The William Kent Krueger Collection 2

by William Kent Krueger

  “Do you have any advice?”

  “It’s best with mustard.”

  “About the sheriff’s job.”

  “I have enough trouble keeping my own life in order. I know you’ll do whatever’s right for you.”

  Cork sat down and leaned back in his chair. “Want to hear a story, Jo?”

  “Does it have a happy ending?”

  “For a crippled kid and his folks, yeah.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  As he began to tell her about the family from Warroad, she sat down with him at the table. When he’d finished, she said, “What do you think?”

  “That I should have done more to protect Solemn. Maybe he had been given a gift, Jo, something important to share. Now that gift is gone.”

  She reached across the table and took his hand. “These people, you’re sure they weren’t part of some con?”

  “As sure as I am of anything right now. I’m not saying that Solemn had the gift of healing. Maybe his gift was just that he helped these people believe enough to make their own miracle happen. You know?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s important to me that people think of Solemn in a good way. So it’s important that everybody know the truth of what happened to Charlotte Kane.”

  “I understand. What can I do to help?”

  “For starters, you can finish making that sandwich.”

  * * *

  Later, Jo ran a bath for Stevie, and while her son played in the tub, she came down to the kitchen where Cork had the documentation of Charlotte Kane’s death investigation spread out on the table.

  “Any luck?” she asked.

  “Nothing so far.” He folded his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. “One thing I keep going back to. The food wrappers at the scene of her death. The fact that some bastard sat there callously eating while she died. I keep asking myself what kind of ghoul would do that kind of thing?”

  “A sin eater.” Annie stood at the screen door, looking in. Night was beginning to settle in at her back. “Can I come in?”

  “Of course, sweetheart,” Jo said.

  She walked in, her eyes tracing the lines on the linoleum. “I’m sorry for the way I behaved.”

  “That’s all right,” Jo said. “Are you hungry?”

  “I’m always hungry.”

  “How about a ham and cheese sandwich?”

  “I recommend it highly,” Cork said.

  “Thanks.”

  Jo got the things from the refrigerator.

  “Just walk?” Cork said.

  Annie shook her head. “I bumped into Randy Gooding and he walked me to the Broiler. We talked. Look, he gave me this.”

  She held out a drawing that had been done on the back of a paper place mat from the Broiler, a pencil portrait of her. She looked very pretty and a little sad.

  “Helped?”

  “Yeah, it helped.”

  “Here you go,” Jo said.

  Annie took the plate. “Is it all right if I eat in my room?”

  “Sure. Just bring the dishes down when you’re finished.”

  Annie moved toward the living room, then stopped and glanced back. “I love you guys.”

  “Good night, sweetheart,” Jo said. She watched her daughter head upstairs and she smiled. “Think she’s okay?”

  “She’ll work it out. Good head on her shoulders,” Cork said. “And quite lovely. She gets that from you.”

  “Thanks, cowboy.” She bent to where he sat at the table and kissed the top of his head. “I’m going up to check on Stevie and get him into bed.”

  Cork went back to studying the files, looking for anything he might have overlooked before or seen and too quickly dismissed. It took a while before something dawned on him. When it finally did, he grabbed the documents that dealt with the night Fletcher Kane killed himself and Solemn, and he scanned the autopsy report for each man.

  He went to the telephone table in the living room and pulled out his address book. He took it back to the kitchen and made a long-distance call. Jo came downstairs just as he was finishing.

  “Stevie’s asleep,” she said.

  “Sit down, Jo.”

  She heard the taut pitch of his voice. She took a chair at the table. “You’ve found something.”

  “Maybe.”

  Jo looked at the phone on the table. “Who were you talking to?”

  “Boomer Grabowski in Chicago. Remember him?”

  “Sure. But you haven’t talked to him in years.”

  “I called him last week actually.”

  “What about?”

  “To see if he’d be willing to investigate Mal Thorne.”

  “Why?”

  “It was part of due diligence. But he was busy on a case in Miami, and then my head got all turned around for a while and I didn’t follow up with him right away. That was a big mistake, because Annie got me to thinking tonight, Jo. We believe that someone was with Charlotte and ate food while she died. Now take a look at this.”

  He handed her the autopsy report on Fletcher Kane.

  After reading it for a minute, she asked, “What am I looking for?”

  “Stomach contents.”

  “There’s not much.”

  “Exactly. Olga Swenson set a good pot roast dinner down on the table for Kane the night he killed himself. Somebody ate a lot of that food and drank a good deal of the wine that went with it.”

  Jo’s eyes went down to the document in her hand. “It wasn’t Fletcher Kane.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Solemn?”

  “He’d been fasting for several days, and his autopsy confirmed that.”

  Jo frowned. “You’re talking about Annie’s sin eater comment.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Cork, that was just joking. A sin eater? That’s crazy.”

  “Whoever killed Charlotte Kane wasn’t exactly sane. Who told Annie the sin eater story?”

  Jo thought a moment. “Father Mal.”

  “What do we know about him?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just what I said. What do we really know about the man who’s the parish priest?”

  “Why is this even a question? Because he told Annie the story?”

  “Humor me.”

  “He’s a good priest.”

  “He says he’s in love with Rose. He wants to marry her. Is that the behavior of a good priest?”

  “I like him.”

  “So do I, but that’s not relevant at the moment. What do we know about his past?”

  “He ran a homeless shelter in Chicago. I’ve heard he risked his life to keep money for the shelter from being stolen.”

  “Maybe that’s the story he tells to explain his scars. Is it true? What else do we know?”

  “What do we know about anybody except what they tell us? My God, Cork, some things you just have to accept.”

  “Not when murder is involved.” He nodded at the kitchen telephone. “Boomer agreed to check out Mal, find out about the incident that resulted in his scars, anything else he can turn up about the priest’s background.”

  Jo shook her head. “This feels wrong.”

  “If Boomer comes up with nothing, fine. No harm done.”

  “Why don’t you just ask Father Mal where he was the night Fletcher and Solemn died?”

  “He’s dead drunk right now. And there’s no guarantee he wouldn’t lie.” Cork sat back suddenly. “But there is someone who might be able to help. What time is it?”

  Jo glanced at her watch. “Nine-thirty.”

  “It’s not too late.” Cork got up.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To the rectory to talk to Ellie Gruber. Jo, believe me, I’m hoping she’s able to give Mal an alibi.”

  * * *

  The housekeeper answered the door in her robe.

  “I’m sorry to come knocking so late, Ellie.”

  “That’s all right, Cork. I’ll be
up until Father Mal comes in. Was it him you wanted to see?”

  “You, actually. Do you mind if I ask you a question about Mal?”

  “I won’t know until you ask me, now will I? Would you like to come in?”

  “No, thanks, Ellie. This will only take a moment. I don’t know how to phrase this delicately. Have you noticed him acting a little strange lately?”

  “Well.” She clutched her robe tight at her throat.

  “I’m a little worried about him, is all,” Cork went on. “A lot of us are. Do you have any idea what’s troubling him?”

  “If I did, Cork, I’d be doing my best to help him.”

  “Ellie, think about the night Fletcher Kane and Solemn Winter Moon died.”

  “Lord, that’s one night I’d rather forget.”

  “Do you remember Mal? How he seemed?”

  “That was a bad night, to be sure. He got a call and went out. When he came back, he was very upset. Then a bit later he got the call from the sheriff’s office about Dr. Kane. What a terrible, terrible night.”

  “Do you know who that first call was from?”

  “No.”

  “What time did he go out?”

  “Oh, it must have been around nine.”

  “When did he come back?”

  “About an hour and a half later.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “Not that I recall. He’s usually so pleasant. He likes a little Irish coffee before bed, so I had everything ready. But he didn’t want any. He went straight to his room. I’m worried, Cork. I pray for him a lot these days.”

  “I’m sure it doesn’t hurt, Ellie. One more question. Did you spend New’s Year Eve here with the fathers?”

  “Lord, no. I have a life outside this rectory. I was with my late husband’s family, out at Tower.”

  “So Mal and Father Kelsey were here alone?”

  “I believe so. Father Kelsey was probably asleep by nine, so I’m sure poor Father Mal had to see the New Year in all alone.”

  “Tragic,” Cork said.

  * * *

  Jo was waiting in the kitchen when he got home.

  “Well?”

  “The night Kane and Solemn died, Mal went out about nine. Came back around ten-thirty. Very upset, no explanation.”

  Jo picked up the phone and handed it to him. “Boomer Grabowski called. He wants you to call him back.”

  “That was quick.”

  “The execution of a good reputation goes fast around here.”

  Cork ignored her comment and punched in Boomer’s number.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve already got something,” Cork said.

  “It’s all in knowing who to call.”

  “Spill it.”

  “Remember Dave Jenkins?”

  “Yeah. Shaved head, right? You used to call him Cueball.”

  “That’s him. He’s with homicide out of Area Two. Been there for a couple of years now. You hit the jackpot with the priest, Cork. Before he took over the unit, Cueball got assigned to investigate two homicides in Hyde Park. Somebody iced a couple of punks with rap sheets almost as long as my dick. Turns out, they were the primary suspects in the assault and attempted robbery of a priest named Father Malachi Thorne.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Yeah. The bust was bad, and they had to let the douche bags go on a technicality. But get this. Cueball says that for a while the priest was a suspect in those murders. Seems the guys were beat up pretty bad before their throats were cut. And guess who was a hotshot boxer back in college. The priest. Here’s where it gets interesting as far as your situation goes. It wasn’t the first time the priest had been connected with a murder investigation. Sixteen years ago, a children’s home he was in charge of burned down. Arson. A fifteen-year-old girl died, name of Yvonne Doolittle. You sitting down, Cork? This Doolittle girl had accused your Father Thorne of molesting her.” Grabowski was quiet a few moments. “You still there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Not enough evidence to build a case against him. The Church hustled him away from there and hushed things up.” Boomer laughed softly. “One more thing you’re gonna love. The Hyde Park killings? There was something real whacko about them. Seems the perp had himself a feast at the scene after he’d done the deed. Cueball did some digging. You know that knack of his for uncovering the truly weird? This time he looks for weird and Catholic, discovers there’s some kind of old Catholic mumbo jumbo goes along with feasting over the dead.”

  “Sin eating,” Cork said.

  “That’s right.” Boomer sounded impressed that Cork knew. “Another good reason Cueball liked the priest for the killings. In the end, your Father Thorne had an alibi they couldn’t break. Also, there was another double homicide with the same weird MO, and it happened before the priest came to Chicago.”

  “Know anything about those killings?”

  “No. You want I should ask?”

  “Let’s get everything we can.”

  “All right. But you know, Cork, if I were you, I’d put this priest away right now. He sounds to me like one sick bastard. For all you know, you could have your own little serial killer right there in Nowhere, Minnesota.”

  “Thanks for the insight, Boomer. I’ll be in touch.”

  He reported everything to Jo who sat tight-lipped at the table. When he was finished, she stood up, walked to the door, and looked through the screen, where dozens of moths shuddered their wings against the mesh. She said nothing.

  “It makes sense,” he argued quietly. “Solemn thought Charlotte had been seeing a married man. Mal is a married man.”

  “I thought we knew who the married man was. Arne Soderberg.”

  “When I talked to Glory Kane—I mean Cordelia Diller—she told me that Charlotte—Maria—related to her father in a sexual way and that she’d come on to Fletcher, hoping to secure his love that way, too. Mal’s not only married, Jo. He’s Father Mal. And think about the graffiti on the wall at St. Agnes. Liar. Who do you suppose that was directed at?”

  She spoke carefully and with her back still to Cork. “I know you think anyone is capable of murder. That’s how you’ve been trained to think. I find it hard to believe that Father Mal is the kind of monster you’ve painted.”

  Cork followed her to the door. He put his arms around her and spoke quietly. “I wish I had your faith. In God, in people. I don’t. I’ve seen too much, I guess.”

  “You believed in Solemn when no one else would.”

  “That was for Sam.”

  “In the end, it was for Solemn.” She laid her head back against his shoulder. “And you believed in us, even when everything seemed hopeless. What do you think faith is, Cork? I think it’s believing in what you care about even in the face of all evidence to the contrary. I care about Father Mal. I want to believe in him.”

  “You still have to ask questions, especially the hard ones.”

  She stepped away from the door. “What about Mal? Tonight?”

  “I’ll take him back to the rectory.”

  “I suppose that’s best. Let’s not say anything about this to Rose. Not yet.”

  “All right.”

  She put her hands gently against Cork’s chest, as if to feel his heart. “I know we have to be thorough and ask the hard questions, but I hope neither of us ever stops believing that the answers can be good.”

  They found Rose sitting in the rocker, which she’d pulled nearer to the bed where the priest slept. The lamp in the corner was on low, and a soft light spread across the room. Mal looked peaceful.

  “How is he?” Jo said.

  “He hasn’t stirred.”

  “I need to wake him up,” Cork said. “Take him home.”

  Rose looked as if she were about to object, then nodded her agreement. “It’s probably best.”

  Cork leaned over Mal, caught the smell of sweet bourbon coming off his skin. “Mal,” he said. Then louder, “Mal, wake up.” He shook the priest’s shoulder.

>   The man’s eyes flickered open and his pupils swam a moment before finding solid ground on Cork’s face. “Huh?”

  “I’m taking you home, Mal. Back to the rectory.”

  The priest considered this, and while he thought, his eyes began to drift closed.

  “Come on, Mal.” Cork slid his arm under the priest’s shoulders and hauled him to a sitting position.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Mal mumbled.

  “Let me help,” Rose said.

  They swung his feet off the bed and together helped him up.

  “I don’t feel good,” Mal said, swaying.

  “Hold on to us.” Rose positioned herself to one side; Cork took the other. Between them they managed to get him downstairs and out the door.

  “My car,” Mal said as he slumped onto the passenger side of the Bronco’s front seat.

  “We’ll take care of that tomorrow,” Cork said.

  For a brief moment Mal worked on focusing, and he put out his hands to cup Rose’s face through the open window. “I didn’t want . . . ,” he began, but seemed to lose the thought. “I’m sorry.”

  “Go home, get some rest, and we’ll talk,” she replied.

  Cork backed down the drive, his headlights holding on Rose and Jo, stark and worried in the glare. No sooner did the Bronco hit the street than Mal leaned out the window and threw up.

  “Sorry,” he managed as he settled back. He closed his eyes and within a minute was breathing heavily.

  Cork had wanted to question him, but that was plainly hopeless. He settled on getting him to the rectory and, with the help of Ellie Gruber, into his room and to bed.

  As he headed back to Gooseberry Lane, he considered what Jo had said about believing in the people you cared about even when it appeared crazy to do so. Jo believed in Mal. Rose believed in Mal. So why didn’t he?

  45

  NEXT MORNING, Cork woke to a gentle knocking at the bedroom door.

  “Dad? Mom?”

  “What is it, Jenny?”

  “Can I talk to you guys?”

  “Just a minute.” Cork looked at the bedside clock. 7:30 A.M. He’d overslept, but not by much.

  Jo stirred. “What is it?”

  “Jenny wants to talk to us.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Seven-thirty.”