Blood Hollow (Cork O'Connor)

by William Kent Krueger

  “He’s put up a wall around almost every aspect of his life. I can’t help thinking he’s hiding something behind it.”

  “He’s not a warm man,” Jo said. She cleared the files from Cork’s side of the bed and set them on the nightstand. “And granted, he’s odd in a lot of ways, but that doesn’t make him capable of the kind of things you want to ascribe to him.”

  Cork pulled out a pair of red jogging shorts and put them on. “I haven’t ascribed anything to him. But I don’t think anybody in Aurora really knows Fletcher Kane. I don’t think anybody knows what he is or isn’t capable of doing.”

  Jo spoke carefully. “I’m not saying he’s innocent, but I do think that if all you’re looking for is the bad in someone, that’s all you’re going to see.”

  The image of the snakes on Fletcher Kane’s lawn that afternoon still haunted Cork. He was sure that what he’d seen was simply a trick of the light as the wind passed through the long grass in the shadows under the cedars, but the unsettling feel of it lingered.

  “There was one thing odd about the phone records,” he said. “Two calls were made from Mayor Lipinski’s place.”

  “Not so odd,” Jo said. She took off her glasses and set aside the papers in her hand. “Wilfred and Edith had a New Year’s Eve party. We were invited, remember? We declined. The calls were probably a couple of teenagers who’d been dragged to the party at the Lipinskis’ but were more interested in the one at Valhalla.”

  “Probably,” Cork said. He eyed the stack of folders Jo had moved to the nightstand. “What’s that?”

  “I’m going over all the statements given by the kids who were at Charlotte’s party that night, looking for anything I didn’t catch earlier. This is the umpteenth time. I think I can recite each one word for word by now.”

  “See anything?”

  She shook her head.

  “Going to brush my teeth,” Cork said. “Be right back.”

  He went into the bathroom and began brushing. He’d done only half the chore when a thought occurred to him. He hurried back to the bedroom.

  “What if it wasn’t a teenager who made those calls?” he said.

  Jo looked up from the papers in her hands. “An adult, you mean? What? Calling to check on a child she knew was at an unchaperoned party in the middle of the woods?”

  “Not calling as a parent,” Cork said. “Calling as a lover.”

  Jo thought about it. “Charlotte’s married man? That might be a stretch.”

  “We won’t know unless we pursue it.”

  Jo spent a few more moments weighing the possibility. “How do we check it out?”

  “We need some information. The names of any teenagers at the Lipinskis’ party, and the guest list. You’re on the library board with Edith. Why don’t you call and ask her?”

  “I’ll do it first thing in the morning.”

  Cork went back to the bathroom and finished with his toothbrush. He knew Jo was right, that if all you looked for was the bad in someone, that’s all you’d see. Maybe his motive for focusing on Fletcher Kane wasn’t the purest, but that didn’t mean he was wrong in his suspicions.

  Cork smiled into the mirror. His teeth, at least, were clean.

  24

  THE NEXT MIRACLE occurred the following morning and could have been predicted, Cork thought.

  Deputy Cy Borkmann accosted Cork the moment he walked into the Pinewood Broiler for coffee and the news of the day.

  “You hear about the healing?”

  Cork was on his way to a stool at the counter. “What healing, Cy?”

  Borkmann waddled along beside him and placed as much of his oversize posterior as he could on the stool next to Cork.

  “Somebody got hold of the blanket Solemn’s been sleeping on. Used it to cure a blind man.”

  “Whoa,” Cork said. He signaled Sara and asked for coffee.

  “Start at the beginning, Cy.”

  “This morning just after sunrise, folks started gathering in the park across from the jail, the way they been doing every morning. When there’s a good number gathered, a guy shows up with a folded blanket, and he says it’s Winter Moon’s, from his jail cell. He says, ‘Does anybody want to be healed?’

  “From what I gather, nobody got much excited at first. Finally Grover Buck speaks up.”

  “Grover Buck? He’s the blind man who got healed?”

  “I know,” Borkmann said. “There’s a lot not to like about old Grover, but he’s sure as shit been blind since the mine accident. Got himself that settlement and all. Well, Grover speaks up and says he might as well give it a try. The guy walks over to him, hands him the folded blanket, and Grover wraps it around his face. At first, nothing much. Grover says, ‘Well, maybe I can see some flashes of light.’

  “ ‘Down on your knees,’ the guy tells him, ‘and pray to the Lord for a miracle.’ Grover falls to his knees and starts praying, and in a minute he pulls that blanket away from his face and he’s got tears streaming down his stubbly cheeks and he says, ‘I can see. Praise the Lord, I can see.’

  “Now anybody knows Grover knows he ain’t the most holy man on God’s earth, nor the most trustworthy. But the guy with the blanket holds up his hand in front of Grover’s face and says, ‘What do you see?’ And Grover says, ‘Three fingers,’ and he’s right. The guy takes a red bandana from his pocket and says, ‘Now what do you see?’ Grover says, ‘It’s a hanky. And it’s red. By Jesus, it’s red.’

  “Well, that got folks interested. The next healing really got them going.”

  “There were two healings?”

  “That’s what I’m here to tell you. You know Marge Shembeckler?”

  “Don’t tell me her arthritis was cured.”

  “The woman got up from her wheelchair and walked. First time in years. After that, folks swarmed all over the guy with the blanket. He starts cutting it into little pieces couple inches square and selling each square for twenty dollars. As the blanket gets smaller, the price goes up. I heard that the pieces come out of the last couple feet were selling for a couple hundred dollars. Whoever that guy was, he made a killing.”

  “The blanket, it did come from Solemn’s cell?”

  “Yep. Sheriff’s all hot under the collar about that. Shouldn’t be too hard to pin down who took it, though. Not a lot of folks in and out of there at night.”

  Sara set a cup of coffee in front of Cork and he thanked her.

  “A shame,” Cork said. “Taking advantage of people like that.”

  “You don’t believe in miracles?”

  “Have you taken a good look at that crowd? Those are desperate people, Cy, ripe for a con. Is Arne going to investigate?”

  “He put Gooding on it.”

  Cork left the Broiler and headed to the sheriff’s department to see Solemn. The sun was high already and the day felt like a scorcher. In the park across the street, there was singing and praying and a lot of movement, as if all those bodies were charged with electricity, with possibility and hope.

  When Solemn was let into the interview room, he offered Cork a smile that seemed to be missing the glory that lately had illumined it.

  “Morning, Solemn.”

  “Hey, Cork.”

  “They treating you well?”

  “No complaints.” He took a chair and sat down at the table across from Cork.

  “You know about the blanket?”

  Solemn nodded.

  “Any idea how it got snatched?”

  Solemn sat at the edge of his chair, feet flat on the floor, his hands folded in his lap. He looked like a man waiting, maybe on a bus bench, for whatever it was that would take him to wherever it was he was going.

  “It’s too warm most nights,” he said. “I keep it folded at the foot of my bed. While I was asleep, someone must’ve taken it.”

  “You didn’t see who?”

  “No.”

  “Sound sleeper.”

  “I am. Now.”

  “What do yo
u think? About your blanket and the healings, I mean.”

  “If it’s true, it wasn’t the blanket.”

  “What then?”

  Solemn thought a moment. A long one. “Their own belief maybe. Maybe an accident of timing. Not my blanket. Not me.”

  Solemn stared where Cork was standing, but what he saw seemed somewhere beyond Cork.

  “They’re looking to me for something I can’t give them. I spent a few minutes with Jesus. We talked, that’s all. I didn’t get healing powers. I can’t drive out demons. All I came away with was a little peace. My own peace. If they expect something from me, they’ll be disappointed. Whatever happened out there this morning, it wasn’t me. I’d know if it was me, wouldn’t I? Wouldn’t I know?”

  His eyes drifted to the floor like feathers falling from a wing.

  “God,” he said, “I hope it’s not me.”

  25

  ON HIS WAY OUT to Sam’s Place the next morning, Cork dropped by Jo’s office. She’d already talked with Edith Lipinski.

  “She was curious about my interest in her New Year’s Eve party,” Jo said, “but I explained that I was trying to find out who knew about the party at Valhalla and how. I wanted to talk to any teenagers who’d gone to her party instead and see what they might know. It was thin, but she bought it. Turns out there weren’t any teenagers there. And she does have a guest list. Two, as a matter of fact. One for all those who were invited and one for those who actually came.”

  “Bless her anal-retentive little heart,” Cork said.

  “I asked if I could look at them, hoping there might be some parents who had kids at Valhalla that night. She agreed to let me pick them up later this morning when she’s back from her hair appointment.”

  “I’m the only one at Sam’s Place today. Hard to get away. Any chance you could bring them out and we could look them over together.”

  “I think I can swing it.”

  The telephone began ringing as he unlocked the door of the Quonset hut.

  “Sam’s Place. Cork speaking.”

  “So how are things in Nowhere, Minnesota?”

  Cork recognized the irreverent gravel of Boomer Grabowski’s voice.

  “Compared to the old days on the South Side, generally pretty quiet, Boomer. How about with you?”

  “No complaints.”

  Boomer and Cork had been cops together in Chicago, working out of the same South Side district. Cork had moved to Aurora, his own choice. Boomer had left, too, forced out by circumstance rather than choice. He was a big man, from a family whose men had always worked the steel mills. His body was like something that had been forged out of iron. But it was only flesh and bone, and most of the bone in his right leg had been smashed in an accident during the high speed pursuit of an armed robbery suspect. Boomer had been forced to retire on a medical disability. Retirement, however, was not in keeping with Boomer’s temperament, and he’d opened his own shop.

  “How’re things in the Windy City?” Cork asked.

  “Wouldn’t know. I’m calling from Miami. I just checked my messages back at the office and heard your vaguely familiar voice.”

  “Vacation?”

  “You kidding? Who’s got time? So what’s up?”

  Cork filled him in on Mal Thorne, and asked Boomer if he’d check on the priest’s background. Anything he could find out about his time in Chicago and before, if possible.

  “You really think this priest has something to do with the girl’s murder?”

  “Just checking out all the possibilities, Boomer.”

  “Yeah. You were nothing if not a thorough bastard. How soon you need it?”

  “The sooner the better.”

  “Look, I’m down here for a week. You want somebody on it before that, I can make some recommendations.”

  “I think it’ll hold for a week.”

  “Tell you what. I’ll call when I’m back in the office. If you’re still hot for me to trot, I’ll hop right on it.”

  “Thanks, Boomer.”

  “Thank me after I’ve done the job. And after you’ve seen the bill.”

  * * *

  Jo showed up a little before one o’clock, just as Cork was finishing with the lunch rush, and she gave him a hand, taking orders at the window while he worked the grill. By one-thirty, the line had vanished. Jo took from her briefcase the list of guests who’d attended the Lipinskis’ party and handed it to Cork. He laid it on the stool the girls sometimes sat on when things were slow.

  “What are we looking for?” Jo said.

  “Anyone who might have had a connection with Charlotte.”

  “Someone young?”

  “In the kind of relationship we’re considering, age probably wasn’t a factor.”

  They went down the list silently. The third from the last name caught Cork’s eye.

  “Son of a gun,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Arne and Lyla Soderberg.”

  “What about them?”

  “Think about it for a minute, Jo. Tiffany and Charlotte were friends. Or something close to it. Tiffany told me that because Fletcher Kane acted creepy, any sleepovers they had were at Tiffany’s house. Maybe something got started there.”

  “Arne Soderberg and Charlotte Kane?” Jo made a sour face.

  “It’s not such a stretch,” Cork said. “Stay with me on this. Lyla and Arne have a troubled marriage. No secret there. When Charlotte’s body was found on Moccasin Creek, I saw Arne’s face. All horror. I chalked it up to the fact that as sheriff he was still pretty green. But what if it was the shock of seeing someone he was involved with lying there dead?” Cork stood up, feeling a little fire in his gut, the spirit of the hunt awakened.

  “You don’t think Arne killed her?”

  “I don’t know. He could certainly have been her lover though.”

  “What about Fletcher Kane?”

  “I’m not forgetting about him. But there’s a possibility here that definitely needs exploring.”

  “The truth is you don’t like Arne Soderberg any more than you like Fletcher Kane.”

  “I don’t like a lot of people. I don’t suspect them all of crimes. But a few more answers might tell us if we’re on the right track.”

  Jo said, “What do we do?”

  “I think you should have a talk with Edith Lipinski, find out if she remembers Arne making phone calls, when he left the party, anything that might be helpful.”

  “In order to get the lists, I had to tell her about the calls from her home. She’s not stupid. If I start asking about our sheriff, she’s liable to put two and two together very quickly.” She laid her hand very lightly on his arm. “Cork, we need to be careful. The town is seriously divided. People have stopped talking to me, to one another. I’ve had some clients threaten to withdraw their business.”

  “You fought for the Iron Lake Ojibwe for years. You’ve been threatened before.”

  “It’s not the threats. I don’t care about that. I just think we need to be sensitive to the ripples we send out. If we point fingers and we’re wrong, we may hurt innocent people, and folks here will remember that a long time.”

  “If we turn our backs, won’t we remember that longer?”

  “Who said anything about turning our backs? Just do what you do quietly, that’s all I’m saying.”

  “I’m not discreet?”

  “Sweetheart, when you get hold of something, you’re a pit bull.”

  “I am, huh?” Actually, he felt a little flattered. “All right. But we have to do this quickly, too, Jo, before Arne realizes we’ve got him in our sights. Maybe while you talk to Edith, I ought to talk to Lyla—discreetly—to see if I can finesse anything useful out of her. Sound like a plan?”

  “A plan,” she agreed.

  He shut the serving window and put up the CLOSED sign.

  Cork drove south out of Aurora, then turned west onto County 7. After a mile and a half, he approached a small billboard that read WES
T WIND GALLERY, RIGHT 500 FEET. He took the turn and followed a graveled lane through a stand of poplar.

  The West Wind Gallery was an old barn that had been converted into a showplace for the art of Marion Griswold, a professional photographer. She was often commissioned by big magazines like National Geographic and Outdoor Life. Framed and in numbered editions, her photographs were sold in the gallery, which she owned with her friend Lyla Soderberg, and also in galleries in the Twin Cities and in Santa Fe. Her work had been collected and published in exquisite editions designed to elevate the appeal of any coffee table. A wood-burned sign hanging beside the door indicated that the gallery was open from noon until 6:00 P.M. every day except Wednesday.

  Marion Griswold lived in a log home of recent construction east of the gallery. It was a lovely two-story structure that had a shaded porch hung with geranium pots. The photographer’s dusty Jeep Wagoneer sat in front of the house. Cork had expected Lyla Soderberg’s gold PT Cruiser to be parked at the gallery, but it wasn’t anywhere to be seen. A little bell above the gallery door gave a jingle as he stepped inside.

  A voice sang out from a back room, “Just a minute. Be right there.”

  Cork was the first to admit that he didn’t know art. But he knew what he liked, and he liked the photographs of Marion Griswold. She shot the great Northwoods. Wild streams, autumn foliage, wolves with breath crystallized on a subzero day. She was able to capture what his heart felt when he was alone in the woods, and he admired that.

  “Cork,” she said, smiling as she came into the main gallery showroom. Her hair was black and cut very short, which Cork figured was a benefit when she was out in the wild, tramping through underbrush looking for a good subject. Her body was wiry and tanned and full of energy barely contained. She wore cut-off jeans, a high-collar white shirt with the tail out, and tennis shoes without socks. She carried a large framed photograph that she leaned against the counter where the cash register sat. “Haven’t seen you here for a while. Not since you bought that piece for Jo. She like it?”

  “It’s in her office, dazzling her clients.”

  “I like to hear that. What can I do for you? Interest you in another piece?”