You will share the same fire.
You will hang your garments together.
You will help one another.
You will walk the same trail.
You will look after one another.
Be kind to one another.
Be kind to your children.
He hadn’t always been careful to abide by these simple instructions. But a man could change, and watching his son crawl back into his dreaming, Cork vowed-as he did almost every morning-to work at being a better man.
By the time Cork finally left Stevie to his dreaming, morning sunlight fired the curtains over the window at the end of the hallway. Cork thought of returning to bed for a little while, but chose instead to head to the bathroom, where he showered, shaved, splashed on aftershave, then looked himself over carefully in the bathroom mirror.
• • •
Corcoran Liam O’Connor was forty-seven years old. Part Irish, part Ojibwe Anishinaabe, he stood five feet eleven inches tall, weighed one hundred seventy-five pounds, and had brown eyes, thinning red-brown hair, and slightly crooked teeth. He suffered from mild rosacea that he treated with prescription ointment. In wet weather, his left shoulder-twice dislocated-was prone to an arthritic aching. He did not consider himself a handsome man, but there were those, apparently, who found him so. All in all, what stared back at him from the bathroom mirror was the face of a man who’d struggled to be happy and believed himself to be almost there.
He returned to his bedroom, a towel about his waist. The radio alarm had gone off and WIRR out of Buhl was playing Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. Cork went to the dresser, pulled open a drawer, and took out a pair of black silk boxers.
Jo stirred. She took a deep breath but kept her eyes closed. When she spoke to him, the words seemed to come reluctantly and from a distant place.
“Stevie all right?”
“He’s fine.”
“Another fire’s started. Up in the Boundary Waters near Saganaga Lake.” She yawned. “I just heard it on the news.”
“Oh?”
“Get this. The guy who started it is a lobbyist for the tobacco industry. He was shooting off fireworks. In the Boundary Waters-can you believe it?”
“I hope they fine his ass big time,” Cork said.
“He’s a tobacco lawyer. He can pay from his pocket money.” The room was quiet. Bogart started barking again down the block. “I can feel you watching me.”
“What else?”
“I smell Old Spice.”
“Anything else?”
“If I had to guess, I’d say you’ve put on your black silk boxers.”
“What a detective you would have made.” He sat on the bed, leaned down, and kissed her shoulder.
“I was dreaming before the radio came on.” She rolled toward him and opened her eyes.
“What?”
“We were trying to fly, you and I. A plane we had to pedal. But somehow we couldn’t quite get it off the ground.”
Cork reached out and brushed a white-blond strand of hair from her cheek.
She reached up and drifted her hand down his chest. “You smell good.”
“Only Old Spice. You have pedestrian tastes.”
“And, my, aren’t you lucky.”
He bent to her lips. She let him kiss her but kept her mouth closed. “I’m all stale. Give me five minutes.” She slid from the bed. She wore a gray tank top and white cotton underwear, her usual sleep attire. “Don’t start anything without me.” She smiled coyly as she went out the door.
Cork drew back the covers, straightened the bottom sheet, fluffed the pillows, and lay down to wait. The bedroom window was open. Bogart had ceased his barking and the only sound now was the call of a mourning dove perched in the big maple in the front yard. Aurora, Minnesota, deep in the great North Woods, riding the jagged edge of the Iron Range, had not yet wakened. This was Cork’s favorite time of day.
Although he couldn’t actually see it, he could picture the whole town perfectly. Sunlight dripping down the houses on Gooseberry Lane like butter melting down pancakes. The streets empty and clean. The surface of Iron Lake on such a still morning looking solid as polished steel.
God, he loved this place.
And he’d begun to love again, too, the woman who now stood in the doorway with a gold towel wrapped about her and tucked at her breasts. Her hair was wet. Her pale blue eyes were wide awake and interested. She locked the door behind her.
“We don’t have much time,” she said in a whisper. “I think I heard Stevie stirring.”
“We’re the experts at putting a lot into a little time.”
He smiled wide, and widely he opened his arms.
An explosion kept them from beginning anything. The house shook; the windows rattled; the mourning dove fell silent, frightened to stillness or frightened away.
“My God,” Cork said. “What was that?”
Jo looked at him, her eyes blue and shiny. “I think the earth moved. Without us.” She glanced at the window. “Sonic boom?”
“When was the last time you heard a sonic boom around here?”
From the hallway beyond the bedroom door came the sound of voices, then a knock.
“Jo? Cork?”
“Just a minute, Rose.” She blew Cork a kiss. “Rain check.” She headed to the closet and grabbed a robe from the door hook.
Cork quickly exchanged his silk boxers for a pair of jogging shorts and went to the window. He stared north over the roofs of Aurora where a column of smoke rose thick and black somewhere beyond the town limits. Just above the ground, the air was calm and the smoke climbed straight up four or five hundred feet until it hit a high current that spread it east over Iron Lake. The sky was a milky blue from the haze of the distant forest fires. Against it, the smoke from the nearer burn was dark as crude oil.
At his back, Cork heard the door unlock. Rose stepped in, Stevie at her heels.
“Whatever that was, it didn’t sound good.” Rose tugged her beige chenille robe tight about her broad waist and stuffed her plump, freckled hands into the pockets. She was Jo’s sister and for more than fifteen years had been part of the O’Connor household.
Stevie ran to his father. “Thomething blew up.”
“I think something did, buddy.” Cork put his arm around his son and motioned the others to the window, where they huddled and stared at the huge smoke cloud fanning out above the lake.
The siren on Aurora’s only fire station began to wail, calling the volunteers to duty.
“See the direction that smoke’s coming from?” He glanced at Jo. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
From the concern on her face, it was clear to him that she was. She straightened and turned from the window. “I’d better go.”
“I’ll come with you.” Cork started toward the dresser to get his clothes.
“Cork.” Jo put a hand on his arm to restrain him gently. “I have clients to protect. I need to be out there. But there’s no reason for you to go. You’re not the sheriff anymore.” She seemed reluctant to add that last bit of a reminder, as if she were afraid that even after all this time, it still might hurt him.
He smiled gamely and said, “Then let’s just chalk it up to morbid curiosity.”
2
THE LINDSTROM LUMBER AND PLYWOOD MILL stood within a stone’s throw of the Superior National Forest, on three dozen cleared acres, hard up against the shoreline of a small oval of water called Grindstone Lake. Normally, the only smoke coming from the mill was generated by the kilns and smokestacks. However, as his old red Bronco broke from the pines along County Road 8, Cork could see clearly that the billow of smoke rising above the clearing came from the trailer of a logging rig parked in the mill yard and from the burning remains of a building just beyond.