They all left the Jeep and gathered at the side of the road. Winona held herself as if she was cold.
“Are you all right?” Willie asked. Arouaureye?
“Everything’s happened so fast, I just need to center a little.” She looked at her brother and seemed for the first time to notice him. “Oh, Willie, this was your doing, wasn’t it?” She threw her arms around him and held him for a long time, and her shoulders shook as she wept.
“It’s okay, Nona.” Willie spoke softly, with his cheek against her boyish hair.
She let go of her brother and turned to Cork.
“Is it really you?”
“Yeah,” Cork said.
She wiped tears from her cheeks. “You look so… manly.”
“I shave and everything,” Cork said.
She smiled, and her eyes went to Jubal, and what was in them was the same look that had been there the first time she’d seen him in Grant Park, when they were all hardly more than children. “It’s been a long time.”
She might as well have been a magnet, and his eyes two steel balls, because he couldn’t look away from her face. When he finally spoke, he sounded like a man in a trance. “It’s been forever.”
In the next instant she was in his arms, with her face against his massive chest. She wept and murmured, “I don’t deserve this.”
He stroked her hair and said, “No, no. It was all those years of crap you didn’t deserve. And that was my fault. All my fault. But I’m here now, and I’m taking you back where you belong.”
“Home,” she said and put her hand to her mouth as if in utter amazement.
“We should be going,” Cork said. “Just in case they change their minds about following. There’ll be time for reunions later.”
“Yes,” Winona said and stepped away from Jubal, and looked shyly down.
Willie helped her into the Jeep. Jubal held back and leaned to Cork and said in a low voice, “About that rifle.”
“What about it?”
Jubal gave him another withering look and said, “Don’t ever try to take anything from me again.” He quit Cork and joined Winona in the backseat of the Jeep.
In the months that followed, the lives of Jubal and Winona shifted dramatically. Winona returned to the rez, where she became a kind of recluse. Jubal spent that spring and summer in Aurora, mostly in the company of Winona. He changed or, more accurately, changed back. It was as if he found something in his own being that had been lost, and he became whole again. He negotiated a tryout with the Minnesota Vikings and secured a spot on their roster that fall. By midseason, he’d become their starting quarterback, a position he would hold for the next ten years. In that time, he would create for himself a lasting place in the hearts of most Minnesotans.
Cork returned to Chicago, married Nancy Jo McKenzie, and a few years later, brought his family home to Aurora.
When Cork finished his story, Rainy laid her head on his bare chest. Her breath ghosted over his skin, warm and familiar. “So the old Jubal came back,” she said.
“Not the old Jubal, although some of him was still there. He grew into someone else, the man he always believed he was meant to be, a guy destined for something great. And greatness takes up a lot of space. There wasn’t room for anyone near him who might challenge him.”
“That would be you?”
“Turned out that way. Jubal and I still had some good years ahead of us, good moments that felt like the old days. When Winona came back, he had reason to come back to Aurora, too. He spent winters here, used it as his official place of residence. Once in a great while, the old Jubal would slip out, and it would feel like it did in the old days.”
Cork stroked Rainy’s hair and finally asked the question that had been, in large part, the reason he’d come.
“Rainy, the day Jubal was killed, when I came here to talk to you and Henry, I asked if the name Rhiannon meant anything to you. Do you remember?”
“Sure. It was Jubal’s Rosebud. The name on his lips as he died. Hard to forget.”
“Did you talk to anyone about Rhiannon?”
“I asked Uncle Henry. The name meant nothing to him.”
“You spoke to no one else?”
“I’m pretty sure not. Why?”
“Do me a favor,” Cork said. “Promise me you won’t mention the name to anyone.”
Rainy eyed him with a mix of suspicion and concern. “What’s going on, Cork?”
He thought of just trying to elicit a promise without an explanation, but he knew Rainy wouldn’t let it go at that. So he told her about the threatening phone call he’d received the night before.
“No idea who it was?”
“Male, that’s all I can say.”
“Maybe the same person who set you up in Jubal’s murder?”
“Maybe. But I don’t see the connection yet. Could be it’s the other shoe I’ve been expecting to fall any minute. I just don’t know. At the moment, nothing makes much sense to me. Until it does, promise me that Rhiannon goes no farther than us.”
“It will give you peace of mind?”
“It will.”
“Consider it done,” she said and kissed him.
His cell phone beckoned from the pocket of his jacket, which hung on the back of one of Rainy’s chairs. He said, “I’d better take that.” He left the bed and, naked, danced across the cold cabin floor. He checked caller ID. The call was coming from his house on Gooseberry Lane. It turned out to be Jenny.
“You better come home, Dad.”
“What’s up?”
“The sheriff’s people are here. They have a warrant to search our house.”
CHAPTER 23
It was early enough that the media hadn’t yet roused themselves for the day, and when Cork turned onto Gooseberry Lane, he saw no television vans or reporters. A few of his neighbors were out, standing on their lawns, watching the sheriff’s people and agents of the BCA moving in and out of his house. The driveway was blocked by a Tamarack County Sheriff’s Department cruiser and a dark blue sedan with state plates, and the garage door had been raised. Jenny’s Subaru, which normally would have been in the garage, was parked on the street. Cork pulled up behind it and got out. Agent Phillip Holter and Captain Ed Larson came from the house and met him on the porch steps.
“What’s going on?” Cork asked, keeping his voice low, though he wanted to scream the question. The sun was up, the sky clear and bright, but the morning was still cold enough that his breath huffed out visibly, like blasts of steam.
“The arrow that killed Jubal Little,” Holter replied. “Your prints are all over it. And only your prints.”
“I put my hand around that arrow, Agent Holter. Jubal insisted that I see if it might easily be pushed through or pulled out.”
“When the sheriff’s people got there, the arrow was still in him,” Holter said.
“Of course it was. I had no intention of actually moving it. It was a hunting arrow, for Christ’s sake. You have any idea how badly I would have torn him up if I’d tried? And what’s with the search warrant? If you wanted to go looking through my house, I’d have been happy to let you in.”
Larson said quietly, reasonably, “We need to go by the book, Cork. For your sake as well as ours.”
Holter said, “Mind coming with me to the garage?”
Cork followed him through the wide opening where the garage door had been lifted. It was a two-car structure, which Cork kept clean and well organized. On the north wall hung all his lawn and gardening tools. On the south, he’d mounted large hooks where the O’Connors hung their bicycles when not in use. Along the east wall, he’d created a work area, with a bench and long table and good, bright shop light. Hand tools hung from Peg-Board above the table, and to the right stood a shelving unit where he kept his power tools and supplies.
At the moment, one of the agent’s team was boxing some materials from the shelves, but he paused when Cork and the others entered.
Holter said
, “Take a break, Greg,” and nodded for him to leave.
Holter walked to the worktable and picked up a section of what looked to be a long, slender dowel. He rolled it between his fingers, then held it up for Cork to look at.
“The beginning of an arrow?” he said.
“I make my own. But you already know that.”
“Do you make them all the same? With the same pattern of fletching?”
“Yes. It’s a way to identify my arrow from others that might be shot during a hunt.”
“The arrow that killed Jubal Little was exactly like all the arrows in the hip quiver you wore that day. The same fletching.”
“What of it?”
“One of yours?”
“Like one of mine,” Cork said.
“Exactly like one of yours,” Holter said. “Yet when Captain Larson here talked with you at the department immediately following Jubal Little’s death, you never mentioned that fact.”
“I knew Ed was smart enough to figure it out eventually.”
“The arrow that killed the man identified as William Graham Chester, that was exactly like one of your arrows, too. Tell me, O’Connor, how is it that someone else could have shot an arrow you made? Or one exactly like it.”
“My guess is that someone stole it. Or they made it in exactly the way I make mine.”
“Stole it? Just came in and took it? You don’t lock your doors?”
“Agent Holter, I don’t know anyone in Aurora who locks their doors. Could I see that warrant? What exactly is it that you’re looking for?”
“I’d like to see that warrant, too.” A tall man with a long ponytail and dressed in a jean jacket and white shirt and blue jeans walked into the garage. He had eyes the color of chocolate brownies and a voice that spoke its words as slow and rich as maple syrup. This was Leon Papakee, Cork’s attorney. Like Cork, he was what Indians sometimes called a “blood,” a man of mixed heritage. Leon’s Indian heritage was Meskwaki, out of Iowa.
“Thanks for coming, Leon,” Cork said.
“Captain Larson, Agent Holter,” Papakee greeted the officers. “Could I see the warrant, please? And where’s Sheriff Dross?”
“Inside,” Larson replied, nodding toward the house. “I’ll get the warrant.” He left the garage through the side door and headed to the house.
“I haven’t seen you in a while, Phil,” Papakee said casually. “How have you been?”
“Busy, Leon,” Holter replied, just as easily.
“You two know each other?” Cork asked.
“We crossed swords once before,” Papakee said. “The Louis Santee case, down in Granite Falls, couple of years ago. So, is the miscreant business booming, Phil?”
“Economy’s down, Leon. Always drives the crime rate up.”
“Think Jubal Little was killed because of the poor economy?”
“At this point, Leon, your speculation is as good as mine.”
“My speculation is that my client had nothing to do with the recent deaths at Trickster’s Point, and that your presence here is entirely unnecessary.”
Before Holter could reply, Larson returned with the warrant and handed it to Papakee, who read it carefully.
“I’d like to talk with my client in private. All right?”
“Sure,” Holter said with a magnanimous air.
They walked out of the garage and into the backyard. Trixie, the O’Connors’ mutt, was lying in the sun near her doghouse. She roused herself when she saw the two men and trotted toward Cork, her tail wagging like a crazy metronome. She came between the men, and both Cork and Papakee leaned down to pet her.
“What do you know about Holter?” Cork asked.
“Ambitious as they come. By the book, but if he’s got it in for you, he’s like a bronc rider, and he’ll stay on you till you break. The warrant’s pretty specific,” Papakee said. “They’re taking any tools and materials that might relate to the making of arrows. That’s understandable. But they’re also taking your computers and printers. And they’re looking for some flyers advertising your P.I. business. Any idea why?”
“Not a clue, Leon. I had those flyers printed several years ago, when I first started the business. I still print a few on my own now and then, but I can’t imagine what they could possibly want with them.”
“Do you have any left?”
“A few maybe, somewhere around my office. The document’s still on my computer, too.”
“Okay. Let’s see if we can get to the bottom of this.”
They headed back inside, and as soon as they rejoined the officers, Holter said, “I’d like you to come down to the sheriff’s department, O’Connor. I have a few questions I want to ask you.”
“Mind if I check in with my family first?”
“No, go right ahead.” Holter glanced at Papakee. “You’ll be accompanying your client, I imagine.”
“From here on, consider us joined at the hip, Phil.”
Holter gave a nod, almost dapper, as if welcoming the challenge of Papakee in the mix. He signaled to the agent who’d been standing in the driveway, and the man returned to his boxing of potential evidence.
Ed Larson said to Cork and Papakee, “We’ll see you down at the department, gentlemen,” then he and Holter left.
Inside the house, Cork found Jenny, Stephen, and Waaboo in the kitchen with Sheriff Marsha Dross. Dross had Waaboo on her lap. When Cork walked in, she looked up, and the smile that had been there dropped away.
“Hello, Cork,” she said.
Beyond the doorway that opened onto the rest of the house, Cork saw uniforms moving in the hallway that led to his office, and up the stairs that led to the bedrooms.
“Morning, Marsha.”
He worked at keeping his voice neutral. It was her job, he told himself, the job he’d once done and that he’d taught her to do. In her shoes, he’d have been forced to carry out the lawful search warrant. He might even have sat with the suspect’s grandchild on his lap. Still, the whole thing stuck in his craw.
“Everyone cooperating?” His eyes went to Jenny and Stephen.
“Everything’s fine, Dad.” Jenny smiled, pretty reasonably given the circumstances.
“Yeah,” Stephen agreed, though he didn’t really sound agreeable at all. “Except we still don’t know what they’re looking for or why they’re taking all our computer stuff.”
“They must have good reason, Stephen, or Judge Eide wouldn’t have signed the search warrant,” Cork told him.
“You mean like evidence that you had something to do with killing Mr. Little?”
“Is that it, Marsha?” Cork asked.
Dross handed Waaboo back to Jenny, scooted her chair from the table, and stood up. She spoke carefully. “I’m sure your father has told you that a lot of police investigation is done in order to eliminate possibilities. Nothing would please me more, Stephen, than to eliminate the possibility that your father was involved.”
“So that’s what you’re doing? Trying to prove he’s innocent?”
“What we’re doing is gathering evidence. It won’t be for us to determine anyone’s guilt or innocence. That’s what juries are for.”
Stephen looked as if he was about to argue, but Cork cut him off. “I need to go down to the sheriff’s department for a little while. You guys do everything you’re asked, okay?”
“Sure,” Stephen said, but it was clear he had his reservations.
Cork sat in the interview room where Larson had questioned him following Jubal Little’s death. Larson was there again, but this time it was Agent Phil Holter asking the questions, while Larson sat silent in a corner. Leon Papakee was there as well. Holter had stalled awhile in the beginning, and Cork wondered if Larson had insisted that he hold off until Dross returned from the house on Gooseberry Lane and could observe from the adjoining room where the proceedings were being recorded.
“So,” Holter continued, pressing Cork about the man he and Stephen had found dead on the ridge above Tricks
ter’s Point, “you’d never seen that man before you stumbled on his body?”
“That’s right.”
“But you’ve seen this before.”
From an evidence envelope, Holter pulled a familiar flyer that had the name of Cork’s one-man security firm. It contained a listing of the kinds of jobs he would do. And contact information. In the lower right-hand corner there was a photograph of Cork that made him look like the kind of guy who not only would be able to see to your investigative needs but also could be relied on to keep to himself the secrets he might learn about you in the process. Cork had been pretty happy with that particular shot.
“Sure. I had those printed years ago, when I first hung out my shingle as a P.I.”
“What about this?”
Holter turned the flyer over. Printed on the other side was a contour map of the area around Trickster’s Point, taken from a U.S. Forest Service website. Below the map were instructions on how to find the logging road where the man ID’d as William Graham Chester had parked his vehicle, and the easiest route from there to the ridge overlooking Trickster’s Point.
“We found this in the glove box of Chester’s rental. It has your fingerprints, Chester’s fingerprints, and a set of prints we haven’t identified yet.”
“I put those flyers up all over Tamarack County. In every bar and Laundromat and grocery store with a bulletin board. Anybody could have got hold of this.”
Holter returned the flyer to the evidence envelope and frowned a moment, deep in thought. “You’ve told us that you and Little canoed from that landing on the eastern end of Lake Nanaboozhoo to Trickster’s Point. Is that still your story?”
“Agent Holter, we’re not happy with that particular phrasing. The word story suggests invention. What my client has told you is the truth.”
“I’m just wondering, Counselor, if maybe your client didn’t drop Little at Trickster’s Point and then paddle down the shoreline a mile or so.”
Cork said, “You mean to the landing spot Officer Berglund from the Border Patrol found, where someone walked in and joined the dead man? That wasn’t me, Holter. Jubal and I landed together.”
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