The old man shook his head. “With the Windigo, you cannot help, Corcoran O’Connor. I do not think you are the one to fight the Windigo.”
“Tell me this. Was the name Judge Parrant?”
The old man laughed. “That is a name I would not mind the Windigo calling, but it was not the name I heard.”
“Was it Paul LeBeau?”
“Joe John’s boy? No.” The old man put his hand on Cork’s shoulder. “It will do no good, but I will tell you the name I heard. The name the Windigo called was Harlan Lytton. And that is another name I do not mind the Windigo calling.” He walked Cork to the door. “Thank you for visiting. I am grateful for your concern over an old man.”
Cork hesitated before leaving.
“What is it?” Meloux asked.
“Sam told me once that a man knows when the Windigo is coming for him. Is that true?”
“A man who listens will hear his name.” The old man stared at him a moment. “You heard.”
“No.” Cork shook his head. “I’m sure it was just a trick of the wind.”
“A man knows the difference between the Windigo and the wind.”
“Thank you, Henry.”
The old man touched Cork’s chest with the flat of his hand. “Mangide’e,” he said. Be courageous.
Molly was waiting for him on the lake. She already had her skis on. As Cork clipped his boots onto his skis, he said, “Come on, I’ll race you back.”
She beat him by a hundred yards and at the Bronco turned to him scolding, “It’s those coffin nails you smoke.”
“No,” Cork replied as he came up to her. “I just liked the view from behind,” and he kissed her. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small gift Meloux had given him.
“What is that?” Molly asked.
“A little bit of root from a wild pea plant.”
“What for?”
“It’s supposed to be a lucky charm for a man in a dangerous situation. It’s supposed to ensure that everything turns out for the best.”
She looked at him carefully. “Cork, are you in some kind of danger?”
“Meloux seems to think so.”
“But you don’t?”
He put the charm back into his pocket. “If I am, I don’t know why.”
“The Windigo thing you told me about in there. Is that for real?”
“Just an old myth,” Cork said. He released the clips on his skis and stepped out.
“Old myth.” She glanced back toward Crow Point. “Something made that kettle jump.”
“Do you know what a tchissakan is?” He could tell by her blank expression she didn’t. “It’s an Anishinaabe magician. It also means juggler. It’s a person who can juggle the elements of our world and the world of the unseen. Sometimes a tchissakan communicates with the dead. Can actually bring forth a voice from the dead. So I’d guess a tchissakan is probably a ventriloquist as well.”
“Meloux?” she asked.
“There aren’t many, and Henry Meloux has never admitted to being one, but I’ve heard different.”
“So it was the trick of a-”
“A tchissakan. Probably.”
Molly looked unconvinced. She leaned to him and kissed him hard.
“What was that for?” he asked.
“Like the pea root,” she replied. “For luck.”
12
Christmas lights twinkled in shop windows along Center Street as Cork pulled into Aurora. With only a week to go until Christmas, the stores would be open late. Cork spotted a woman standing in front of Lenore’s Toy and Hobby Shop. Although the temperature was in the teens, she wore only a light sweater. Cork pulled into a parking space, stepped out of the Bronco, climbed over a snowbank, and walked to where the woman stood.
“Christmas shopping, Arletta?” he asked.
Arletta Schanno glanced at him and a frown came to her pretty face. “Wally?”
“Corcoran O’Connor.”
“Sheriff O’Connor.” She suddenly brightened. “I can’t seem to remember if I’ve bought gifts for the children.”
“Here,” Cork said. He took off his leather jacket and put it around her shoulders. She was shivering.
“Janie told me she wanted a game this year. Clue, I believe. I think that sounds fine, don’t you? Clarissa says she wants a Barbie doll, but she has so many already.”
Janie was thirty-five and lived in Baltimore. She worked for the post office there. Clarissa taught high school geography in St. Paul.
“How about a ride home, Arletta,” Cork offered. “I just happen to be going that way.”
“I don’t know,” Arletta Schanno said. A distressed and helpless look clouded her face.
“I’ll bet Wally would like to help with shopping, don’t you?”
“Wally’s so busy.”
“Not too busy for Christmas shopping. Come on, let’s go home.”
Cork urged her gently into the Bronco and drove to the Schannos’ house. Wally Schanno opened the door, and Cork could tell from the relief that flooded his face he’d been worried sick.
“I found her Christmas shopping,” Cork explained.
“Sheriff O’Connor was very kind, dear,” Arletta said.
Wally handed Cork back his coat. “Thanks,” he said. “You’re chilled, Arletta. Why don’t you go put on a warmer sweater.”
“I think I will.” She smiled and walked down the hallway toward the back of the house.
“I called everywhere. The housekeeper had to leave early. It was just a few minutes. Just a few goddamn minutes,” Schanno said miserably, “and she was gone.”
“Not many places to get lost in Aurora, Wally,” Cork said.
Schanno shook his head. “It only gets worse.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not your doing,” Schanno said, offering his hand to Cork. “Thanks again.”
Cork started to turn away.
“By the way,” Schanno said, “I called Doc Gunnar this morning. Sandy Parrant was absolutely right. The judge was in bad shape. Riddled with cancer. Gunnar said he only had a few months to live. Guess we’ve got a motive for suicide.”
“Did Sigurd authorize an autopsy?”
“You know how much an autopsy costs, Cork. Sigurd didn’t see anything he felt justified an autopsy.”
“How about the LeBeau boy? Any word?”
“Darla says she got a call from the boy last night. She says he’s with his father. Safe. Maybe it’s true, maybe it isn’t. It’s clear she doesn’t want me involved. Unless Darla makes an official complaint, I can’t do anything anyway.”
Arletta Schanno stepped back into the room wearing a heavy white wool sweater. She came toward Cork smiling warmly.
“Sheriff, what a nice surprise.”
Cork glanced at Schanno, who looked down.
Molly had talked him into a sandwich at her place-hummus, sprouts, and tomatoes-that he’d washed down with a beer, so he wasn’t hungry. But he still had a while to kill before his meeting with Father Tom Griffin. He drove to Sigurd Nelson’s mortuary on Pine Street. The sign on the front door directed him to ring the buzzer in back and Cork complied. In a moment Nelson opened the door, sock-footed and with bread crumbs at the corner of his mouth. He looked surprised to see Cork.
“Sorry to bother you, Sigurd. Wally said you’ve finished with the body.”
“Haven’t even started,” the coroner said.
“I mean in your official capacity.”
“Oh, that. Wasn’t much to finish.” He stepped back. “Come on in before this house gets full of winter.”
They stood in a long hallway at the back of the mortuary. The place was actually a house, a beautiful old two-story affair, one of the nicest in Aurora. The first floor was for business. A showroom up front displaying coffins, to one side a large chapel for memorial services. In back a business office. Over his years in Aurora, Cork had been to the chapel many times. The time he most remembered his father had been there, too, laid out in one of Sigurd Nelson’s coffins, a strong, practical man gone to rest in a box lined with satin.
“Who is it, dear?” Grace Nelson, called from upstairs. The second floor of the house was the living area for the mortician and his wife.
“Cork O’Connor, Gracie.”
“Your dinner’s getting cold,” she warned him gently.