The St. Agnes Boy Scouts had been given a corner of the Super Valu parking lot to sell their Christmas trees. Cork’s family spread out and called out their finds to one another. Finally they settled on a big white pine with needles soft as cat fur. Cork hauled it to the trailer to pay, and Arne Bjorkson, the scoutmaster, asked if he wanted a new cut on the trunk. Just at that moment, Cork caught sight of Darla LeBeau coming out of the supermarket with a cart full of groceries.
“Go ahead,” he said to Arne. “I’ll be right back.” He jogged away. “Darla!” he called after her.
She was clearly not excited to see him.
“What do you want?” she asked as she unloaded the sacks into her station wagon.
“I just wanted to ask about Paul.” He wheezed, trying to catch his breath, swearing silently to quit smoking. “And Joe John. I’m worried.”
“I’m Paul’s mother. And Joe John’s wife. I’ll worry.” She shoved a sack onto the backseat, pushed the cart away fiercely, and slid into the driver’s seat.
“Is something wrong, Darla?” Cork put a hand on her arm. “Is Paul in any danger?”
“I have to go,” she said. She pulled her arm away and closed the door.
Cork leaned his face close to the window, so that when he spoke, his breath fogged the glass. “I’m Joe John’s friend. I only want to help.”
She was intent on jamming the key into the ignition and didn’t answer. She started the engine. Her tires spit snow and gravel as she drove away.
Cork stared after her and thought about some of the items he’d seen in the grocery sacks. Cheerios, Pop-Tarts, peanut butter, Fig Newtons, potato chips, Slim Jims. It was possible Darla LeBeau ate these things. But Cork thought they would appeal a great deal more to a hungry teenager.
They moved the sofa into the living room and set the tree in front of the big window that faced the street. Cork hauled the boxes of Christmas decorations up from the basement. Stevie helped him check the lights while Rose and Anne and Jenny put hooks on all the bulbs. Jo sorted through the albums in the record cabinet and pulled out Christmas music and put it on to play.
For a long time Cork had felt lost, but there was something about the tradition of decorating the tree that brought him home. When he unpacked the small box that held the last of the delicate blue bulbs from the first Christmas after he and Jo were married, Jo smiled, and it made him happy. Together they placed the bulbs on the tree, then the children tossed on the icicles. When it was done, they plugged in the lights and stepped back and all of them were silent. The bulbs blinked and the tinsel and garland sparkled, and although it was very much like every tree they’d ever had, this one felt special. Cork moved close to Jo and took a chance. He put his arm about her waist. She seemed a little startled, but didn’t stop him. Rose began to sing along with Andy Williams on the stereo, lending her fine soprano to “Joy to the World.” Pretty soon they all joined in. It felt like old times, almost as if nothing had ever happened to shatter their happiness.
The telephone rang. Rose answered. “It’s for you, Cork,” she said.
Cork took the phone. “Yes?” He nodded and said, “Uh-huh,” a couple of times; then, “Your office?” He glanced into the living room, where the others had begun to pack up the ornament boxes. “I’ll be there,” he promised, and hung up. He went back to the living room. “I have to go.”
“Will you be back for dinner?” Rose asked.
“I’ll call and let you know.”
“Do you have to go?” Anne moaned.
Cork put his hand on her red hair. “It’s important.” He looked once more at the tree. “It’s sure a beauty.”
Anne smiled and said, “It’s the best.”
Wally Schanno sat at the desk Cork had occupied for seven years. Cork hadn’t set foot in the jail since he’d left office, and he felt strange walking into this room that had been so much a part of his own life and finding another man so comfortable in his place. Cork had hung framed prints on the walls, Matisse and Renoir, reproductions of paintings he’d seen and appreciated in the Art Institute in Chicago. He liked to think that the law and the rest of a civilized society were integrated. Schanno had removed the paintings and put up photographs of himself in a boat and on a pier proudly holding up big muskies. Among the items on the three-shelf bookcase behind Schanno was a simple black Bible. Cork could see from the tattered corners of the cover that it was often read. The end of a slender, fabric bookmark, forked like a serpent’s tongue, jutted from the pages near the middle.
“Thanks for coming, Cork,” Schanno said. He waved toward the chair on the other side of his desk. “Have a seat.”
Cork sat down.
Schanno held a rubber band in his hands and played with it while he talked. “I heard you were home. That’s why I called there.”
“What was so important?” Cork asked.
“Sigurd called me. He said you’d had a look at the judge’s body. Why?”
“Curiosity.” Cork sat back and watched Schanno’s fingers fidget with the rubber band.
“Was your curiosity satisfied?”
“I wouldn’t say that, no.”
Schanno dropped the rubber band. He got up and went to a big metal thermos sitting on the windowsill. “Coffee?” he asked.
Cork declined. He watched Schanno pour steaming coffee into the thermos cup. It was like Schanno, that big thermos. In his suspenders and khakis, he looked just like the kind of man who’d carry a lunch bucket to work. Schanno took a big gulp of coffee and his throat drew taut against the heat.
“Tell me about it,” he said.
“Sigurd does a fine job of making a corpse look good for an open casket, but he doesn’t know squat about forensic medicine. Why should he?”
Schanno drank some more coffee and waited.
“Dorsal lividity,” Cork explained. “Blood settled along the back of the judge’s body after he died. Back of his arms and legs, buttocks. Nothing in front along the ribs, stomach, pelvis. He’d been lying on his back quite a while. But I found him on his stomach.”
“You point this out to Sigurd?”
“Sigurd wouldn’t have cared. Much simpler for him and everybody if the judge killed himself and that’s that.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“Because the truth is, I wouldn’t care much either except for what it might mean about the boy.”
Schanno traded his coffee cup for the rubber band. He toyed with the band for a while. “What does it mean?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe Paul saw something he shouldn’t have, maybe something that scared him. In any case, I think it sent him into hiding.”
“He’s not hiding. He’s with Joe John.”
“Where?”
“If I had to make a guess, I’d say somewhere on the reservation. I sent a man out yesterday to talk to Joe John’s sister, Wanda Manydeeds. She wouldn’t say boo.” Schanno lifted his thermos as if to pour himself some more coffee, but he paused and said, “Look, if you’re so worried about Paul LeBeau, why don’t you have a talk with Wanda? Maybe you can get more out of her than my man could. I’d just as soon be sure about the boy.”
“What makes you think she’ll talk to me?”
“Your blood,” Schanno said honestly. “You got a little Ojibwe running through you. That and the fact you don’t wear a badge anymore. What do you say?”
“All right. And maybe you should have a look at the judge’s body while I’m out there.”
A pinched look crossed Schanno’s face, as if his underwear had suddenly shrunk a couple sizes. “Can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Sigurd already cremated it. Listen, Cork, next time you think you’ve found something, don’t wait to tell me, okay?”
It was his grandmother Dilsey, who’d never been farther from Aurora and the Iron Lake Reservation than the Twin Cities, who had told him the story of how the Anishinaabe came to be a Great Lakes people.
Long ago, the First People (for this was what the word Anishinaabe meant) had lived on the shores of the great salt water far to the east. They were happy there, hunting and fishing and living in peace with their brothers. Gitchie Manitou was good to them and showed his favor by lifting the Megis, a giant seashell, above the water. The rays of the sun reflected off the shiny surface of the shell, giving the Anishinaabe light and health and wisdom.