Schanno’s anger had drained away. His already gaunt face seemed to have caved in. He closed his eyes.
Cork walked to him and leaned close. “But the judge had you by the balls, didn’t he, Wally? You and the others. Maybe you wouldn’t go to jail over it, but if people knew about you and GameTech, an otherwise sterling reputation would be sorely tarnished. A hard way for a man to end his career, eh, Wally?” Cork stood upright. “The night Blackwater shot you, he wasn’t after me. He was after that file you showed me. He was at the judge’s because it was the judge who had been blackmailing him, Wally. And you were there for the same reason, weren’t you? Looking for anything that might implicate you in all this. It didn’t have anything to do with trying to get the truth. Why in God’s name would you ever let yourself get into that kind of bind?”
Schanno turned his head, following the music of Arletta’s singing in the back room. “She’ll only get worse,” he said quietly. “Eventually she’ll require constant care. On a sheriff’s salary, all I could afford is some damn nursing home or institution. I figured the money would let me keep her here somehow, where she’s been happy. Where we’ve been happy.” He listened a minute more, then looked back at Cork. “I couldn’t stand the thought of her somewhere where no one really cared. Do you understand?”
Sure, he understood. But people were dead. And that made a difference. He walked back to the Christmas tree.
“Did the judge ever ask anything of you?” Cork said.
“What do you mean?”
“Anything you thought about twice, anything that ran against your grain?”
“You mean illegal?” Schanno sounded incensed at the idea.
“For God sake, Wally, the man was giving you money under the table. He wasn’t Santa Claus.”
“No,” Wally said, anger again putting a hard edge to his voice.
“What about Joe John LeBeau?”
“What about him?”
“How carefully did you investigate his disappearance?”
“Joe John was a man with a history of drinking and running off. His truck reeked of whiskey. I didn’t spend much time on it at all. Would you?” His eyes narrowed on Cork. “Why?”
Cork went to his coat hanging in the closet. He took out the prints he’d made at Lytton’s. “Take a look at these.”
Schanno lifted his reading glasses from where he’d set them on the gold-leafed Bible in his lap and slipped them on. He spent a couple of minutes looking carefully at the photographs. Finally he turned his face up toward Cork. He looked broken. “I didn’t know. I swear to you, Cork, I didn’t know.”
“I’ll ask again, Wally. Those files you burned. Did you do it to cover your own ass? Did you do it to cover for someone else?”
“No,” Schanno insisted earnestly. “I did it because what was in those files would only bring shame to a lot of decent people. God as my witness, nothing I burned was anything like this.” He nodded toward the photos. “I guess you found the negatives. I’d’ve looked for them myself except for this bum leg. Where in heaven’s name did you find them?”
“About as far from heaven as you can get, Wally.” He reached for the prints; Schanno seemed reluctant to give them over.
“I should keep them,” he said.
“What for?”
“I’ll need to reopen Joe John’s case.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Cork pulled the prints away.
“What are you going to do, Cork?”
“I’ll know that when I’ve finally dug down to the bottom of this whole pile of shit.”
“Maybe it all went down just like it seems,” Schanno said with faint hope. “Blackwater really did kill the judge and Lytton because of blackmail.”
“That theory almost ties everything together nicely, but not quite.”
“What’s left?”
“Two things. First, the judge had a partner. Hell Hanover. I’m pretty sure GameTech is the source of the money the brigade’s been getting. I’ve got documents and photographs I’ll turn over to you later. I don’t care about you and GameTech, Wally. But I want the brigade taken care of.”
“And the other thing?”
“The boy,” Cork said. “Paul LeBeau. He saw something at the judge’s house that scared him into hiding. I want to know what.”
“You’ll have to find him first. I couldn’t.”
“I think I know who can.” Cork stood a moment, looking down at Schanno who seemed to have shriveled in just the few minutes that Cork had been there.
“Did I really do anything so wrong?” Schanno asked, his face sunk deep into hopelessness.
“You stopped looking for the truth, Wally. But I’d guess that’s a sin we’ve all been guilty of.” He turned toward the entryway. “I’ll be in touch.”
He paused at the front door before leaving. He listened to Arletta still singing somewhere in a back room. There was a joyfulness in her voice that carried beautifully the feel of what the season was supposed to be all about. Cork opened the door and stepped outside wondering if Arletta had any idea what awaited her beyond that season.
38
Molly stepped out the back door of the Pinewood Broiler. Her skis and poles stood propped against the wall beside the Dumpster. She lifted them, cradled the skis on her shoulder, and hiked three blocks to the lake.
Sunlight exploded out of a sky as blue as she’d ever seen. The lake was empty, not even a snowmobile breaking the stillness. Far out stood the ice shanties, clustered here and there like isolated little communities. They reminded her of the deserted towns in westerns when all the cowardly citizens hid themselves just before the outlaws rode in.
She skied north, skirting the open water behind the brewery, where Russell Blackwater had drowned after trying to shoot Cork. Thank you, she found herself saying, with a little upward cast of her eyes, for keeping Cork safe. She passed North Point, where the judge had been found dead and Sheriff Wally Schanno had been wounded. She knew that somehow it was all tied to the killing of Joe John LeBeau. Terrible events, for sure, but on that glorious afternoon, with the sun at her back and the vast pure white of the lake all her own, she didn’t want to dwell on tragedy. She felt no guilt about that at all. In fact, she wasn’t sure if she’d ever felt better.
Halfway home she stopped and turned back. Leaning on her poles, she stared toward Aurora, which was mostly a distant feathering of chimney smoke. She had never loved the town, never felt a sense of belonging there. Years before when she’d run away, she’d left nothing behind her. After her father died, she’d returned only to take care of business, with the idea of selling the old resort, which she put immediately on the market. No one made an offer. The big cabin was run-down and the smaller ones fallen into even greater ruin. She took the job at the Pinewood Broiler and began to fix up the big cabin, at first with no greater intention than to ensure the plumbing worked reliably and she could eat a meal at the kitchen table without a chair leg snapping under her. She worked alone, learning as she went. The more she accomplished, the more she planned. She refinished the kitchen table. She tuck-pointed the fireplace chimney and repaired the mantel. She replaced the copper tubing to all the faucets so the water flowed hard and fast.
In her second summer, she received an offer. An architect from the Twin Cities wanted to buy the big cabin, gut it, and fashion it to his own taste. The offer was good money. But in the end she turned it down and took the place off the market.
She smiled as she looked back at Aurora. It wasn’t heaven, not by a long stretch, but she had something there that no other place offered her. She had history, which some people might call roots, and she had a future now.
She stopped at the sauna and started a fire in the stove. She was hoping that Cork might have finished his business and come back already, but when she reached the cabin, Cork’s Bronco wasn’t there. She leaned her skis and poles beside the back door and stepped into the kitchen. The cabin felt empty. She shook off her disappointment and decided to go ahead and sauna alone. After that, she’d come back and clear a space for the Christmas tree.