“That was uncalled for, damn you, Cork! I ought to have your sorry carcass thrown in jail.”
Schanno shoved the pictures back into Parrant’s folder and sat on the file cabinet. He squeezed his eyes shut a moment and held his leg. He breathed deeply, easing out the pain. When he opened his eyes again and looked at Cork, all the euphoria was gone. “Get outta here before I have you arrested.”
Cork took his leather jacket from the coat tree and reached for the doorknob.
“Cork?” Schanno’s voice was ragged with irritation and pain. He’d moved himself onto his crutches and was leaning on them heavily. “What would you do if you were me?”
“I’d be tempted to burn them,” Cork answered honestly. “Save myself the worry over whose lives are ruined by what might come to light. But then, I’m not the sheriff, Wally, so I’m not even going to think about that.”
He left Schanno’s office and checked with the desk officer on his way out. No one had found his revolver.
28
Maiden Cove was on reservation land just west of the state forest. Formed by a rugged arm of dark gray rock that nearly cut off the small inlet from the rest of the lake, accessible only by water and an unmarked inland trail, the cove was nearly invisible to those who did not know where to look. It had always been a special place in Cork’s thinking. Before his father was killed, they had often canoed in with Sam Winter Moon and camped there. Cork loved to jump off the gray rock that jutted up a dozen feet above the water. The cove was surprisingly deep. He had wonderful memories of the cool, still water in summer and of swimming deep among the big rocks on the bottom, where the refracted sunlight turned everything a rich greengold. Life seemed simple then-the quiet of the woods and lake, a welcoming campfire, and the two men he loved most still alive.
That’s what Cork wanted. Everything simple again.
With an ice spud he chipped a hole eight inches wide through ice that was more than half a foot thick. He cleared the ice chunks from the water with a plastic skimmer, then dropped a little vegetable oil onto the surface to keep the water from refreezing quickly. On a small Russian spoon, he put a grub, then sank it with a two-pound test line. He settled himself on a folding canvas chair. Holding his jigging rod in one hand, he reached into the deep pocket of his coat and brought out a bottle of peppermint schnapps.
He opened the bottle, but before he had a chance to take a drink, the grind of a snowmobile engine came from a long way off. He hoped it would move on, pass the cove by. In a few minutes, all the rocks and trees rattled with the incessant whine of the little engine. Cork watched the snowmobile shoot through the narrow opening, swing toward him, and come to a stop a few yards away. It was an old machine. The oldest Cork knew of in Tamarack County. St. Kawasaki dismounted, lifted his goggles, and walked toward Cork.
“What are you doing here?” Cork asked, not in a friendly way.
“I thought you might need someone to talk to.” He adjusted the black patch over his eye.
“How’d you find me?”
“Jo told me this was your favorite spot. I took a chance.”
Cork glanced behind him at the old Kawasaki. “I thought that machine was dead.”
The priest smiled and shrugged. “That’s why I call it Lazarus.” He saw the bottle in Cork’s hand. “Mind if I take a shot of that? It’s a long, cold way out here.”
Cork handed him the schnapps. The priest took a swallow and gave the bottle back.
“Nice place,” Tom Griffin said, surveying the cove. “I wasn’t sure if I could find it. Are they biting?”
“Not yet.” Cork jigged the line, drawing the baited spoon upward several times, then he let it settle back.
“What are you fishing for?” the priest asked.
“What are you?” Cork replied.
St. Kawasaki smiled. “I thought you might need to talk.”
“Nothing to talk about. It’s all settled. Bullets and lawyers, between them they’ve got a monopoly on the resolution of conflict.” Cork took a long drink of schnapps, then handed the bottle back to the priest.
“If everything’s settled, what harm can a little talking do?”
“What good can it do?” Cork pulled out his Lucky Strikes, took off his gloves, and lit a cigarette. “Let me ask you a question.”
“Shoot.”
“Do you believe in God?”
St. Kawasaki looked amused. “Hell of a question to ask a priest.”
Cork carefully watched the end of his rod, a spring device that acted as a bobber. It hadn’t moved at all in the time he’d been there. “I’m asking because I’ve been a cop most of my life, but I don’t believe in justice anymore. I just wondered if the same was true in your work.”
“Why wouldn’t it be? Priests are only human. We question, doubt, even grow a little despondent at times because what the world shoves at us doesn’t seem to bear much mark of the divine.” The priest held the bottle toward the gray sky and squinted his one eye, as if making some kind of judgment about the schnapps. “But in the end I always come back to believing.”
“Why? Why believe in something that continues to let you down?”
“Like justice, eh?” The priest drank and made a satisfied sound. “Sure hits the spot, Cork.” He looked down where Cork sat on the folding canvas chair. “Everything disappoints us sometimes. Everybody disappoints us. Men let women down, women let men down, ideals don’t hold water. And God doesn’t seem to give a damn. I can’t speak for God, Cork, but I’ll tell you what I think. I think we expect too much. Simple as that. And the only thing that lets us down is our own expectation. I used to pray to God for an easy life. Now I pray to be a strong person.”
“I’m glad you found a prayer that works,” Cork said. “Think you can find your way back to town?”
“Cork,” the priest went on in a frank tone, “I don’t know if anybody’s told you this, but you look like hell.”
“I don’t care, okay? Look, why don’t you just jump back on Lazarus there and leave me the hell alone.”
“In my experience, only dead men don’t care.”
“Then shake the hand of a ghost, Father.”
Cork shoved his hand up at the priest, who merely put the bottle of schnapps in it.
“I won’t try to argue you out of this pit you’ve climbed into, Cork. But if you want to talk to someone-when you need to talk to someone-I’m willing to listen.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.” Cork turned back toward the hole in the ice.
The priest returned to Lazarus, kicked the old machine over, and guided it out of the cove. Cork listened until the sound of it was finally lost in the direction of Aurora.
He finished his cigarette and threw the butt in the snow. He considered finishing the schnapps. Instead, he heaved the bottle as far as he could.
Think, he told himself. Think like you’ve trained yourself to think. Think like a goddamn cop.
Wally Schanno was satisfied. Russell Blackwater had done it all. Embezzled. Killed Lytton. Then tried to kill him and Cork, too. It worked. It was a safe assumption. But Cork felt it was wrong. It was too easy an answer, had come right out of the blue, handed over by Sigurd Nelson in the form of a small, silver key that had been conveniently overlooked the night Lytton died.
He hauled up his line. Not even a nibble. Well, some days were like that. He threw his gear into the back of the Bronco. As he came around to the driver’s side, he saw a huge black oil stain in the snow where the priest had parked the snowmobile.
Lazarus was running again, but as always, running on borrowed time.
29
Cork called the casino from Sam’s Place.
“Give me Darla LeBeau,” he said.
After half a minute, Darla’s voice, with a forced cheerleader sweetness, floated over the line. “This is Darla. How may I help you?”
“Corcoran O’Connor, Darla. How are you?”
There was a pause that Cork interpreted as a wary silence. Then Darla replied, “I’m fine.”