator of St. Agnes, and the fact that he claimed to speak to Jesus might well be the final blasphemy.

  Cork drew a line through his third notation under the list of things helpful to Solemn’s case, and assigned it number eight under the things against. Then he looked at what he’d put together. Jo was right to be concerned. On paper, Solemn was already a goner.

  16

  The next morning, as soon as he’d seen the children off to school, Cork went to St. Agnes to talk to Mal Thorne. He tried the rectory first. When he knocked, Rose opened the door.

  She’d been absent from the O’Connor house for over a month, and Cork had seen her only two or three times in that period, not very recently. The children and Jo stopped by the rectory regularly, and they saw her every Sunday morning, but a stop at St. Agnes was never on Cork’s agenda. Now he stood at the doorway to the priests’ residence and looked at Rose as if he were seeing a stranger. For a moment, he simply stared at her, speechless.

  She smiled. “Hello, Cork.”

  “Rose?”

  She laughed, reached out, and hugged him.

  “You’ve lost weight,” he said.