“How did you get here from Thunder Bay?”
“My son,” Meloux replied.
“Hank? He’s here?”
“With your daughter and her friend in the waiting area. I wanted to see you and Stephen by myself.”
The old man walked to Stephen’s bedside. He laid his hand on the white sheet where it covered Stephen’s heart. Cork’s son and the old Mide shared a special bond. Many times over the years, Meloux had worked to help heal wounds that life had delivered to Stephen, both physical and spiritual, and recently, under Meloux’s guidance, Stephen had undertaken the first learning steps in becoming, like Meloux, a member of the Grand Medicine Society.
“It’s bad,” Cork said. “Stephen still has a bullet in him, pressing against his spinal cord. They need to operate, but he’s too unstable at the moment. He died, Henry, and they brought him back.”
“But not all the way. He still stands with one foot on the Path of Souls.” Meloux turned back to Cork. “Would you leave him with me? Alone?”
“What are you going to do, Henry?”
“Talk to him.”
“You think he can hear you?”
“We will see.” Meloux looked at him deeply with those dark eyes that could pierce a man’s soul. “I’ve come to help, Corcoran O’Connor. I’ve come to help you all, if you will let me.”
Cork had held himself together because he had to, because Annie and Jenny and Stephen needed him to be strong. But Meloux was here now, and Cork knew exactly what his old friend and mentor was saying to him. Meloux may have been old-God alone knew his exact age-but inside he was still the strongest man Cork had ever known. On more than one occasion, he’d saved Cork’s life and, more times than Cork could remember, had salvaged his spirit. For the first time since Stephen had been shot, Cork finally allowed himself to feel the full depth of his own fear and pain and confusion, and tears welled up and spilled down his cheeks.
“I let him go out there alone, Henry,” Cork confessed. “I should have been there with him. I could have kept this from happening.”
Meloux stepped to him. “This was not your doing, Corcoran O’Connor. If you throw yourself onto the fire of guilt, it will be a useless sacrifice. We do not know, any of us, the Great Mystery’s purpose in this. But purpose there is.” He put his old hand gently to Cork’s chest. “You have a good heart, here, a strong heart. Of all that you have given to your son, that is the greatest gift. Trust your heart and Stephen’s.” He smiled in such a reassuring way that Cork couldn’t help but believe him. “And trust me, Corcoran O’Connor.”
So full of gratitude he could barely speak, Cork said, “Migwech, Henry. Chi migwech.”
CHAPTER 38
Hank Wellington, Meloux’s son, was a wealthy man, and rather famous in Canada. He’d been lost to his father for most of both their lives, but a few years earlier, because of Cork, they’d found each other. Wellington was in his seventies and still a handsome man. You could see the father in the face of the son-the broad nose, the prominent bone structure, the eyes that were dark and intelligent and compassionate.
After their greetings, Cork asked, “How did Henry hear about Stephen?”
“He didn’t,” Wellington replied. “We didn’t find out until we arrived in Aurora.”
“Then why did you come?”
“My father had a vision. I didn’t have a choice. I’m sorry for all this trouble, Cork.”
“Thank you.”
“Where’s my father now?”
“Henry wanted to be alone with Stephen.”
Wellington glanced at Anne, who was sitting with Skye on the waiting room couch. “Your daughter filled me in on most of what I didn’t know. If there’s anything I can do to help, you’ve got it.”
“When I figure out what that is, Hank, I’ll let you know. Look, I need coffee. You want some?”
“From a vending machine, or the real stuff?”
“At this time of night, we’ll be lucky if the vending machine isn’t asleep.”
“I’ll pass, thanks.”
“Annie, Skye? Want some coffee?”
They shook their heads in unison, and Cork turned to leave. Before he’d taken a step, Marsha Dross walked in. She was still wearing her parka, and the shoulders were dusted with snow. She was carrying a large envelope. Her eyes immediately settled on the man she didn’t know.
Cork introduced her to Wellington and explained his presence.
“Meloux’s here?” she said.
“With Stephen, at the moment.”
It was clear that she had a purpose in coming, and she wasted no time. She opened the envelope she’d brought and drew out an eight-by-ten photograph, which she handed to Anne.
“Do you recognize that man?” she asked.
Anne studied the photo, then said, “He’s the one. He shot Stephen.”
Cork reached out, and Anne gave him the picture. It was a blowup of a standard mug shot, a police booking photograph. The man didn’t look particularly criminal. He had thin hair, which was cut very short, showing a lot of scalp. His cheeks were puffy, suggesting that he carried a little extra weight. The photo was black and white, so the irises of his eyes had no color, but they were clear, which suggested pale blue. The man stood against a height chart that measured him at five feet ten inches. Cork placed him in his early thirties. The most dramatic feature was a large mole on the guy’s cheek, just left of his nose. Cork knew he was looking at the man who, more than a month ago, had sat in the casino bar, eyed Stella Daychild in a way that scared her, then followed her home to the rez.
“Frogg?” he asked Dross.
“Yes. It’s from his last booking, almost eight years ago.”
“Anything on him since they let him out of Stillwater?”
“No. At least not that we’ve found so far. No violations or arrests in Minnesota.”
“Does he own a registered vehicle?”
“A nineteen ninety-five Ford Ranger. Green.”
“Driver’s license address?”
“DMV has him in an apartment building in Duluth. Pender’s on his way down there now. He’s already in touch with Duluth PD. We’ve got him, Cork.”
“When he’s in cuffs, you’ve got him,” Cork said. Then he said, “Thanks, Marsha.”
“I’m heading back to the department. I’ve got a couch there with my name on it. When I hear from Pender”-she paused and gave Cork a tired smile-“that he’s got Frogg in cuffs, I’ll let you know.” She took the photograph and returned it to the envelope. “Mr. Wellingon, ladies,” she said in parting, turned, and left.
When she’d gone, Cork said, “About that coffee. Still no takers?”
He got a cup from the cafeteria, which was closed except for the vending machines. It was pretty bad brew, but it was hot and caffeinated.
When he returned to the waiting room, Meloux was there. The old Mide looked at him calmly and said, “Stephen would like to see you.”
* * *
He’d come up from a place of dreaming. And there was Meloux, bending over him, and he thought he must still be in a dream.
“Stephen,” the old Mide said. “It is good to see you.”
“Henry?” The word came out a weak croak.
“You have been on a journey. But I think you are coming home now.”
“What . . . ?” He couldn’t manage a full question.
“What happened? You faced our majimanidoo.”
“I don’t . . . I don’t remember.”
“That is not important now.”
Stephen closed his eyes, opened them, and found that Meloux was still there. “It was bright. I heard you call my name.”
“The path you were on is a good one, Stephen.” The old man put his hand gently, reassuringly on Stephen’s shoulder. “A good one. But I think it was not your time. I am glad you heard me.”
Stephen tried to turn his head, but something restrained him. He moved his eyes over what he could see from where he lay, all of it white and sterile looking. “Hospital?”