“Have you seen Joe John?” Cork asked.
“No.”
“Is he back?”
“He’s around.”
“Here on the reservation?”
“In Tamarack County.”
“Do you know where?”
Wanda’s nipple slipped from the baby’s lips. The baby whimpered and she guided the searching mouth back.
“He has Paul?”
She considered a moment before answering. “Paul’s safe.”
“Why are they hiding?”
“Why does anyone hide?”
“What’s Darla afraid of?” Cork pressed. “What’s everybody so afraid of? Why won’t anyone talk?”
She looked at him, and her almond eyes were hard with contempt. “You look at my silence and Darla’s with a man’s perception. You believe silence comes only from fear. Silence often comes from strength and from wisdom.” She looked down at the baby. “That’s all I have to say to you.”
The priest, who until that moment had been silent himself, said respectfully, “Thank you, Wanda.”
“You’re welcome, Tom,” she replied without looking up.
The priest turned to leave. Cork stood still and asked, “Did Joe John have anything to do with the judge’s murder?”
Wanda stopped rocking. She glanced up from the baby. Wisdom may have been the reason for her silence, but Cork knew fear was certainly the cause of the look on her face.
“Get out,” she said.
“Come on, Cork.” The priest put his hand on Cork’s shoulder.
Cork said to the woman, “I only want to help.”
“Stay out of this, then,” she said. “The best thing you can do is just to stay the hell out of this.”
The baby began to cry, a rolling wail. Wanda closed up her blouse and stood up, cradling the baby against her. “ Shhh, Makwa, shhh.”
Tilly Favre appeared and two other women and the girl. They all shared the same hostile look as they stared at Cork.
“ Migwech, Wanda,” he said. Thanks. He turned and left.
Outside, Cork took one last look at the torn forest next to the lodge. The uprooted trees made him anxious in an inexplicable way. The money from the casino was changing everything, changing it fast and changing it forever. And who could say what change was for the best and what was not?
In the Bronco, the priest said, “What the hell was that about the judge being murdered?”
“I think he may have been,” Cork said.
Night had set in fully, and as Cork negotiated the winding road back to the mission, the high beam of his headlights blasted the woods with glare and shadow.
“Murder,” the priest said quietly.
“And somehow that boy and his father are involved.”
“Do you think Wanda is telling the truth?”
“Yes,” Cork said as the mission clearing came into sight. “But she’s not telling everything she knows.”
Rose was at the kitchen table wrapping presents. She seemed startled when Cork shoved open the back door and stepped in.
“Sorry, Rose,” he said. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” He hung up his coat. “Where is everybody?”
“They went Christmas shopping.”
Cork headed to the cookie jar on the counter, lifted Ernie’s head, and took out two chocolate chip cookies. He watched Rose, who was intent on making a bow out of a length of gold ribbon. She glanced up at him, seemed about to speak, then looked back down at her ribbon.
“What is it?” Cork asked.
“Nothing.”
“Go on.”
“It’s probably just my imagination.”
“What?”
She put the ribbon down. “I think someone’s been in the house.”
Cork had been leaning against the kitchen counter. He stood up straight. “Why do you think that?”
Rose looked a little uncertain. “It’s kind of hard to explain. It’s the little things. Like this afternoon. I went to the linen closet for a clean towel. I always put the towels and washcloths in order. Dark blue on the bottom, light blue in the middle, white on top. They were out of order.”
“One of the kids,” Cork suggested. “Probably looking for hidden Christmas presents.”
“Maybe,” Rose said.
“Anything else?”
“I took some clothes into Jo’s room. Her bed was neatly made but the corner of the spread was up as if it had been lifted so that someone could look under.”
“Maybe she just did a lousy job of making her bed this morning.”
“You know how neat Jo is.”
“Again, it could be kids looking for Christmas presents.”
Rose looked unconvinced. “There are other things, all small like that. But it gives me the strangest feeling, and I can’t shake it.”
“Has anything been taken?”
“Not that I can tell. And I’ve looked pretty thoroughly.”
“When would someone have come in?”
“The only time I can think of is when we were out shopping for the tree.”
“Did you lock the door?”
“This is Aurora, Cork. I never lock the door except at night.”
The house was dead still. The refrigerator motor clicked on with a deep, startling hum. Rose jerked in her chair.
“I’m sure it’s nothing, Rose,” Cork said. “But let’s start locking the doors just to be sure.” He locked the back door. “I’m going upstairs to clean up a little. You okay?”
“Yes.” Rose smiled. “I’m sure, like you say, it’s nothing.” She went back to work on her bow.
Cork locked the front door on his way upstairs. He checked the guest room, Anne’s and Jenny’s and Stevie’s rooms, and finally Jo’s. He stood in his wife’s bedroom, where on the surface everything looked fine. When he’d lived in the house, he’d had an intimate knowledge of how things should feel, but he’d been gone for months, and he’d lost that feel. Now he stood there a stranger.
Still, he trusted Rose.
First Sam’s Place had been violated. Then the house on Gooseberry Lane. Were they looking for something here, too? Or was this just another warning, a subtle indication that his family wasn’t safe either? If they were looking for something, what the hell could it be and why did they think he had it?
He went to the basement, took the rolled bearskin from a locked black trunk near the furnace, and brought it to his room. The skin had been left to him by Sam Winter Moon in his will. It had come from the biggest black bear Cork had ever seen, the one he’d hunted with Sam when he was fourteen. Cork undid the ropes. As he rolled out the skin, he uncovered the box he’d put there over a year ago. It was the size of a large dictionary and nearly as heavy. He lifted the lid. Inside was a Smith amp; Wesson. 38 Police Special, a belt and holster, and a box of cartridges. He’d put them away after he’d killed Arnold Stanley. He’d believed he would never use them again. But like so much about his life, it appeared he might be wrong.
He was tired, so tired he could barely lift his feet to keep walking. The pack on his back felt so heavy he could hardly carry it. Sam Winter Moon moved ahead of him silently, the Winchester held ready in his hands.
They were in an unfamiliar part of the forest, an area torn and desolate. The trees had been razed, the stumps ripped from the ground. Their roots had become claws thrust toward the evening sky. The sun was low and red, and everything in the forest was tinted with an angry hue.
Sam Winter Moon had said the bear was near. Very near. They had to be careful now. Sam moved lightly on the balls of his feet and made no sound. Every step for Cork was labored and broke the silence with a terrible crunching of dry autumn leaves.
They came to the middle of the desolate ground, to a place where stumps and logs and branches had been piled in a heap, the way loggers would leave a mess for burning. The area was full of thistle grown chest high and autumn sumac with leaves gone bloodred along the branches. Sam looked the pile over carefully. In the evening light, it looked like something humped and dying.