“I called to find out how Paul’s doing.”
“I haven’t seen Paul since he disappeared last Thursday.”
Cork thought about the groceries he’d seen her buy and was certain she was lying.
“What about Joe John? Hear anything from him?”
“No.”
Simple answer. Nothing more offered than what he’d asked. How much was she hiding? Cork wondered, and why? Why now?
“How are things there at the casino? I mean, considering Russell and all.”
“Confusing,” Darla said. “I have to go.”
“Sure. I understand. I was just concerned.”
Darla hung up without thanking him for his concern. Although he couldn’t see her, he’d have been willing to bet she dropped that phone as if it were a scorpion about to sting.
“Cork?”
Wally Schanno looked surprised. He tried to get up from his desk chair, but Cork waved him back down.
“Answer me a question, Wally. Those files, did you dust them for prints?”
“Why?”
“To see if anyone besides Lytton might have handled them.”
“What difference would it make? I have what I need.”
Cork glanced around the office. The white filing cabinet was no longer there.
“You didn’t do it, Wally. You didn’t really burn them.”
“There’s nothing left but ashes in the incinerator out back.” Schanno sat back, looking satisfied with himself.
“Jesus Christ. I don’t believe it.”
“It was your idea,” he reminded Cork. “Like you said, a Pandora’s box. The things in there could have hurt a lot of good people if they ever came to light.” He lifted a manila folder from his desk and waved it at Cork. “I have everything I need right here. Blackwater’s file. Why hold onto anything else? Burn it. You said so yourself.”
“Christ, Wally, I can say anything I goddamn well please. I’m not the sheriff. Great police work.”
“I suppose you’d have done it differently,” Schanno said angrily.
“Goddamn right I would.”
“If you’re so goddamn good at it,” Schanno shouted, “why am I the one doing the job?”
Cork planted his hands on Schanno’s desk and leaned close to Schanno’s red face. “Did you have a file in there, Wally? Is that the real reason you were so quick to torch everything?”
Schanno started to reply, but the words died on his lips and he looked down.
“I guess I have my answer,” Cork said, and turned away.
Ellie Gruber escorted Cork back to the office of Father Tom Griffin. The office door was closed and she knocked lightly. A moment later, the priest opened the door.
“Cork.” He smiled. “Come in, come in. Thank you, Mrs. Gruber.” He ushered Cork in and cleared a chair. “Have a seat.” The priest sat on the edge of his cluttered desk. “So, change your mind about wanting to talk?”
“Not about what you think. But I do want to talk.”
“Fire away.”
“You’re a priest.”
“Glad you noticed.” Tom Griffin grinned.
“People-a lot of people-would trust you with something they couldn’t confide to anyone else.”
“I suppose so.”
“Have you talked with Darla LeBeau lately?”
“Sure.”
“And she’s concerned about her son?”
The priest gave Cork a slightly bewildered look. “Of course. Wouldn’t you be?”
“But Paul’s with Joe John, isn’t he? And Joe John loves him.”
“I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”
Cork pulled out his cigarettes. “Want one?”
The priest declined with a shake of his head. He glanced at his desk and offered Cork a heavy ceramic mug as an ashtray. Cork lit up. He inhaled deeply and felt a stab of pain from his bruised ribs.
“You okay?” Tom Griffin asked.
“Got any aspirin?”
“Sure.”
The priest opened his desk drawer and took out a half-full bottle of aspirin. He tossed the bottle to Cork. “Let me get some water.”
“Don’t bother.” Cork tapped out a couple tablets and swallowed them.
“What about Paul LeBeau?” the priest pressed him.
“Darla knows where he is,” Cork said.
“That seems like a huge assumption.”
“Is it? You talk with her every day. You tell me. Is she afraid?”
“Yes,” the priest admitted.
“Do you know why?”
“Her son.” The priest shrugged as if it were obvious.
“Let me ask you something else. Have you seen Joe John?”
The priest gave a definite shake of his head. “No.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“If I knew that, wouldn’t I know where Paul is? Look, Cork, playing twenty questions won’t get you far. What is it you really want from me?”
“I want you to do me a favor. I want you to tell Darla I’m interested in what she’s afraid of, what the boy’s afraid of. Hell, what Joe John and everybody else is afraid of, too, for that matter. I’m not a cop anymore, so nothing I’m told is official.”
There was a knock at the door, soft, the light tap of Mrs. Gruber.
“Just a moment!” the priest called. His good eye bored into Cork. “Why should they trust you?”
“Because that boy can’t hide forever. And sooner or later they’re going to have to trust somebody who knows how to protect him.”
“From what?”
“You tell me.” Cork ground his cigarette out in the bottom of the mug. He stood up to leave and handed the mug back to the priest. “Talk to them, then let me know. I can help, believe me.”
The priest walked him to the door and opened it. Ellie Gruber stood in the hallway with Wanda Manydeeds.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Father,” Mrs. Gruber said, “but she said it was urgent.”
Wanda Manydeed’s dark eyes shot past the priest to where Cork stood at his back. “What’s he doing here?”
“It’s all right,” Father Tom Griffin assured her. “We were just finishing.”
In all the years Cork had known Wanda Manydeeds, he’d seldom seen those hard chestnut eyes clear of suspicion. Wanda looked at the world with chronic distrust. It was as if she’d been born without innocence, and although she had suffered much in her life, she’d never suffered from a mistake caused by naпvetй.
“Going to discuss a joint service for Russell Blackwater?”
“That’s right.” The priest spoke for them both.
“Too bad Russell didn’t have the forewarning his father did. You both could have been there to expedite his passage over. But come to think of it, he did. He knew the Windigo had called his name. He just didn’t believe it.”
Wanda Manydeeds finally addressed Cork. “Word is you heard the Windigo, too.”
“I did.” He smiled coldly. “The difference is I’m ready for the son of a bitch.” He nodded to them both in parting. “ ’Night.”
30
The geese weren’t there. Cork looked across the dark, empty water and listened in vain. The grain lay in the snow by the bucket, untouched. He figured they were gone for good.
In the cabin, there was a message on his answering machine. Molly. “Call me,” she said.
He kicked the heat up and reminded himself that tomorrow he’d get the window fixed. His ribs felt like hell, but his stitched hand seemed okay. He opened a can of Hormel chili, heated it up, grated a little cheese over it, ate the chili with saltines. After he’d cleared the dishes, he made a pot of coffee and sat down at the old table Sam Winter Moon had made from birch. He set Jo’s folder in front of him. For a long time he simply sipped his coffee and stared at the blood-crusted, unopened folder. He wanted to believe that what the photographs captured didn’t matter now. Old infidelity. But it did. The pictures chronicled more than Jo’s unfaithfulness. They were a testament to the ridiculous nature of the trust people placed in one another. Marriage was only one example. There were others. Elections. The ministry. Medicine. The bottom line was that people who leaned too heavily on someone else were setting themselves up for a terrible fall, and they had no one to blame in the end but themselves for the hurt they suffered. Cork had learned the hard way. And he vowed it would not happen again.