“Solemn, last winter I saw something that to this day I don’t understand. It was right after Charlotte disappeared. I was part of the search team looking for her, but I got lost in a whiteout on Fisheye Lake. Couldn’t tell up from down. I haven’t been so scared in a long time. Then someone, some thing, guided me to safety. I never saw it clearly. It stayed just at the edge of my vision, but I felt it was Charlotte, and I don’t know how that could have been.”
“You believe what you saw?”
“I want to believe. I want very much to believe, but I fall way short. It saved my life, that’s all I know, just like what you saw saved yours.” Cork shrugged and stared beyond the creek where the forest lay deep as any secret he knew. “I remember something Sam used to tell me. He said there’s more in these woods than a man can ever see with his eyes, more than he can ever hope to understand.”
For a long time, Solemn didn’t respond. Then he said, “Sam’s dead.”
“What I’m saying is that most people would give anything for a moment of the kind of certainty you had out there in those woods. What you experienced is a rare gift and one that gives the rest of us hope.”
Solemn slowly lifted his head. There were tears in his eyes.
“I felt like I was overflowing. Now I wish it had never happened, Cork, because now that it’s gone, I feel more empty than ever. And more alone.”
Cork wanted to reach out and hold Solemn, but touching that way wasn’t Ojibwe.
He stood up. He had a plane to catch.
“Go to Henry,” he said.
He stopped in Aurora to gas up. As he headed south out of town, he drove past the sheriff’s department and the park where the crowd had once gathered, hoping for a glimpse of a man who’d talked with God. The park was empty now. Whenever hope packed its bag and left for good, all that remained was a terrible emptiness, immeasurably sad.
That was something Solemn understood well.
* * *
Cork drove to the Twin Cities, and at two o’clock caught a plane to L.A. By the time he’d shuttled to the Hertz lot to pick up his rental and driven to his hotel, a quaint place called the Claremont Inn just across the city line from Pomona, it was nearly six o’clock. His stomach was still on Minnesota time and he was starved. After he checked in, he headed out in search of food and the Worthington Clinic.
He found the clinic first. It was a multiwing building of snow white stucco set in a sea of grass behind iron gates and a wall hung with bougainvillea. In the background rose the San Gabriels, copper green in the late afternoon haze. It looked like the kind of place only an Oscar or a million bucks would get you into.
He had a decent steak in a restaurant just off Route 66, then he drove awhile. He hadn’t been in Southern California for years and what had bothered him then bothered him now. The orange groves had become subdivisions and parking lots, and even with all the freeways no one seemed to be able to get anywhere fast enough.
He returned to the hotel a little before ten, and saw from the blinking light on the room telephone that he had a message. It was from Jo. “Call me, sweetheart,” she said. “I have some good news.”
Although it was nearly midnight in Minnesota, Cork called immediately. Jo answered, sounding a little sleepy.
“I talked with Rose today,” she told him. “After you left. She knows where Glory is.”
“How?”
“Glory heard about the angel of the roses and called Rose last week. She made Rose promise not to tell anyone. And you know how Rose is when she makes a promise.”
He did. And now he understood the discussion he’d had with his sister-in-law the night before.
“She talked with Glory today, and Glory asked her to have you call as soon as possible.”
Jo gave him Glory’s number.
Cork looked at the area code. “Where is this?”
“Iowa. Rose said that when you call you should ask for Cordelia Diller.”
“Who?”
“That’s the name Glory is using. She’ll explain. One more thing, Cork. Dorothy Winter Moon’s been getting a lot of threatening calls. People are pretty angry about the miracle business. A lot of them seem to blame Solemn, think he must’ve been in on it. He’s gone to Henry Meloux’s, by the way.”
“Good. If anyone can help, it’s Henry. How’s Annie?”
“She’s at the Pilons. Claire invited her for a sleepover.”
“Make sure she’s careful. Make sure both of the girls are.”
“That’s a roger.”
“I love it when you talk cop.”
“I miss you.”
“Miss you, too.”
After he hung up, he punched in the number Jo had given him for Glory Kane. The phone at the other end rang several times before it was finally answered.
“Rosemount. This is Sister Alice Mary.”
“Sister?”
“Yes?”
“I’m trying to reach Cordelia Diller.”
“It’s rather late. Everyone is in bed.”
“She asked me to call her.”
“Is it an emergency of some kind?”
“I wouldn’t call it an emergency, no.”
“Then I’m sure she didn’t intend for you to call near midnight. I’ll see that she gets your message first thing in the morning. Is there a number where she might return your call?”
Cork gave her the motel telephone number.
“Sister Alice Mary, where are you exactly?”
“Just outside Dansig, Iowa, right on the Mississippi River.”
“I guess I mean what are you? What is Rosemount?”
“We’re a retreat center for Catholic women, particularly those who are considering entering a religious life.”
“You mean becoming a nun?”
“That’s certainly one of the options.”
“Thank you, Sister.”
Cork hung up and spent a few minutes trying to picture Glory Kane as a nun. God might be able to see it, he finally decided, but his own eyes were way too blind.
35
CORK DIDN’T SLEEP WELL. He got up early and tried calling Glory Kane in Iowa. All he got was a busy signal. He showered, shaved, dressed, and tried the number again with the same result. He went to a little restaurant down the street from the Claremont Inn and ordered eggs Benedict. They weren’t bad, and the coffee was good and strong. He read the Los Angeles Times. The sports page, anyway. The Twins had dropped a game back of the White Sox for the division lead. He returned to his motel room and tried one last time to reach Glory Kane. The line was still busy. He wondered just how popular a retreat center in the boondocks of Iowa could be.
At eight, he presented himself to the receptionist at the contact desk of the Worthington Clinic. A blonde with a Rodeo Drive walk showed him to Steven Hadlestadt’s office. Hadlestadt stood up to greet him and they shook hands.
The man was younger than Cork had expected, early thirties. His head was shaved smooth of hair. He had a narrow face with intelligent, blue eyes. He wore an expensive-looking gray suit and a red silk tie.
“I admit I expected just a phone call, Sheriff O’Connor.”
“It’s important, so I came in person. Is it Dr. Hadlestadt?”
“Yes, but not M.D. I’m the clinic administrator. Won’t you sit down?”
Cork sank into the soft leather of a chair. The office was beautifully appointed, and through a long side window there was a stunning view of the San Gabriels.
“Before we go any further, may I see some identification?”
Cork pulled out his wallet and handed over a card.
“This is a driver’s license,” Hadlestadt said.
“That’s right.”
“May I see your law enforcement ID?”
“I don’t have one at the moment. I’m the former sheriff of Tamarack County. I held that office for eight years. Currently, I’m working as a consultant on law enforcement issues.”
Hadlestadt handed back the driver’s
license. “Then you’re not actually a cop.”
“Would you look at this, Mr. Hadlestadt?” Cork thrust at him a copy of the Duluth News Tribune, the April issue in which the headline read “Aurora Girl’s Death Ruled Murder.” The story ran with a photo of the young woman.
“Is that Charlotte Kane?” Cork asked.
Hadlestadt’s eyes took in the headline, then scanned the story and the photo. “It certainly looks like her, but I don’t see how that could be.”
“Why?”
“For one thing, she died four years ago. Or at least that’s what I thought. And for another, it says here she’s only seventeen. Charlotte Kane would be twenty now.”
“What happened to Charlotte four years ago?”
Hadlestadt put the newspaper on his desk. “You say you’re a consultant. In what capacity on this case?”
“I’m working for the attorney whose client has been charged with the girl’s murder.”
For a moment, it appeared as if Hadlestadt was considering the advisability of answering. Then he seemed to give a mental shrug. “Charlotte disappeared. They found her car a couple of days later. Lots of blood, but no body. As I understand, it was a pretty awful scene. The police carried out a thorough investigation, but I believe they never did find out exactly what happened to her. It was a terrible thing. She was such a terrific kid.”
“Did they ever find the body?”
“No. At least not as far as I know.”
“Was Fletcher Kane ever a suspect?”
Hadlestadt tensed. “No. And I can tell you right now I’m not going to say anything that would reflect badly on Dr. Kane.”
“Please understand that I’m only after the truth. A young man has been accused of murdering Fletcher Kane’s daughter, who appears to have been already dead. Mr. Hadlestadt, all I’m asking is that you help me understand how that’s possible.”
Hadlestadt rocked back in his chair. For a few moments, he looked away from Cork and studied the mountains framed by the office window.
“What do you want to know?” he said.
“When you knew him, what kind of person was Dr. Kane?”
“Terribly demanding of himself and his colleagues. A perfectionist. Sometimes difficult because his standards were always so high. But absolutely wonderful with patients. Compassionate, understanding.”
This last part caught Cork by surprise, though he tried not to show it.
“He hired me. I worked with him for several years. I have nothing but admiration for him as a physician and as director of this clinic.” Hadlestadt leaned forward, put his arms on his desk, and laced his fingers. “When Dr. Kane took the responsibility of heading Worthington, it was a place that catered exclusively to a wealthy clientele, people who wanted to buy back their youth or who wanted things done to their bodies they thought God had overlooked. Kane changed that. He hired talented physicians and gave them resources. Over time we’ve become known more for the reconstructive work we do here on victims of physical trauma. Automobile accidents, burns, that kind of thing. Don’t get me wrong. We’re still Hollywood’s favorite choice for a nose job, but that’s not at the heart of Worthington anymore, thanks to Fletcher Kane.”
“Why did he leave?”
Hadlestadt shrugged. “What happened to Charlotte. It devastated him. He never got over it. He seemed to lose a part of himself, the best part, honestly. He resigned as director, withdrew from the rest of us, from the social life here. He asked for a new staff, which was a bit odd, but we accommodated him. He became secretive about his work. Considering everything he’d been through, I suppose most of this was understandable. It didn’t surprise me at all when he finally left.”
“What can you tell me about Charlotte Kane?”
“Aside from the fact that everybody loved her, not much. Maybe you should talk to someone who was closer to her. Try her mother. I’m sure she’ll be interested in this.” He tapped the paper.
“Her mother?” Cork said. “I thought Kane’s wife was dead.”
“The marriage may have died, but Constance Kane is alive, I assure you.”
* * *
She lived in a big house in Ganesha Hills, above the Los Angeles County fairgrounds. The place was hacienda-style, two stories of beige stucco with a red tile roof. The property lines were marked with tall cedars, in almost exactly the same way as the boundaries of the Parrant estate back in Aurora. There was a fountain in front, a porcelain maiden pouring water from an urn into a small pool. The maiden had a young, pretty face and blank eyes. Cork rang the bell. Constance Kane appeared immediately.
He could see Charlotte in the woman at the door. The same raven hair, the same facial structure—small nose, high cheekbones, strong chin. Attractive. The eyes were different, blue and softer, with tiny crow’s feet. She wore a yellow summer dress and sandals.
“Mr. O’Connor?”
“How do you do, Ms. Kane?”
Her hand was small but firm, her nails well manicured and polished with an opal sheen.
“Won’t you come in?”
Lilies filled a vase on a table in the foyer, and Cork walked into their marvelous fragrance.
“Would you care for some coffee, or perhaps some tea?” she offered.
“Thank you, no.”
In the living room, she indicated a stuffed chair and Cork sat down. She took a place on the sofa, crossed her legs at the ankles, and folded her hands on her lap.
“When you called from the clinic, you said you had some information about Fletcher that you thought I ought to have. Is he all right?”
“In a way, that’s what I’m trying to find out. I’m from Aurora, Minnesota, your ex-husband’s hometown.”
“You’re mistaken, Mr. O’Connor. Fletcher is from Kansas.”
“I knew him until he was thirteen years old and his mother moved him away. They left as a result of rather unpleasant circumstances. It doesn’t surprise me that your husband might have chosen never to speak of that time in his life.”
“I’m sure we’re talking about two different Fletcher Kanes.”
Cork had brought with him a photo he’d cut from the Aurora Sentinel that had run with an article about the family shortly after Kane came to town. The article had been vague, but the photograph was clear. He handed it to her. “Is that your husband?”
She looked at the photo and said warily, “Yes.”
“He returned to Aurora two years ago. He brought a daughter with him. Her name was Charlotte.”
“Charlotte?” Her eyes hardened and the crow’s feet deepened. “Is this some kind of sick joke? You said you were with the sheriff’s department?”
“I was sheriff of Tamarack County, that’s where Aurora is, for eight years.”
“But no longer?”
“No longer.” Cork took out the issue of the Duluth News Tribune that he’d shown to Hadlestadt at the clinic. “I have something here I think you ought to see.”
She took the newspaper from him and spent a minute reading. She studied the news photo intently. “Whoever this is, she isn’t my daughter. She looks like my daughter, but she’s not.” Ms. Kane stood abruptly and walked to a piece of blond furniture that seemed constructed for the sole purpose of holding expensive knickknacks. She took from it a framed photograph and brought it to Cork.
“This is my Charlotte. You see?”
It was a professionally done portrait, shot against a soft blue background. At first glance, it appeared to Cork to be the same young woman whose picture was in the newspaper. But when he put the news photo and the other side by side he could see the differences. In the jawline, the ears, and in the eyes especially. The California Charlotte looked tanned and happy. The Minnesota Charlotte was pale, thinner, sullen. Still, it was possible that the differences could be the result of the poor quality of the news photo reproduction, or a differing state of mind when each shot had been taken.
“Their ages are different, too,” the woman said. “My Charlotte would be o
lder.”
Cork said, “Would you be willing to tell me about your daughter and her disappearance? And about Fletcher?”
She stared at him. “If you’re not a sheriff anymore, what does all this have to do with you?”
“A young man has been accused of killing Charlotte Kane. Our Charlotte. I don’t believe he did it.”
“Why do you want to know about Fletcher?”
“There are a lot of unanswered questions in the case. If that’s not your daughter in the news story, you have to wonder why they look so much alike and have the same name.”
She sat down and closed her eyes. Cork waited. Through sliding doors, he could see a wide deck, flower boxes filled with red and white blossoms, and beyond that the purple hills of a metropolis that stretched unbroken all the way to the purple horizon.
“Charlotte disappeared a week after her sixteenth birthday,” she began slowly. She looked at her hands, not at Cork. “We’d given her a car as a gift. She’d just got her license. She left after dinner that evening to meet some friends at the library. She never came home.
“Two days later, they found her car. There was a lot of blood in the trunk. Charlotte’s blood. They never found her body.”
She raised her head. Her face was taut, but composed.
“It took me a long time, Mr. O’Connor, but I finally accepted that my daughter is dead. It was different for Fletcher. I loved Charlotte very much, but she and Fletcher had something special between them.” She hesitated. “I don’t know how well you know my husband.”
“Not well at all, I’m afraid.”
“You’re not alone. I was married to him for eighteen years, and I understood him no better on the last day we were together than I did on the first. Fletcher was a very private person, very closed. He allowed few people near him, and he let no one inside. No one except Charlotte. From the moment she was born, she somehow managed to open Fletcher’s heart. I admit, I often felt on the outside of things, a little envious of what the two of them shared.
“In the weeks before she died, however, they were often at odds. Charlotte’s grades were slipping. She was spending too much time with her friends. In Fletcher’s view, anyway. Really, it was normal teenage testing, rebelling. The night she disappeared, they had a fight. About her clothes, which Fletcher thought made her look like a bum. It was the style back then. Holes in everything. She left, and never came back. Fletcher couldn’t deal with her loss, couldn’t stop blaming himself, although there was no reason for blame. It tore him apart. He got stuck in his grieving. In the end, we didn’t just lose our daughter. We lost each other. Eight months after Charlotte disappeared, we separated, then divorced.”
The William Kent Krueger Collection 2 Page 25