“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. He 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.”