31
At nine o’clock that evening, Cork said, “Let’s close ’er up, Annie.”
It was Friday night, and they’d had a steady stream of customers for hours. Cork was tired.
Annie turned from the serving window, which was empty at the moment. “You know, you’d make a lot more money if we stayed open late, Dad.”
“I don’t want to work late. Do you?”
“Not especially.”
“Well there you are. We’d both rather be poor but happy. Let’s get the place cleaned up.”
Half an hour later, Annie walked to the door of the Quonset hut. “See you at home.”
“I’m going to put the night deposit together. If you wait a few minutes, I’ll give you a ride.”
“It’s a nice night,” Annie said. “I think I’ll walk.”
“Suit yourself.”
The evening sky was sapphire. Cork walked to the door and watched Annie head toward town, following the path along the lakeshore toward the copse of poplars that enclosed the ruins of the old foundry. The trees were dark against the fading light, and Annie, against the horizon, was dark, too, and small and lovely. There were moments like this when Cork felt absolutely full, overflowing with love for his life, his family, his friends, this place he called home. He felt all that was familiar wrap around him like an old, comfortable quilt, and he didn’t know how a man could be any luckier.
When he’d finished preparing the deposit, he locked up Sam’s Place and headed into town. After the money was safely in the bank’s keeping, Cork drove Center Street for a while. It was a busy evening. The streets were alive with traffic, teenagers and tourists and locals taking advantage of the summer night. Cork was looking for Kane’s El Dorado, but he didn’t see it, and in a way he was relieved.
He’d just turned on Olive Street to head home when his cell phone chirped.
“Cork, it’s Jo. Where are you?”
He heard the concern in her voice.
“On my way home. What is it?”
“It’s Annie. She’s pretty upset. She’s sure someone stalked her after she left Sam’s Place.”
“I’ll be right there.”
They were in the kitchen, the three O’Connor women, Jo, Jenny, and Annie. Annie sat at the table with a glass of milk in front of her and an uneaten cookie. Jenny had pulled up a chair next to her. Jo sat across the table. They all glanced up when Cork came in. Jo and Jenny looked worried. Annie looked scared.
“Hey, sweetheart, how’re you doing?” He bent and kissed the top of Annie’s head. Her hair still smelled of hot fry oil.
“Dad, some creep followed me home.”
Cork pulled out a chair and seated himself. “Tell me everything from the beginning.”
It was dark outside. The bulb over the sink was on. Night insects bumped against the screen trying desperately to get at the light.
Annie played with her cookie, turning it round and round on the table. Occasionally, her eyes flicked toward the bump and brush of the bugs at the window.
“I saw him the first time in the trees where the old foundry is. He was, like, crouching behind part of that brick wall that’s still there.”
“Why do you think it was a him?”
“I guess I didn’t then. When I saw him the next time, I was pretty sure.”
“Where was that?”
“In Randolph Park. I was walking along the trail that cuts through the ball fields and over the culvert. He was there in the trees along the creek.”
“You got a better look this time?”
“Yeah. But it was also darker, so I couldn’t really see much.”
“Tell me what you saw.”
“I think he was tall.”
“Taller than me?”
“I’d say so, yes.”
“Fat, skinny?”
“Kind of medium.”
“What was he doing?”
“Just standing there, watching me.”
“How do you know it was the same person you saw by the old foundry?”
“I just know it was.”
“Okay. Go on.”
“I started running then, kind of like I was jogging home. I just wanted to get out of there.”
“Sure. That was smart, honey.”
“Then I saw him again. He was waiting in the alley just before I got to Gooseberry Lane. There’s a streetlamp there, but he stayed in the shadow of the Kaufmanns’ big lilac hedge.”
“Did you get a better look this time?”
She shook her head. “I only saw him because he coughed.”
“Did he say anything?”
“No.”
“Did you?”
“No. I ran. I mean I really ran this time.”
“Is there anything you remember about him? Any detail? His clothing?”
“No.”
“Did he wear glasses?”
“I don’t know.”
“Face hair?”
“I couldn’t see.”
She seemed distressed that she had no answers, and Cork decided to let it go for now.
“That’s okay, Annie. You did just fine.”
“This is Aurora,” Jenny said. “We shouldn’t have to worry about pervs here.”
Cork said, “Until we know better what’s going on, you both ride home with me at night, okay?”
“What if Sean gives me a ride?” Jenny said, speaking of her boyfriend.
“Fine. But he sees you to the door.”
“Which he ought to be doing anyway,” Jo said.
Annie held herself as if she were cold. “I think I’m going to take a shower.”
“A good long hot one,” her sister advised. “Wash that creep away. Come on. I’ll go up with you.”
Cork stood up and hugged her. “It’ll be all right, I promise.”
She seemed to believe him. “Thanks, Dad.”
When the girls were gone, Cork sat with Jo at the table. He picked up Annie’s uneaten cookie and began breaking it into pieces.
“What do you think?” Jo said.
“Annie’s as sensible as they come. If she says she was followed, she was followed.”
“Why would someone do that?”
The cookie lay in crumbs on the table in front of Cork. “Jo, there’s something I haven’t told you. I didn’t think much about it until now. The other day when Kane was out at Sam’s Place, he asked me how I’d feel if it were my daughter who was dead.”
“And you don’t think it was just a rhetorical question?” Jo was quiet a moment. “You think it might have been Fletcher?”
“Annie said the guy was tall. Fletcher’s tall. He’s always been odd, but he’s way beyond odd now. I’m not saying absolutely it was Kane, but I’d be a fool-no, worse; I’d be negligent-if I didn’t check him out. Jo, if he did have something to do with Charlotte’s murder, who knows what he might be thinking now.”
Jo’s eyes drifted to the door through which her precious daughter had just passed. She nodded once. “Start checking.”
32
Next morning, Cork stopped by the YMCA early. He found Mal Thorne in the weight room, wearing finger gloves and working a heavy bag. The priest worked out this way several mornings a week, keeping himself in shape. He might not have been the athlete he was when he’d boxed at Notre Dame, but for a man in middle age, he was all right. He wore a sleeveless T-shirt, and his biceps were hard and round as river stones.
Mal stopped when he saw Cork watching him. He smiled and, with the back of the leather glove on his big right hand, wiped sweat from his brow.
“What’s up, Cork?”
“Got a minute?”
“Sure.”
The room smelled of warm weights and hot bodies and bench cushions that went too long between cleanings. Except for Mal and Cork, the place was empty.
“I’ve been thinking, Mal. About the graffiti Solemn spray-painted on the wall of St. Agnes. That Latin word.”
“Mendax.”
&n
bsp; “Right. Liar. I’m pretty sure it was Charlotte Kane who put him up to it.”
The priest showed no surprise.
“Why do you suppose she did that?”
Mal laid a hand on the heavy bag, as if to keep it from swinging, which it wasn’t. “Search me.”
“Not even a guess?”
“Some people feel as if God has let them down, as if the promises of the Church are empty. I encounter that a lot.”
“Did you encounter it with Charlotte?”
“Maybe.”
“You’re hedging.”
“I was her priest, Cork.”
“And her confessor.”
“It’s the nature of the job.”
“Mal, Charlotte Kane exhibited behaviors that, in my understanding, are classic for a young woman who’d been sexually abused, probably on a long-term basis.”
The priest tugged off one of his gloves, and started on the other.
“It occurs to me that you’re also Fletcher Kane’s confessor.”
“I’m not going there with you, Cork. You know that anything told to me in confession is a sacred confidence.”
“I’m concerned. If he was sexually molesting his daughter, he may be trapped in a behavior pattern that threatens other young women.”
“I can’t help you, Cork.” A drop of sweat hung on the priest’s brow. It gathered weight, plummeted, splattered soundlessly on the wooden floor.
“Someone followed Annie home last night. Stayed to the shadows where she couldn’t see him clearly.”
“You think it was Kane?”
“Is there a reason I should?”
The priest looked away and didn’t answer.
“You know something about him and about Charlotte, don’t you?”
“Charlotte’s dead, Cork. Let the dead rest in peace.”
“I don’t think there’s going to be much peace here until we know the truth about her murder.”
The priest took a deep breath. “There’s only one truth of which I’m absolutely certain. That none of us is without sin.” He gave a final, ungloved blow to the heavy bag. “We’re done here.”
He walked away, leaving Cork wondering what it was the priest knew but wouldn’t say.
At the sheriff’s department, he found Cy Borkmann sitting in the chair that only a few days before had been occupied by Arne Soderberg.
“You look good there, Cy.”
“Hey, Cork,” Borkmann said, rising. “Come on in.”
They shook hands.
“How’s it going?” Cork asked.
“No complaints so far. Have a seat. By the way, that was some nice piece of work, connecting Arne with Charlotte Kane.”
“You know how it is. Sometimes you get lucky. Any idea how Arne’s doing?”
“Heard Lyla kicked him out. Me, I wouldn’t necessarily consider that punishment. Gooding told you about the rose petals.”
“Yeah.”
Borkmann shook his head and his wattle wobbled. “Swear to god, you could give Arne a bucketful of wishes and he’d find a way to turn it into a handful of horse crap.”
Cork smiled, then got serious. “Cy, somebody followed my daughter home last night. Scared her pretty bad.”
“Attacked her?”
“No. Stalked is more like it.”
“Did she see who?”
“It was too dark.”
“Let’s write up an incident report.”
“Hold on a minute. I’d like to run something by you. Just between you and me. Off the record.”
“Shoot.”
Cork told him about his discussion with the school psychologist. “From what I gather, Cy, behavior like Charlotte’s may well have been the result of long-term abuse. In all likelihood, it predated her involvement with Arne. I’m wondering about Fletcher Kane. I’m wondering what kind of relationship he really had with his daughter.”
Borkmann’s eyes saucered. He picked up a pen and made a brief notation on a scrap of paper on his desk.
“Listen, Cy,” Cork went on. “Glory Kane was the only one who could corroborate her brother’s alibi for the night of the murder. Don’t you find it a little odd that she disappeared the day after Charlotte was buried?”
“I don’t know that she disappeared. Headed off on some kind of trip, I understand.”
“Conveniently vague, don’t you think?”
“Maybe. Probably Arne never thought about tracking her down because she didn’t seem important to the case. I mean, we had Winter Moon right from the beginning.”
Cork leaned forward confidentially. “Understand I’m just asking a question here. But if Glory knew something or suspected something and Fletcher was afraid she might tell someone, what would he do? Do any of us really know him well enough to know what he’s capable of?”
“You saying he killed her? And that now he’s stalking Annie?”
“I’m not saying anything, Cy. I’m just thinking that if I were sheriff, it would sure be something I’d look into.” Cork sat back. “Do you know anything about Kane before he came to Aurora?”
“Enough.”
“Anything you can share?”
Borkmann thought it over. “Wait here.” He got up and left the room.
Cork went to the window. Another gorgeous June day. Although Solemn was no longer a prisoner in the jail, the hopeful still gathered in the little park across the street. Grover Buck had received his miracle, apparently. And Marge Schembeckler. But what about the boy in the wheelchair and all the others, those still waiting for what their faith had promised them?
Borkmann came back with a manila folder in his hand. “This is what we’ve got on Kane. Graduated magna cum laude from UCLA in seventy-four, from Stanford Medical School in seventy-eight. Joined the staff of the Worthington Clinic in Pomona, California, in eighty. Became head of the clinic in ninety. Invested well. Widowed four years ago. Retired and moved to Aurora. No criminal record.”
“That’s it.”
“Slew of awards for his work. Humanitarian guy. Gave his time to causes and such.”
“Where’d you get this information?”
“Gooding interviewed him.”
“Did Gooding check it out?”
“Not that I know of. The guy wasn’t under suspicion. Again, Arne figured he had Winter Moon dead to rights.”
“Look, Cy. I think Arne made a big mistake when he stopped looking beyond Solemn, but Arne wasn’t a cop. He didn’t think like you and I do. A cop would know better.”
“Sure,” Borkmann said. “Sure.”
“I’m working with Jo on Solemn’s defense, but what I really want, what we all want, is to nail the son of a bitch who murdered Charlotte Kane. I don’t believe for an instant that Solemn’s guilty. I’m going to keep digging. If I find out anything, I’ll share it with you. I’m hoping you’ll show me the same courtesy.”
“Well now, Cork, you know I can’t make any promises. But I’ll sure do my best to keep you in the loop.”
“That’s all I’m asking, Cy.” Cork stood up and reached his hand across the desk. “Nice doing business with you. Sheriff.” He grinned.
33
Cork felt a little slimy in the way he’d used Borkmann. On the other hand, he got what he was looking for. He knew now that the sheriff’s people had no more information on Fletcher and Glory Kane than he had. That meant there was a lot of digging to be done.
During a lull in the rush at Sam’s Place that afternoon, he stepped into the back section of the Quonset hut, called directory assistance, and got the number for the Worthington Clinic in Pomona. When he telephoned, the automated system told him the hours were 8:00 A.M. until 5:00 P.M. Monday through Friday. If it was an emergency, there was a number to call. He was free to leave a message that would be returned as soon as possible.
Cork left a message.
“This is Sheriff Corcoran O’Connor calling from Tamarack County, Minnesota. I’d appreciate talking with someone there about Dr. Fletcher K
ane. This is in relation to a homicide investigation.” He left his telephone number, said thank you, and hung up.
He knew he’d have to be careful about the sheriff part.
When he returned to the serving area, he saw Deputy Randy Gooding at one of the windows talking with Annie, both of them laughing. Gooding signaled him over. Annie stepped back toward the griddle, smiling happily.
“Cy sent me over, Cork. He thought you might want to know that we finally tracked down Grover Buck,” Gooding said. “Duluth P.D. is holding him.”
“For what?”
“Soliciting the services of a woman he thought was a prostitute, but who was really part of a sting. I’d contacted them earlier, when Buck suddenly dropped out of sight right after his miraculous healing. They promised to watch for him.”
“Did he drive himself to Duluth, now that the Lord has opened his eyes?”
“Yeah, right. His nephew. Same one who helped him count out the five hundred dollars he got for faking his healing.”
“Who paid him?”
“Swears he never got the man’s name. But get this. The guy paid him off in bogus bills, counterfeit C-notes, while the nephew’s standing there, watching. What does a sixteen-year-old kid know about counterfeit bills?”
“What about Marge Schembeckler and her arthritis?”
“I talked to her a couple of days ago. She admitted she was back in her wheelchair the same afternoon she was healed. Stayed in her house after that. Ashamed, she says. Doesn’t seem to be any connection between her and the guy who paid off Buck. I figure she just got caught up in the moment and willed herself to walk. At least for a little while.”
“So the blanket…”
“Wasn’t anything special after all.”
Although he couldn’t have said why, Cork felt a little sad that the hands behind the miracles had been revealed.
“Anybody else know this?”
“Not yet, but they will soon enough. Borkmann’s giving a statement to the media.”
“A shame in a way. All those folks who wanted to believe so badly.”
Gooding leaned close through the window. “Cy told me about the discussion you two had in his office. I got to tell you, I think you’re way off base about Dr. Kane.”
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