40
Follow the Blood, Meloux had said. A clever instruction? A test perhaps?
The stream flowed into Iron Lake a few hundred yards to the west. Cork quickly checked that stretch, found nothing, and turned back. For an hour, he followed the stream east, deep into the woods. The water coursed among low hills, through stands of spruce, pine, and poplar, raising a ruddy foam as it funneled between close rock walls and spilled into deep, sanguine pools.
He came at last to a long ridge of gray rock that lay before him like a wall. The stream seemed to issue from the slope itself directly out of a blackberry thicket that grew along the base of the ridge for as far as Cork could see. He walked left, then right, looking for a path through the brambles, but he saw no way. Eventually, he lowered himself into the water and began to crawl along the streambed, pushing his way among the thorns. The vines caught his clothing, snagged his hair, scratched his skin. He’d disturbed a horde of mosquitoes that added their own torment on top of the claws of the blackberry vines. The streambed was littered with sharp rocks that cut his hands as he dragged himself forward. At last, he cleared the thicket and stood up, dripping wet.
He faced a gap in the ridge where the stream had cut a narrow corridor. The breach, barely wide enough for a man to slip through, ran at an angle and twisted out of sight. Cork turned himself sideways and squeezed between the rocks, following the water. After a few minutes of slow progress, he came out on the other side of the ridge and found himself in a place he’d never been but recognized immediately.
The meadow was circular, contained within the hollow of a bowl created by a ring of granite ridges like the one through which he’d just passed. The hollow was edged with poplars and aspen and the ground was covered with meadow grass, tall and silky. Along the banks of the stream grew cattails. Not far away stood a makeshift sweat lodge, a frame of bowed willow saplings lashed together and covered with a tarp. Almost dead center in the hollow, a hundred yards from where Cork stood, a single rock rose out of the earth, a gray pinnacle far taller than a man. Seated in the grass at the base of the rock was Solemn Winter Moon.
Solemn watched Cork approach, and a crescent moon grin broke out across his dark face. “What happened to you? Meet up with a cubbing she-bear?”
“A blackberry thicket,” Cork said.
Solemn was shirtless. He wore only khaki shorts. His boots and socks sat on the ground off to one side. His long hair was uncombed, wild. It had become a net that had captured much of what traveled on the current of the breeze. Dandelion fluff, a gossamer thread spun by a spider, a yellow dusting of pollen. Solemn seemed a natural part of the place he’d come to. On the ground beside him lay the small black Bible that Mal had given him in jail.
“Mind if I rob you of your solitude?” Cork asked.
“Nothing here belongs to me. That includes the solitude. Sit down.”
The sun was almost directly overhead, but the air in the meadow felt cool. “This is where you met Him, isn’t it?”
“He walked out of the trees over there.” Solemn pointed toward the east, to a place near where the stream flowed into the hollow.
“Were you hoping He’d come again?”
Solemn smiled. “Yeah.”
“Still hoping?”
“Not anymore.”
“Lost hope?”
Solemn took a good look at Cork. “You ought to wash that blood off. Maybe have a drink while you’re at it. You look thirsty.”
“I am.”
“The creek’s clean,” Solemn said. “It’s what I drink.”
Cork got up and went to the stream. He knelt, cupped his hands, and drank. The water refreshed him.
“I’m glad you dropped out of sight,” Cork said as he cleaned his wounds. “Safer.”
“I didn’t drop out of sight. I ran. I came to Henry because I was scared.”
“Fear is a good thing sometimes. Got an angry crowd back there in Aurora.”
“I wasn’t afraid of the people who think I fooled them. I was afraid I’d fooled myself.”
“Did Henry help?”
“He led me back here. We built that sweat lodge, and Henry did what he could to bring me back to harmony. After he’d finished, he told me I wasn’t done, that I needed to stay awhile, alone. I asked him if he thought Jesus would come again. You know what he said? He said, ‘Expect nothing, because nothing is what’s going to come.’ ” Solemn laughed quietly. “That Henry. He always means exactly what he says, but it’s hard to figure sometimes.”
Cork finished at the creek and sat down beside Solemn at the rock. “Jesus didn’t come, did he?”
“Nothing came. Exactly what Henry said. But I know what he meant now. Nothing was going to come because it was already here. I had it all along. You know what it is, Cork?”
“No.”
“That’s interesting because the last time you visited me at Sam’s cabin you told me exactly what it is. Certainty. I knew God. Or Kitchimanidoo, or whatever name we give to the spirit that binds all things together. I knew. And after that nothing else mattered. Not the old anger, the old hurts. Not yesterday or tomorrow. I didn’t have to think about it, try to understand it. I just knew. It doesn’t matter whether Jesus walked out of those trees or if I dreamed Him. What I received was a true thing. I know that God is.”
He smiled up at the sky, and his face glowed as if he’d swallowed the sun. He looked at Cork and saw the doubt there.
“You’re thinking, why him? Why Solemn Winter Moon? I wondered the same thing. I traveled a hard, dark road, but what I was given didn’t come because of that journey. It wasn’t something I earned from suffering. It was a gift, a blessing like the rain. I wish everyone could know that.” He reached out and put his hand over Cork’s heart. “I wish you could.”
A breeze came up and stirred the grass in the meadow. Solemn removed his hand, and for a moment, Cork felt as if he were going to fall apart, as if all that had held him together was Solemn’s touch.
“You came a long way to find me,” Solemn said.
“To warn you.” Cork told him about Fletcher Kane. Everything he now knew.
Solemn nodded. “There’s a man’s been walking a hard, dark road, himself.”
“For a while, you need to stay here or with Meloux, until we’ve figured a way to deal with Kane.”
“Why are you so afraid for me?”
“I just told you.”
“I guess I mean why are you so afraid of me dying?” He opened his arms toward the hollow. “Don’t you feel it here? The source? We come from a great heart, Cork. The heart of Kitchimanidoo, the heart of God. And we just go back into that heart. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“When you’re looking down the barrel of a shotgun, Solemn, it’s hard to hold to that philosophy. Believe me, I know.”
“Maybe you should stay here awhile.”
“I’ve done what I came for. I just hope it’s done some good.”
“I hadn’t thought about leaving.”
“Good.”
“Thank you, Cork. Thanks for everything.”
Cork stood to leave. He looked down at Solemn. “I wish Sam could see you now.”
“Who says he can’t?” Solemn pointed toward a thick stand of poplar at the base of the western ridge. “A couple of hundred yards south of the creek. See that break in the trees? There’s a path over the ridge. Unless you have a hankering for another go at the blackberry thicket.”
“Once is enough,” Cork said.
Cork found the trail through the trees. As he topped the ridge, he looked back. Solemn hadn’t moved. Nor would he. The place he’d come to was as good as any man could hope for, and far better than most would ever know.
41
Cork knew he’d left a remarkable young man in the hollow where the Blood ran. Solemn had taken hold of something-or something had taken hold of him-that had changed him pro-foundly. Cork, who struggled at every step trying to understand himself and the world, env
ied Solemn. Yet, as he left the woods and drove toward Aurora, there was a dark voice deep inside him that whispered, It won’t last. Back among men, in a little while, he’ll be like us again.
His children were happy to see him home, but no happier than he was to be there and to be with them again. He held them each in his arms. Lithe Jenny. Annie solid as a stone. Stevie, who could not keep his little body still. Cork closed his eyes and knew that to lose a child would be the cruelest blow. Although his head told him prayer was pointless, his heart couldn’t help whispering, “Please, God, keep them safe, my children.”
The house smelled of Rose’s cooking. Pork roast with a citrus marinade, new potatoes, butter squash, and homemade apple-sauce. A welcome-home meal, she told him when he stepped into the kitchen. She kissed his cheek and smiled, but she was unable to hide from him that she stood in the shadow of some private sadness.
“It’s good to be home again,” he said.
“Wash up,” she replied, turning away and wiping her hands on her apron. “Dinner’s almost ready. Oh, and you got a call. A man named Boomer. He said to call him back.”
Boomer Grabowski had promised to call as soon as he returned to Chicago, in case Cork still wanted Mal Thorne investigated. Cork considered whether that was necessary now. He’d identified Charlotte’s lover, and it wasn’t the priest. Not that he’d ever really believed it was, but he’d wanted to be thorough. And still did. So he figured he’d call Boomer after dinner.
As it turned out, he never got the chance. But it would have been far better if he had.
In the stillness just before sunset, he sat with Jo, rocking in the porch swing. Jenny had gone on a date with her boyfriend, Sean. Annie was at the park with Ilsa Hardesty, practicing their pitches. She promised to be home before dark. Stevie rode his bike up and down Gooseberry Lane making a sound like a race car. Rose was taking a walk by herself, something she did regularly now.
“She’s quiet,” Cork said.
“She’s in love. She believes she’s hiding it, but even the girls can see.”
“Has she talked to you?”
“No.”
“What will she do?”
“What can she do? He’s a priest. He’s already taken.”
“Sometimes priests leave the church. Sometimes because of a woman. Do you think Mal feels the same way about her?”
“I don’t know.” She watched Stevie zip past on the street, his little legs pedaling as if he were being chased by a devil. “I keep thinking back to Memorial Day. I knew then and didn’t do anything.”
“What could you have done?” He squeezed her hand. “It’s not your fault, Jo. When two hearts connect, there’s not a lot anybody can do about it. We both know that.”
“She’s always wanted to be in love, to find someone to care about and who would care about her. Why did it have to be like this? Why is love always so painful?”
“It’s not. Not always, anyway.”
“Oh, Cork, my heart’s breaking for her.”
As the sun set, the street dropped into the shadow of approaching night. Cork stood up to call Stevie in, but before he did, he glanced down at Jo and said, “Aren’t you supposed to put all this in God’s hands?”
Jo shook her head. “I don’t know. Sometimes He seems clueless.”
Cork guided Stevie through bedtime preparations and read to him awhile. He heard the doorbell ring. A few minutes later, Jo came upstairs and parked herself in the doorway to Stevie’s room. She looked concerned.
“What’s up?” Cork asked quietly. Stevie’s eyes had just drifted closed.
Jo motioned him into the hallway.
“Dot Winter Moon is downstairs. She’s worried about Solemn.”
Dorothy Winter Moon sat on the couch in the living room. Her face was shiny with perspiration. Errant strands of her hair were pasted to her forehead like black cracks.
“What’s going on?” Cork said.
“Solemn’s gone,” Dot said.
“I know. He’s up in the woods near Meloux’s place.”
“He came back,” Dot said.
Cork sat down in the easy chair. “Tell me what happened.”
“He came home late this afternoon, showered, changed his clothes. Then he talked to me, like we used to talk.”
“What about?” Cork asked.
“About Sam, about a lot of things in the past. I told him I was fixing pork chops for dinner. He said he had an errand to run, then he’d be back to eat. He kissed me on the cheek. I can’t remember the last time he kissed me.” She was a tough woman, but she was near tears. “He never came back.”
“Did he say where he was going?” Cork asked.
“To the place where two hard roads come together. I don’t know where that is.”
Cork said, “Did you check Sam’s cabin?”
“Yes. He wasn’t there. And I called everyone on the rez. Nobody’s seen him. I checked the bars he used to go to. Then I came into town hoping he might have come by here.”
“I’ll bet he went back to Henry Meloux’s place,” Cork said. “I’m sure he’s fine, Dot.”
“You think so?”
“I’d call Henry, but he’s got no phone.”
Jo said, “Cork, would you be willing to drive out and check?”
Dot looked at Cork, and her almond eyes were full of hope.
“All right.”
“Thanks,” Dot said. “Thanks a million, Cork.”
Rose walked in the front door. She took in the scene, and she said, “Are you all right, Dot?”
Dot shrugged. “My boy’s missing.”
“Cork thinks he’s with Henry Meloux,” Jo said. “He’s going out to check.”
Rose put her hand gently on Dot’s shoulder. “It could be a long wait. Why don’t I fix some coffee?”
“Damn, that would be nice,” Dot said.
Rose glanced at Jo, saw the look of concern on her face, and suggested, “Why don’t you come into the kitchen with me, Dot. I could use the company.”
After the two women had left the room, Jo turned to Cork.
“Do you really think he’s at Meloux’s?”
“I hope so, but there’s one place I’m going to check first.”
“You think he’s gone to see Kane?”
“I do.”
“You’ll be careful?”
“Of course.”
Along the two blocks of the central business district everything except the Pinewood Broiler and the Perkins had closed for the night. There were still vehicles on the streets, kids on summer break with nothing better to do, tourists looking for a nightlife that didn’t exist in Aurora.
He turned onto North Point Road and drove past the Soderberg house, which appeared deserted. The moon was just rising, a yellow blister festering on the dark horizon.
No lights were on at the old Parrant estate either. He hoped that meant Fletcher Kane had gone to bed. When he was near enough to see things more clearly, however, his uneasiness crystallized into fear. Solemn’s black Ranger pickup sat in the circular drive.
Cork parked behind the Ranger and got out. In the light that leaked from the blistered moon, he saw that the truck was empty. A night wind came off the lake, rustling the tall bushes next to the house, scraping branches restlessly across the stone of the wall. Cork climbed the front steps onto the porch. He peered through a window where the curtains hadn’t been drawn completely, but he could see nothing inside. He knocked at the door. The only answer was the creak of a loose porch board as he stepped back to wait. He tried the knob. The door was unlocked. He opened it.
The smell of pot roast greeted him, a pleasant aroma that seemed out of place in that unwelcoming house.
“Fletcher!” he called. “Solemn!”
He took a hesitant step inside. For Cork, the move had the dreadful feel of inevitability, for he recalled far too well the night only three years earlier when he’d entered the Parrant estate in just this way, only to find that a shotgun b
last had scattered most of the judge’s head across a wall. He waited for his eyes to adjust completely to the dark inside the house, then he walked ahead to the switch he knew was in the entryway. The lights came on, revealing nothing extraordinary. The living room was empty. In the dining room, the table was set for dinner, a big pot roast center stage. There was one dinner plate on the table, dirty. An opened bottle of red wine stood beside a stemmed glass that was half full. Cork went to the stairs and called up toward the second floor, “Fletcher! Solemn!”
He turned at last down the long hallway that led to the study, where the sight of violent death and the smell of spilled blood had awaited him before. His steps seemed loud in the silence of that house. He reached the study door, which was closed. He knocked, waited, then pushed the door open. Although the room beyond was dark, the trapped, foul smell told him everything. The stink of gunpowder, the stench of blood.
When he turned on the light, his worst fear became reality. The wall behind the big desk was stained with splattered blood and fragments of tissue and bone, still glistening. On the floor below, lay Fletcher Kane, all but his long, insectlike legs hidden by the bulk of the desk. His legs and the ugly blue barrel of a shotgun.
Sprawled on his stomach next to an overturned chair, dead center in the room lay Solemn, an island in a lake of his own blood.
Cork’s knees threatened to buckle and he steadied himself against the doorjamb.
He staggered forward, knowing that everything was useless, that with all his blood spilled onto the hardwood floor, Solemn was already dead. But it was what you did, what you were trained to do. He dialed 911, then knelt beside Solemn and numbly reached to check for a pulse.
The moment Cork’s fingers touched him, Solemn gave a small groan.
“Oh, Christ,” Cork said. He went down on his knees, knelt in the blood. Carefully, he rolled Solemn over. The shotgun blast had obliterated his T-shirt and made a pulpy mess of everything under it. Solemn opened his eyes, only the width of a whisker, but enough that Cork knew he was conscious.
“Cold,” Solemn said.
“Here.” Cork sat down, took him in his arms, and cradled him. “The paramedics are on the way. Hold on. Just hold on, son.”
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