Cork felt his own scars were insignificant, two bullet holes, an entrance wound the size of a dime on his right shoulder and a slightly larger exit wound on his back just below his right scapula. The bullet had shattered bone and loosed a flood of blood and had almost killed him, but unless someone pointed them out, he usually forgot about them.
Mal Thorne said, “You don’t think much of our new sheriff, Cork?”
Sweat dripped from the end of Cork’s nose. He sat naked on a towel, his back against the tiles of the steam room wall. The other men were all hazy figures through the hot fog. “For him the job’s about politics, not law enforcement.”
“Ever regret your decision not to run?”
“Not for a minute,” Cork said.
The door of the steam room opened. Cool air sifted in.
“Gooding? Deputy Gooding? You in there?”
“Yo, Pender. What’s up?” Gooding said.
“Sheriff wants you,” Pender called back.
“Hey, man. It’s my day off.”
“He says get your ass to the office now.”
“Is there overtime in it?”
“Close the damn door, Pender,” Bledsoe said. “You’re letting the North Pole in.”
“Not until I see Deputy Gooding stepping out.”
“Talk to him, Randy. It’s getting cold in here. I just saw a penguin waddle by.”
“I’m coming, Pender. Close the door.”
Gooding stood up, and the steam swirled as he moved.
“Think I’m done, too,” Cork said. He got up from the cedar bench. “Who do we play next week?”
“Team from the casino,” Bledsoe said. “The Five Card Studs.”
In the locker room, Randy Gooding and Deputy Duane Pender stood huddled in a corner near the showers. Gooding nodded a couple of times and finally said, “I’ll be out of here in ten.” Pender strode quickly out. Gooding went straight to his locker without bothering to shower.
When Soderberg became sheriff, he reorganized the department, cutting out the specialized units that Cork and Wally Schanno had created to focus on particular areas of crime prevention and investigation. That had pissed off a number of veteran officers, including Captain Ed Larson, who’d headed major crimes investigation for years and who, along with several others, had resigned. Now Gooding, because of his FBI training, generally handled the responsibility of investigating serious crimes, but he had no special rank or title and got no extra pay for it. He did it, he said, because he loved the work, something Cork understood.
“What’s up, Randy?” Cork asked. “Pender looked pretty serious.”
Gooding glanced around to confirm that they were alone. “Couple of hikers found a body buried in snow up on Moccasin Creek. Young. Female.”
“Charlotte Kane?”
“Won’t know for certain until we get there. But that’s sure what I’m thinking.”
“Where on Moccasin Creek?”
Gooding started to answer but caught himself. “Unh-uh. No way. I can tell what you’re thinking. Cork, this kind of thing isn’t your business anymore.” He opened his locker and began to dress. “Don’t take this wrong, but when I worked the field office in Milwaukee, we had a couple old agents who’d retired and couldn’t stand it. Those guys were always dropping by the office, adding their two cents to everything. Became a real pain in the ass.”
“I froze for nearly a week trying to find her.”
“Sixty other people did, too. You don’t see them clamoring for a glimpse of the body.”
“Where on Moccasin Creek?”
“Look, you show up and the sheriff’s going to know who clued you in. He’ll ream me.”
“I’ll swear it wasn’t you.”
“He’s not stupid.”
“Jury’s still out on that one. Come on, Randy. Where?”
Gooding stroked his beard, a trim strip of reddish hair that formed a triangle around his mouth. He often said that tolerance of facial hair was one of the things he liked about working on a rural police force. He shook his head and gave in. “Footbridge about a quarter mile north of the trailhead off County Five.”
“I know it.”
The deputy slipped a T-shirt over his head, then bent to put on his boots. When he’d tied them, he straightened and shot Cork a guilty look. “Give us a head start at least.”
As Gooding exited, Mal Thorne came around the corner from the steam room, a towel wrapped around his waist. He glanced at Gooding’s back, then at Cork, who was just beginning to dress. “Neither of you showering? What’s so important?”
“A body’s been found in the snow up on Moccasin Creek.”
“Where’s that?”
“Just east of Valhalla.”
“A woman’s body?”
“Yes.”
“Charlotte Kane?”
“Can’t say for sure. But I don’t know of any other women who’ve disappeared here in the last few months.”
“I’d like to go with you.”
Cork didn’t answer.
“You’re going,” the priest said. “That’s why you’re not showering.”
“It’s a closure thing for me,” Cork said.
“I’ve got plenty of reason, too.”
Cork started to object but realized Mal Thorne had given every bit as much of himself as Cork had in the bitter, cold days during the search for Charlotte Kane. He nodded toward the priest’s locker.
“Better get dressed then. I’m not taking you naked.”
5
“You’re quiet,” Cork said after they’d ridden a long time in silence. “Sure you want to do this?”
Because he never went to church anymore, Cork didn’t relate to Mal Thorne as a priest. They just played basketball together. Mal had come to Aurora a couple of years earlier to assist the aging pastor of St. Agnes. He was an energetic man, well liked, and had done an excellent job managing the parish. Whether he was capable of handling what he might see on Moccasin Creek was something Cork didn’t know.
Mal said, “I’ve just been thinking. If it is Charlotte Kane’s body out there, in a way it may be a blessing.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Fletcher and Glory are desperately in need of resolution, one way or another.”
“Kane’s in need of resolution in a lot of ways, you ask me.”
The priest studied him. “I gather from some of the things Rose has said to me that you and Fletcher aren’t on the best of terms.”
Cork turned onto County 5, a narrow strip of asphalt heavily potholed during the freeze and thaw at the end of winter. They were driving through the Superior National Forest, far north of Aurora. The April sun was bright and promising through the windshield of Cork’s old Bronco.
“I’m pretty sure Fletcher blames my father for the death of his own father.”
Surprise showed on the priest’s face. “How so?”
“You know my father was sheriff here a long time ago.”
“I’d heard that, yes.”
“Fletcher’s father was a dentist. When Fletcher and I were kids, his old man killed himself. Turned out my father was investigating a complaint of sexual assault lodged by one of Harold Kane’s female patients.”
“And Fletcher holds your father responsible?”
“He’s never said as much, but his actions have spoken pretty eloquently.”
They thundered over an old wooden bridge and Cork began to slow down, watching for the turnoff. He knew it would come up suddenly around a sharp bend.