“She says that you were here all day, locked in your office. She says that she never saw you leave.”
“There you have it,” Sandy concluded.
“She also says,” Cork went on, “that she never saw you at all after you went into your office. You didn’t respond when she knocked to tell you she was leaving.”
“That’s not unusual. If you’d asked her, she would have told you that.”
“It’s true, Cork,” Jo interjected. “He often locks himself away for hours and no one can reach him.”
“It’s when I do my best work,” Sandy said.
“Ruth said she left lunch for you on a tray outside your door about one o’clock. She said you didn’t touch it. She picked up the tray at three.”
“When I’m concentrating, as I was on this speech, I tune everything out. Jo?” He turned to her for verification.
“True again, Cork.”
“Any more questions?” Sandy asked with a note of impatience.
Cork closed his eyes a moment, thinking. Jo saw how his shoulders had fallen, how the anger was draining out of him. But when he eyed Sandy again, there was still determination in his look.
“Yesterday morning,” he said, “I was attacked at Harlan Lytton’s place. Someone saw you head out that way on County Sixteen shortly before it happened.”
“Someone?”
“A reliable source.”
Parrant glanced at Jo.
“He couldn’t have, Cork,” Jo informed him quietly.
“Why not?”
“He was with me. We were here together.”
“Here?” Cork looked from one to the other. “All morning?”
“Yes.”
“And not working,” he guessed.
“Not exactly,” Parrant said.
Cork’s eyes seemed hollow and desperate, and Jo was glad he’d emptied the rifle of cartidges.
Parrant leaned forward in the tub, speaking reasonably. “Look, Cork, I know this woman’s death must hurt you. I can understand, given the relationship between Jo and me, that I would be an easy target for your anger. But I’m the wrong target, I swear.”
“He’s right, Cork,” Jo said softly.
Cork looked down at the useless rifle in his hand. When he lifted his face, Jo saw how tired he was.
“I’m beat,” he whispered. “I’m absolutely beat.”
He turned away and started down the stairs.
“Cork, I’ll come-” Jo began.
“No,” he said without turning. “I’d rather be alone.”
He waded through the snow and disappeared around the corner of the house.
“I feel so sorry for him,” Jo said. “He’s lost so much in the last couple of years. He’s a good man, Sandy. He really is.”
“You’re not still thinking of trying to work on your marriage.” Irritation rang in his words like the sour note of a cracked bell.
“I don’t love Cork,” Jo assured him. “But I’ll always care. I feel so sad for him, that’s all. Right at this moment, I just feel like crying.”
“Join me in here,” Sandy suggested, sweeping his hand over the surface of the water. “I guarantee you can’t cry in a hot tub. It’s one of those unusual laws of physics.”
“I don’t think so, thanks.”
“Then let me give you your Christmas present.”
“It’s not Christmas yet.”
“I’ve never been good at waiting, especially when I want to cheer up a sad lady. Just let me get dressed.”
He rose, naked and steaming, from the tub.
45
By the time Sandy was dressed, the northern lights had intensified, grown so bright that the flat of the lake beyond the boathouse was awash in color, exploding with red and green and brief flashes of yellow. In all her years, Jo had never seen anything like it.
“It’s your Christmas present from the cosmos,” Sandy told her as they walked the plowed lane toward the lake. “The whole universe,” he said, indicating the brilliant heavens with a sweep of his arm, “is trying to cheer you up.”
“You don’t seem worried about what Cork’s uncovered about Bob,” she noted.
“Sins of the father. I suppose some people might try to hold me responsible, but I think I can distance myself enough. And I have a long time ahead of me to prove myself. I’ll worry about it all tomorrow. Right now there’s something I want to show you.”
He wouldn’t tell her why they were headed to the boathouse, only that it had to do with her gift. Jo would have preferred waiting. All the terrible events of the day-the sight of Molly Nurmi frozen to the ice, Cork’s angry accusations, her own unforgivable questioning of Sandy-rattled around inside her like disconnected nuts and bolts. She wished for a little time to herself to put all of it together and understand it. But Sandy was insistent, and although his efforts were a little misguided, his heart was in the right place. She let herself be led.
At the boathouse, Sandy said, “Close your eyes.”
She heard him roll back the big sliding door and heard the click of the light switch.
“Step carefully,” he said and guided her in.
The boathouse smelled of canvas and rope and gasoline. Even with her eyes closed she knew what was there. A large enclosure with shelving and lockers for gear, with life jackets, preservers, and water skis hung on the walls, and at the center of it all, resting on its trailer, Sandy’s big motor launch. However, when Sandy said, “Open your eyes,” Jo found herself surprised.
Instead of the motor launch, she gazed upon a new white Mercedes-Benz sedan.
“Merry Christmas, Jo.”
“For me?”
“Who else?”
“Sandy, I can’t-”
“You can and you will. I’m tired of seeing you drive around town in that old Toyota.”
“And how do I explain this to people?”
“You don’t have to explain it.” He took off his gloves, then removed hers so that she could feel the warmth of his hands. “Jo, I’m in. I’ve been elected. You’re divorcing Cork. I expect that within the year we can marry.”
“Marry? This is Minnesota, Sandy, not California or New York. Divorce is an issue here.”
“If Cork decides to go public with those photos of you and me, the best defense is love and marriage. Six years from now when I’m up for reelection, people will have forgotten that you were ever married to someone else.” He squeezed her hands gently but earnestly. “Jo, I need someone beside me when I make a bid for the White House.”
In anyone else, she might have thought a statement like that was presumptuous, an idle boast. But she knew that if Sandy Parrant had his heart set on a run at the presidency, he would do it.
“You’d look wonderful beside me in the Rose Garden,” he went on. “We’re compatible, you and me. We make a good team. We think alike.”
She made herself withdraw her hands. “I can’t even think about this right now. I’m sorry, Sandy.”
“Don’t think, then,” he urged her. “Just feel.” He took her right hand and placed it on the cold, sleek side of the white Mercedes. “Feel the elegance. This is a lifestyle to which I can accustom you. No more worry about how to pay the orthodontist. And a shot at being First Lady to boot. Tell me you don’t want that.” He guided her like a partner in a formal dance toward the car door, which he opened with a graceful motion. “Here. Sit.” He patted the seat.
“Sandy-” she made a weak attempt at protesting, but he took her by the shoulders and gently made her sit. He put her hands on the wheel.
“Now, doesn’t that feel just like heaven?”
“Maybe not ‘just like,’ ”-she laughed-“but pretty damn close.”
He opened the hood. “Come and have a look at the engine. That’s really the heart of a machine.”
She didn’t have the slightest idea what she was looking at, but it was nothing like the engine under the hood of her Toyota. The Toyota engine was caked with oil and dirt, the hoses
brittle-looking, the belts cracked. The engine of the Mercedes was as clean as a medical instrument and looked powerful enough to launch rockets.
“This is an E-four-twenty. Eight cylinder, thirty-two valve, two hundred fifty-six cubic inches,” Sandy said, touching the top of the engine with admiration. “Two hundred seventy-five horsepower, it’ll go zero to sixty in six point six seconds.”
“That’s good?” she asked.
“Very good,” he replied.
She put out her hand to touch the heart of the magnificent machine. In an instant, all her euphoria vanished.
“Does it drive as good as it looks?” she asked, drawing back her hand.
“Every bit. It handles like a dream.”
“You’ve driven it quite a bit, then?”
“Only a road test.”
“You didn’t drive it today?”
“No. Why would I?” He closed the hood. “I meant to put a bow on it before you saw it.”
“You didn’t drive it at all?”
“Today?” He gave her a puzzled look. “No, I just told you.”
“Someone did,” she said. “There’s a faint trace of warmth in the engine. The radiator hose, too.”
“Oh, that. I ran it for a few minutes, just to keep the fluids flowing. It’s not good to let a car sit idle for a long time in the cold, especially one as delicate as this.”
Jo walked slowly around the car until she arrived at the trunk. “Could you open it?”
“The trunk?” Sandy came and stood beside her. “It’s just a trunk. Not nearly as exciting as the engine, believe me.” He smiled.
“I’d like to see everything.”
“I don’t have the key with me.” He shrugged.
“I believe I saw a lock release on the driver’s side.”
The excitement melted from his face. “The trunk,” he said. “Whatever.”
He opened the car door, bent down, and the trunk sprung open a crack. Jo hesitated, suddenly reluctant to go any further, afraid to see if the trunk held a bag full of negatives.
“Go on,” Sandy told her. “I thought you wanted to see.”
Still she held back. What could the truth do now but ruin everything?
“Let me, then,” Sandy said.
He reached out. Jo braced herself. Sandy raised the lid. The trunk was empty.
Jo felt weak with relief. She turned to Sandy and threw her arms around him.
“It’s the most beautiful trunk I’ve ever seen.”
“I’m glad you like it.” He laughed. “The rest of the car is usually what sells people. Would you like to go for a spin?”
“I should be getting home.”
“Just a quick one. I’ll go up to the house and get the keys. What do you say?”
She debated a millisecond. “Okay.”
Sandy gave her a brief kiss; she held him back for a longer one, then let him go. After he’d gone, she sat in the driver’s seat with her hands on the wheel. How could she ever have doubted him? It was true, what she’d said, that he was ruthless at times, but it was an understandable thing in a man who reached for greatness. And Sandy had great things ahead of him, she had no doubt.
“First Lady,” she said giddily.
She ran her hand over the dash. The feel of the car was something extraordinary. She touched the seat beside her, felt the luxurious softness of the leather. The tip of her index finger caught on a sharp, unexpected edge. Something was lodged in the shadowy crevice between cushion and seat back. Something with a square, paper-thin, black corner.
When Sandy stepped back into the boathouse, Jo was leaning against the car, holding the strip of negative gingerly away from her with two fingers, as if it were a piece of rotting filth she’d rather not have had to touch.
“What’s that?” Sandy asked innocently.
“You know what it is.”
“I didn’t kill her,” he said. “I swear to you, Jo, I didn’t kill her.”
“A few minutes ago you hadn’t even been to see her.”
“Look,” he explained, approaching slowly, “I got a call this afternoon. A woman. She said she had something I’d want to buy. She mentioned the things Cork talked about. Evidence about my father. She said she had the negatives. She gave me directions. I followed them.”
“It was Molly Nurmi?”
“I can’t say for sure it was.”
“Your housekeeper said you didn’t leave.”
“She works with headphones on. She doesn’t hear a thing. I slipped out and took the Mercedes. She never knew.”
“You saw Molly Nurmi?”
“Not at first. I knocked on the door. No one answered. I saw smoke coming from the sauna and went down there. The bag was in the changing room, negatives all over the place. It looked as if someone had gone through them wildly.”
“And Molly Nurmi?”
“I checked the sauna. She wasn’t there. Then I looked outside. She was dead, Jo. There wasn’t anything I could do to help her.”
“And you ran.”
“Yes.” He looked down, ashamed.
“How do you know she was dead?”
“She was frozen to the ice, for God sake. Jo, I panicked. I saw everything I’ve worked for slipping through my hands. I’m not proud that I ran. But better a coward than a murderer.”
“You took the negatives?”
“Not exactly. I hid them out there. At the Nurmi place. I didn’t want them found; you can understand that. And for obvious reasons I didn’t want them in my possesion.” He looked at her, deep concern eroding the handsome features of his face. “You don’t believe me.”
“No, I don’t.”
“What kind of monster do you think I am?”
“I’m beginning to wonder.”
He stood up straight and looked at her squarely. There was hurt in his eyes, but he spoke evenly. “What do you want me to do? Tell me and I’ll do it. Whatever I have to do to prove to you who I am, I’ll do it.”
“Turn the negatives over to Cork,” she said without a moment’s hesitation. “And tell Wally Schanno everything that happened.”
He took a deep breath and nodded his agreement. “I suspect that in that bag are things that will tear this county-hell, maybe this state-apart,” he warned her. “But I’ll give the bag to Cork, if that’s what you want.”
“That’s what I want.”
“And you’ll believe the things I’ve said? You’ll believe I really love you?”
“I’ll believe you about everything.”
“Then I’ll do it. You’re the most important thing in my life, Jo. I’ll do anything to keep you in it.”
He reached out his hand. She took it.
“Let’s go up to the house,” he suggested. “You can call Cork from there. Tell him to meet us at the Nurmi woman’s place. I’ll give him the bag.”
She held back a moment. “This will mean the end of all your dreams.”
Somehow he managed a faint smile. “No. It just means I’ll never be president.” He kissed her hand gently. “But I’ll always have you.”
46
He had one picture of Molly. Only one. It was a Polaroid he’d taken with her camera in the summer just moments after she stepped onto the shore from a dip in the lake near the sauna. She wore a black one-piece and had a good tan. She was bent a little awkwardly, torn between reaching down for her beach towel and trying to say “Cheese” for the camera. Her red hair clung to her back and shoulders and hung over her face in long, wet strands. She was laughing.
He’d kept the picture in a collection of poems by Robert Frost, hidden from the eyes of anyone who might, in idle curiosity, have stumbled onto it in a drawer. He always slipped it in with the poem “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.” Cork didn’t know much more about poetry than the next guy, but he understood well how it felt to have miles to go before he slept.
Now he lay on his bunk, one arm pillowing his head, studying the one and only picture he’d allowed himse
lf of Molly. She looked exactly the way he wanted to remember her, full of life, laughing. That was Molly to him. Not the pale blue icedover body with its sightless eyes set on heaven. Molly deserved to be remembered differently. She deserved a lot of things life never offered her, not the least of which was someone who told her often he loved her. Why hadn’t he? Why had he been so afraid? He couldn’t think of anything so important now that it should have kept him from telling Molly how he felt.
And now it was too late. Too late forever.
Sam’s Place had never felt so empty. He suspected the emptiness was not in the old Quonset hut; it was in him. There was nothing in him now, nothing but the great emptiness of death, which he seemed to carry with him like a virus. People died around him, but he was immune. There was no justice. He should have died long ago. Maybe if he had, Molly would still be alive. And Sam Winter Moon and Arnold Stanley, and God only knew who else. He remembered a line he’d heard once, from an ancient text it seemed. “I am become death…” That was him.
The phone rang. He didn’t want to talk to anyone, but he’d neglected to turn on his answering machine and on the tenth ring he lifted the receiver.
“Cork, it’s Jo.”
“Yeah,” he grunted.
“I know where the negatives are.”
He sat up, instantly alert. “Where?”
“Meet me at Molly Nurmi’s.” She paused, covered the mouthpiece, and mumbled something faintly to someone else. “In half an hour,” she concluded.
“At Molly’s?”
“Yes.”
“Jo, did you know all along?”
“No.”
“Sandy,” he guessed.
“Meet me, Cork. Let me explain.” She hung up without waiting for him to answer.
Cork walked calmly to the front door. He put on his coat and his stocking cap. He grasped his Winchester and fed in the shells he’d stuffed in his pockets at Parrant’s.
“Mr. Senator,” he said as he worked the lever, feeding the first cartridge into the chamber.
“He’ll be there?” Sandy asked as Jo hung up the kitchen phone.
“He’ll be there.”
“Well,” he said somberly, “let’s get it over with.”
She touched his arm. “It will be good to get clear. Whatever happens, whatever those negatives hold, at least we won’t be looking over our shoulders for the rest of our lives waiting for the worst to catch up with us.”
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