“Yeah.”
“You think that’s what happened? Solemn did it?”
“No,” Cork said.
“Leaving it that way, it’s not good,” Bledsoe said. “Indian kid kills a white girl. You know how often that’ll be thrown at us around here?”
“I know.”
Bledsoe smoked for a while. People kept arriving, nodding or waving as they went inside.
Bledsoe said, “I talked with the tribal council. They want to hire you to clear Solemn’s name.”
Cork watched the cigarette smoke drift upward toward a clear, cornflower sky.
“All right,” he said.
“Good.”
“I was going to do it anyway, you know.”
Bledsoe laughed quietly. “That’s what George LeDuc said.”
“That’s why he’s chairman of the tribal council.”
Inside the building, a woman began to sing. The notes weren’t pure, but the words were Ojibwe.
“Rhonda Fox,” Cork said.
“Going back inside?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
* * *
The day Solemn Winter Moon was buried, a sun dog appeared in the sky. Not many people had ever witnessed this phenomenon, a rare occurrence in which sunlight, refracted off ice crystals in the atmosphere, created the illusion of a second sun. Cork had seen it only once, and then in winter, and had no idea why it was called a sun dog. He and Jo and the others who’d gathered for the burial stood at the graveside in the cemetery behind the old mission building deep in the reservation, staring east, marveling at the two suns in the morning heaven. The sun dog stayed until the casket was lowered, and the dark mouth that was the open grave had swallowed the body of Solemn Winter Moon. Then, as those who’d gathered to pay their final respects silently scattered, the false sun faded away.
* * *
That same day, Cork watched another man’s body being lowered into the earth.
It was late in the afternoon. The air had turned hot and sultry. Cork parked his Bronco in the shade of a burr oak inside the cemetery with a good view of the road that wound up the hill from town. He could feel a storm in the air, forming somewhere beyond the western horizon, the thunderheads just now rising above the distant trees.
As he waited, he thought about Fletcher Kane. He’d been wrong about Kane in important ways, wrong because he’d blinded himself. He’d wanted Kane to be the kind of man capable of abusing his daughter. Kane wasn’t, although the rumors about him persisted. Was it any wonder he’d gone over the edge? In the end, what did Kane have to lose? His life had already been destroyed. He’d lost what he most loved—twice—and in the end had even been robbed of the respect of the community.
What had been Cork’s part in this? He had voiced suspicions, and they’d become rumors as a result of Borkmann’s loose tongue. But Cork knew Borkmann and was well aware of the man’s weakness where confidentiality was concerned. Was there a dark place inside him that had calculated this and used the sheriff to ruin Kane? How well did he know himself? Cork wondered. Christ, he thought, how well did anyone?
After a thirty-minute wait, he saw the line of cars, only a half dozen strong, making its way up the hill, led by a shiny hearse. Directly behind the hearse was Randy Gooding’s Tracker. As the abbreviated procession came through the gate, Cork saw that Gooding was serving as driver to the priest, and he also saw that the priest wasn’t Mal Thorne but old Father Kelsey instead. The cars followed along the narrow lanes to the place that had been prepared, a plot of ground far from Charlotte’s grave.
During the service, the doddering priest bent toward Fletcher Kane’s coffin. Cork couldn’t hear what the priest said. The old priest was too far away, and his voice was a whisper that died in the heavy air. The service was blessedly short. As things came to an end, Gooding stepped to Donny Pugmire, one of the pallbearers, and the two men exchanged words. Then Pugmire took the old priest’s arm and led him to his own car, while Gooding walked up the hill toward Cork.
“Didn’t know you were that fond of Fletcher Kane,” Cork said.
“Father Mal called me. He said they didn’t have enough pallbearers, asked if I’d lend a hand. I didn’t mind.”
“Where is Mal?”
“Sick.” Gooding watched the cars leave the cemetery. “You know, I thought that when I quit the big city, I’d seen the last of hard things.”
“They’re worse here in some ways,” Cork said. “Here, when tragedy visits, it knocks on the door of people you know.”
Gooding nodded toward the new grave. “I hope this puts the lid on tragedy for a while.”
“You think it’s over?”
“Borkmann wants the Kane girl’s murder to go in the cold case files. I think that’s a good place for it.”
“You believe Solemn did it?”
Gooding was quiet for a while. He looked toward the cemetery gate where, as the last of the funeral procession exited, an old, tan station wagon entered and stopped. A man got out and stared across the field of gravestones. He shielded his eyes against the sun with his hand.
Gooding said, “I think in the end he came to see the world differently, but before that he was certainly capable of murder. I know the Ojibwe don’t want to believe that, and for the peace of this community, which I care about a lot, I’m willing to let sleeping dogs lie.”
The man near the gate got back into the rusted station wagon and began to maneuver along the lanes between the rows of the dead. As the vehicle drew nearer, Cork saw that there were two other people in the car.
“What if it wasn’t Solemn?” he said. “What if some monster is still out there?”
“No homicides since January, Cork.” Gooding shook his head. “No more monsters. My money is on the man who was buried on the rez today.”
“Any objection if I were to take a look at the case file?”
“None from me. You’ll have to clear it with Borkmann. Or maybe just be patient a couple of weeks.” Gooding smiled. “I hear the board of commissioners is thinking of offering you the sheriff’s job until they can put together a special election. You wouldn’t need any permission then.”
The tan wagon pulled to a stop a few yards from where the two men stood. Three people got out, a man, a woman, and a boy, maybe twelve or thirteen years old. They looked familiar to Cork.
The man approached hesitantly. “Sorry to bother you people, but I’m wondering if you could help us.”
“Be glad to,” Gooding said.
The woman wore a white dress with daisies on it. She held her hands folded in front of her, in a way that seemed to bespeak great peace. The boy hung back and stood a little hunched, as if he were tired.
The man said, “We’re looking for the grave of someone who was buried today.”
“Right down there.” Gooding pointed toward the open hole into which Kane’s coffin had just been lowered.
“Thank you,” the man said.
“Did you know Fletcher Kane?” Cork asked.
The man turned back. “Fletcher Kane?”
Cork gestured down the hill. “The guy they buried today.”
The man looked confused. “I thought it was Solemn Winter Moon.”
“Winter Moon?” Gooding said. “He was buried out on the reservation this morning.”
“Oh.” The man looked back at the woman and the boy.
Cork suddenly realized who they were. “You’re from Warroad.”
“That’s right. How’d you know?”
Cork’s attention was suddenly focused on the boy standing beside his mother. “What happened to the wheelchair?”
The boy didn’t reply.
“Go on, Jamie. Tell the man.”
The boy stammered, as if words were new to him. “He healed me.”
“Solemn?”
The boy nodded.
The woman hugged her son and looked deeply into his eyes. “That good man healed him.”
“Just a minute,” Gooding said. H
e walked toward the boy, who stepped back at his approach. “I’m not going to hurt you, son. I just want a closer look. I’m a policeman.” Gooding knelt in front of the boy. “Show me your hands.”
The boy slowly lifted his arms, and the fingers that had been curled into claws opened toward the deputy.
“Can you walk for me?”
The boy took a few steps. They weren’t perfect.
“Tell me your name.”
“Jamie Witherspoon.”
“How old are you, Jamie?”
“Thirteen.”
“You’ve always been sick?”
“Yes.”
“Always in a wheelchair?”
“Yes.”
“Your parents didn’t put you up to this?”
“No.”
Gooding stood up. “I apologize for that last question,” he said to the boy’s mother. “It’s just that it’s all a little hard to believe.”
In the face of Gooding’s doubt, her own face reflected nothing but love. “Believing is what it’s all about.”
Cork directed them to George LeDuc’s store on the reservation, told them to tell LeDuc their story, and he would escort them to Solemn’s grave. He also told them to ask George to guide them to the home of Solemn’s mother. She would want to hear what they had to say.
As the old station wagon rattled out of the cemetery, Cork said, “You told me once that you’re a man inclined to believe in miracles. So what do you think, Randy?”
For a long time, Gooding simply stared beyond the cemetery fence where the wagon had gone. Finally he shook his head. “I don’t,” he said. “Honest to God, I just don’t know.”
44
CORK ARRIVED HOME to discover that Mal Thorne had apparently mistaken the front yard for a parking lot. The yellow Nova had jumped the curb, its front wheels coming to rest on the grass apron between the street and the sidewalk. Inside the house, Cork found Annie standing in the living room looking stunned.
“Are you okay?”
She stared at him. “Father Mal’s here.”
“I figured that. Is he sick?”
“Not sick,” she said. “Drunk.”
“Where’s your mom?”
“She took Stevie for a haircut. Father Mal came after they left. I didn’t know what to do.”
“Where is he?”
Annie’s eyes went slowly upward, but Cork knew she wasn’t looking toward heaven.
“In Rose’s room?”
“I heard them talking. He said he’s leaving the priesthood, Dad. He said he’s in love with Aunt Rose and he wants to marry her. How could he do that?”
“He hasn’t done it yet,” Cork said.
Annie looked deeply into her father’s eyes, maybe hoping to find something there that would help her understand. “He’s a priest. The church is his life.”
High above them, in the attic room, something thumped.
“You wait here,” Cork said.
He bounded up the stairs and down the hallway to the opened door that led to the attic. He heard grunting coming from Rose’s room, the sound of a struggle. He took the attic stairs two at a time.
At the far end of the room, Rose’s sewing table lay on its side and her sewing machine had tumbled to the floor. The whole mess was surrounded by a spill of fabric of a dozen designs. Amid the ruin, Rose and Mal Thorne stood locked in a desperate embrace. The moment Cork appeared, Rose peered over the priest’s shoulder and her eyes grew huge.
“Help me,” she gasped. “I can’t hold him up.”
Cork realized that Mal was buckling and all that kept him from falling was Rose’s strength. He slipped his arms around Mal Thorne’s chest, wedging his hands between Rose and the priest.
“Got him,” he said.
The priest roused, enough to help as Cork walked him to the bed. Cork released his grip and Mal flopped on his back on the mattress. Rose lifted his legs and, with Cork’s help, arranged him so that, more or less, he rested comfortably.
Mal wore brown loafers, no socks. His khakis were wrinkled. His plaid shirt was torn, a long wound in the fabric beneath his right arm. His breath was all Southern Comfort. Through heavy lids, he stared up as Rose leaned over him.
“I love you, Rose,” he said, his tongue thick, his lips barely moving. “I love you.”
“Shhh,” Rose hushed him gently. “Just sleep.”
Mal’s eyes drifted closed. He mumbled something, and a few moments later, he was snoring.
Cork was breathing hard. “We’re not going to be able to move him, Rose.”
“It’s okay.” She reached down, tenderly touched Mal’s cheek, the bristle of his red hair. “He can stay here for a while.”
“I’d better check on Annie,” Cork said.
Rose nodded, but she didn’t take her eyes off the man in her bed.
While Cork was busy upstairs, Jo had returned with Stevie. Cork found her in the kitchen listening as Annie recounted, in a voice pitched at the edge of hysteria, what had happened.
“He’s still upstairs with Rose?” Jo asked Cork.
“Yeah, but he’s sleeping now.”
“Sleeping?” Annie said.
“Actually, he’s passed out on your Aunt Rose’s bed.”
“On her bed?” Annie looked mortified. “What are we going to do?”
“Let him sleep it off.” Cork walked to the refrigerator and pulled out a beer.
“Then what?”
What, indeed? Cork wasn’t happy with Mal, with this intrusion into his home, with the clumsy, thoughtless way the priest had chosen to make his feelings known. But he also understood the terrible conflict that must have been raging in Mal, dammed behind the calm face a man in his position had to maintain. He twisted the cap off his beer and took a swallow.
“It’s not right,” Annie said. “He’s a priest.”
Jo said, “Priests are just people, Annie. They have problems, too. They make mistakes, change their minds—”
“Aunt Rose won’t let him change his mind. He’s a priest.” She caught the look that passed between her parents. “What?”
“Your Aunt Rose loves him,” Jo said.
That seemed to set Annie back on her heels a bit.
Cork heard the creak of the stairs and saw Rose coming down from floors above. She walked to where the others had gathered.
“I’m sorry you saw all that, Annie,” she said as soon as she stepped into the kitchen.
“You won’t let him leave the church, will you?”
“Annie,” Jo cautioned.
“You won’t,” Annie said.
Rose balled her hands together and closed her eyes, and for a moment it looked very much as if she were praying. “I think I’m going to have to talk to God about that one, Annie,” she said at last. “I’m a little confused myself.”
Annie, who’d never run from anything, turned away and fled outside, letting the screen door slam behind her. Rose took a step to follow.
“Let her go,” Jo said. “She’ll be fine. She just needs some time by herself to think.”
Rose took a deep, quivering breath. “I could use some of that, too.”
“Oh, Rose.”
Jo crossed the kitchen and threw her arms around her sister. Cork stood drinking his beer, as bewildered by the events as everyone else.
* * *
He called the sheriff’s department and caught Cy Borkmann just as he was leaving for the day. He explained to the acting sheriff what he wanted.
“I don’t have a problem with you looking at the Kane girl’s file, Cork. But promise me one thing. You come across anything we missed, anything important, you let me or Gooding know. Deal?”
“Deal, Cy.”
“When do you want the file?”
“ASAP. Mind if I copy the material? That way I won’t be a pest down there.”
“I’ll go you one better. I’ll have a deputy make copies. It’ll all be waiting for you.”
“One more thing.”
“Any chance of getting a look at the file on the incident at Kane’s place?”
“What for?”
“Maybe nothing. I’d just like to have everything that relates in any way to what happened to Charlotte Kane.”
Borkmann thought a moment or two. “All right. Can’t see that it would hurt anything.”
“Thanks, Cy.”
“I hate making these decisions.” Borkmann hung up.
An hour later, Cork picked up the promised documents. It was early evening by the time he returned home. Except for Jo, the house seemed deserted.
“Where is everybody?” he asked.
“Jenny’s with Sean. I think they’re going to a movie. Stevie’s across the street playing in the O’Loughlins’ tree house. Rose is upstairs, standing watch over Father Mal.”
“Any word on Annie?”
“No.”
Cork looked outside, thinking about the man who’d stalked his daughter.
“Don’t worry,” Jo said. “She’s always home before dark these days. Are you hungry? I’d be glad to make you a sandwich.”
“What have we got?”
“Ham and cheese on rye.”
“I can make my own.”
“Sit down. Relax.” Jo walked with Cork to the kitchen. “Chips and beer with that?”
“Thanks.”
Jo took a bottle of Lienenkugel beer from the refrigerator and gave it to him. On the kitchen table, Cork laid out the folders of material he’d picked up at the sheriff’s department and opened the first file.
“You didn’t happen to discuss a reasonable fee with Oliver Bledsoe,” Jo said as she put a chunk of smoked ham on a cutting board to slice.
Cork took a long drink of cold beer. “I’d do this even if they paid me nothing.”
Jo set a block of cheddar on the counter and, beside it, put what was left of a loaf of dark rye. “People are asking if you’re ever going to open Sam’s Place again. Some of them. The rest seem to be wondering if you’re going to take the job as sheriff if it’s offered.”
“Which group do you fall into?”
“I don’t fall. I stand firmly behind whatever you choose to do.” She began to slice the ham. “Going to want mustard on this?”
The William Kent Krueger Collection 2 Page 30