“I could’ve told you that.”
Cork stared at her, bewildered.
“You know, Cork, for a smart man you’re pretty stupid sometimes.”
“You knew?”
“I suspected.”
Cork felt fuzzy and a little numb, as if something were blocking the flow of blood to his brain. “How?”
“A feeling from the things you told me.”
“Christ, I feel like such a fool.”
“You’re not the first.” She considered him a moment, then put down the yogurt. “Would you like some tea?”
“Do you still have that whiskey?”
“Ginseng’ll be better for you.” She went to the cupboard. “Who is he?”
“Sandy Parrant.”
“Is she planning on going with him to Washington?”
“She’d never do that,” Cork said. “She’d never take the kids away.”
Molly shrugged. “Love makes people do strange things. I ought to know.”
Cork turned around and stared out the window. Snow was still falling, still very lightly. It would have been lovely if he hadn’t felt so bad.
“I heard about Harlan Lytton,” Molly said. She moved to the stove for the kettle. “It didn’t sound pretty.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Any idea who killed him?”
“Not yet.” He watched her familiar movements, but she was a distant figure now, on the far side of a chasm he’d created. “I don’t think I’ll stay for the tea.”
“Cork,” she said quickly as he turned to the door. “I didn’t say anything about Jo because I didn’t want you to think I was trying to turn you against her. I didn’t want you to think I was just some sort of desperate husband-stealing bitch.”
“I would never think that about you. You were the best thing in my life, Molly.”
She fisted her hand on her hip and shot back, “Somehow I missed that part in our discussion yesterday.”
“Yesterday wasn’t about you. I hoped I could save my children from-I don’t know-the inevitable.”
“Children survive a lot, Cork. You and I both know that.”
“I guess we do.”
They fell quiet. Cork wanted to say he loved her. He wanted to ask her to forgive him. He wanted to lay his head against her breast and weep into her warm flesh and feel as connected to someone as he’d felt the night the grief passed through him when he hunted the big bear with Sam Winter Moon.
Molly crossed her arms and seemed to read his thoughts. “I told you there wasn’t a swinging door here, Cork. I meant it.”
“I understand.”
“I don’t think you do. You hurt me. You were ready to cut me out of your life like I was a rotten spot on an otherwise perfect apple.”
He looked at the floor. “I’ve got no apple now. Only applesauce.”
He glanced at her face. If there was a smile anywhere near, she hid it well.
“You’ve always made me laugh, Cork. That’s not what I want now.”
“What do you want?”
“To feel needed. To feel that you need me as much as you need air to breathe. I’m worth that.” She pointed toward the cold outside. “Go on. Take some time to think about it.”
He didn’t need any time. Already he couldn’t breathe. But he turned the knob anyway, because it was what Molly wanted, and he walked out the door.
25
In the language of the Anishinaabe, December was called Manidoo-Gizisoons. The month of small spirits.
It was late afternoon by the time he entered the limits of Aurora. December 20. One day away from the shortest, darkest day of the year. The forecast was for continued snow, heavier during the evening, additional accumulations of up to three inches by morning.
Cork wished there were a forecast for his spirit. He felt the dark and the cold penetrating deep in him. He wondered when there would be warmth again, when there would be light. He also wondered if his ribs would ever stop hurting.
He parked in front of Sam’s Place and stood a moment looking through falling snow at the geese who were bound to their small world of open water. In a strange way, he figured he knew what that was like. To have the world close down around you. He took his keys and moved to the door. It was already unlocked. He was careful not to look at the windows and wondered if even now he was being watched. He turned away casually, as if he’d changed his mind naturally, and he walked to the side of the Quonset hut; then he edged to the kitchen window that was covered with cardboard. He listened for a minute. Inside, just a couple of feet from his head, a cupboard door squeaked.
They’d looked for something after the judge was killed. Now Lytton was dead. Were they looking this time for something Lytton had? He tried to think of some plan, some way of trapping them. Then he heard glass shatter inside.
The sound of the breaking broke something in Cork. It was like the ripping of a membrane, a thin sheathing that had contained his outrage and his anger. His whole body drew taut and a bitter taste flooded his mouth. His home was being violated again. His whole life was being violated. He headed to the Bronco, took out the tire iron, and stepped to the front door. He took a deep, painful breath, clenched his teeth, kicked open the door, and rushed them.
Jenny crouched in the kitchen near the sink, picking up pieces of a broken glass. She cried out when Cork came at her, and she fell back, holding her arms up to protect herself. Cork stood over her with the tire iron raised.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, hoarse with the rage that still ran in his blood and with the pain that knifed at him from his ribs.
“I… I…” she stammered. Her eyes were full of terror. “I just wanted to help clean up.”
Cork lowered the iron and held his side.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m sorry I scared you. You had me scared, too.”
He glanced around. The place had been picked up. Everything was in order. Dishes sat dripping in the rack by the sink. White suds clung to Jenny’s hands.
“Are you all right, Dad?” she asked, seeing how he held himself.
“Fine. Here, let me help you.” He knelt carefully and picked up the last pieces of the broken water glass and dropped them into the garbage can under the sink. “The place looks great. You’ve been here awhile.”
She dried her hands on a dish towel. “I heard about the man who was killed last night. I’m scared for you, Dad.”
“There’s no reason to be, Jenny.”
She stared at him. She had her mother’s blue eyes and, normally, her mother’s calm, self-assuredness reflected in them. But her eyes were afraid now.
“Somebody killed him,” she pointed out. “And shot at you.”
That was a point Cork couldn’t argue. Still, he smiled reassuringly. “I’m sure I’m safe.”
Jenny leaned against the counter, still watching him with her frightened blue eyes. “What’s a Windigo?”
“Where’d you hear about that?”
“Around. What is it?”
“A story. That’s all it is. Just a story.”
Jenny finally looked down, studying her hands that were raw and red from the hot dishwater. “I want to stay here with you.”
“Here?” He reached out and held her. “I’m flattered, honey, but I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“For one thing, I’m not the cook your aunt Rose is. I’m used to eating my own bad cooking, but I wouldn’t take the chance of poisoning you.”
“I’m serious.”
“Okay. Let’s sit down.” He nodded toward the two chairs at the small kitchen table. He saw that Jenny had made a fruit bowl as a centerpiece. Cork had always kept the salt and pepper shakers there. He liked the colorful touch of the fruit. “I’ll level with you,” he said, taking her hands in his. “I’m concerned about Stevie and Anne. Things are rough enough for them with me gone. They look to you for a lot.”
“I don’t care.”
“I know they’re not your responsibility. But I need your help, Jenny. I need you to stay with your mom, to work to keep things together as much as you can. It’s probably not a fair thing to ask, but I’m asking.”
Her eyes were no longer afraid, but they seemed full of hurt. And their hurt pained him deeply.