“You never talked to the police about what Wellington had done?”
“I was a man who had killed three times. I have never told anyone these things until now.”
“And you never tried to find Maria?”
“For half a moon I knew Maria. I loved her. I have never loved another woman. My life, Corcoran O’Connor, has been about something different from that kind of love. For many years, I did not think about her.”
“But you knew you had a son. How?”
“From visions. They began soon after Maria left me.”
“You weren’t curious about your son?”
“I am fortunate. I have often felt guided. If I was not meant to see my son, that was the way of it.”
“Then why this sudden heaviness of heart over him? Why the rush to find him?”
Something splashed in the water a dozen yards out. A fish jumping, maybe, or a muskrat diving. In the moonlight, the place was marked with a circle of black ripples edged with silver.
“I have had visions,” Meloux said. “They have told me my son needs me.”
“Henry, I don’t mean any disrespect, but from the way he looked the last time I saw him, he could have used your help a long time ago. I think it’s too late now.”
“There is a reason for the visions.”
“Well, I’ll be goddamned if I know what that is, Henry.”
“They are not your visions, Corcoran O’Connor. They are not for you to understand. I will talk to him, then I will know.”
“Henry, there’s no way this man is going to talk to you. Christ, he tried to have you killed.”
“I do not believe my son would do that.”
“There’s sure a lot of evidence to the contrary.”
“I will see my son. I will see him with or without your help.”
“You can be exasperating, you know that, Henry?”
“Which is stronger,” the old man said, “the rock or the water? In the end, the rock always washes away.”
“Stow it, Henry. You’ve won. I’ll take you, okay?”
“Migwech,” the old man said.
“We both need rest, Henry. We’ll leave in the morning.”
I heard a car turn off the road, and headlights swept the trees around us.
“Your nephew’s home from the casino,” I said. “Let’s break the news to him.”
Ernie Champoux wasn’t happy, but what could he do? He was just another rock, and Meloux, as always, was the damn water.
When I pulled onto Gooseberry Lane I could see lights on inside my house. I parked in the driveway and went in through the side door. A couple of plates full of crumbs sat on the kitchen table. On the counter were two glasses filmed with white residue. Cookies and milk. Jo and Jenny had probably enjoyed a little comfort food while they waited for me. The house was quiet. I walked to the living room and found Jo asleep on the sofa. Jenny wasn’t there.
“Jo.” I spoke softly.
Her eyes fluttered open. “Cork?” She sat up. “What time is it?”
“A little after one. Jenny gone to bed?”
She nodded and yawned. Her hair was wild on the side where her head had rested, and there was a red line, from her nose almost to her ear, where her cheek had pressed against the seam of the sofa pillow. It looked like a battle scar. The look she gave me was a little warlike as well.
“Sorry I’m so late,” I said.
“You said you’d be home so we could all talk.”
“Henry had a lot to tell me.”
Despite her irritation, it was clear she was curious about Meloux’s story. “What exactly did he say?”
I told her a briefer version of the story Meloux had told me. Even though the hour was late and she was tired, she listened closely.
“So all this might be about keeping an old crime from coming to light?” she said.
“It could be much larger than that. I’ve been thinking about the mining claim. From what I gathered on the Internet, the wealth of Northern Mining and Manufacturing is based on what came out of that first mine in northwestern Ontario. Could be that a lot of the wealth rightfully belongs to someone else.”
“Any living relatives of the man named Maurice?”
“It’s a possibility. It would sure be a reason to keep Henry from telling his story.”
“What are you going to do?”
I wasn’t looking forward to this part. With all that was going on with Jenny, I knew I needed to be home.
I said, “In the morning, I’m taking Meloux to Thunder Bay to see his son.”
I thought maybe it was because she was tired that Jo didn’t hit me. She weighed the information and nodded. “Before you go, though, we need to sit down and talk with Jenny.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Struggling. Trying to figure this thing out. It’s huge.”
“Jesus, I don’t want it to crush her.”
“She’s strong, Cork.”
“What if she decides to have an abortion?”
“I don’t think she will.”
“And if she decides to keep the baby and raise it alone?”
“She won’t have to do it alone.”
“Oh God, Jo, what if they decide to get married?”
“Then they’ll march down the aisle with all our love behind them.”
“You make it sound easy.”
“None of her choices is easy, but there’s not one of them that’s impossible.”
“Have I told you lately that you’re amazing?”
“Not lately.”
“Good. I wouldn’t want it to go to your head. Should we talk to her now or wait until morning?”
“Morning. She’s pregnant. She needs her sleep.”
“And I’m old,” I said, “and need mine.”
I got up and began to turn out the lights. Another uncomfortable thought occurred to me.
“Have you talked to Sean’s folks?”
“To Virginia. Sean told her everything. Lane doesn’t know yet.”
I could understand. Lane wasn’t an ogre, but I had the feeling he could be unpleasant in a confrontation. Still, he was the father of the young man whose destiny was supposed to have been transforming Pflugleman’s Rexall Drugs into Pflugleman and Son, and it seemed to me he had a right to know what was happening.
When I’d switched off the last of the lights, I put my arm around Jo, and we started up the stairs to bed.
“Cork, I don’t think you and Henry should go to Thunder Bay alone.”
“Don’t worry. I plan on taking backup.”
She didn’t ask who. It may have been because she was too tired. It was more likely that she already knew.
THIRTY-FIVE
Except for Sundays, Johnny Papp opens the door of his Pinewood Broiler in the morning at six sharp.
At five fifty A.M., I found Wally Schanno waiting out front in the cool blue of that summer morning. Those days he was always at the Broiler first thing, waiting for the doors to swing wide and offer him the company of the regulars. His back was to me. He was staring down Oak Street past the dark, locked shops as if he was waiting for something to arrive along that empty pavement.
For better or worse, I was it.
I startled him with a tap on his shoulder.
He spun around. “Jesus.”
Schanno was a devout Lutheran, Missouri Synod. I’d never heard him say Jesus in quite that way. Arietta’s death continued to work changes in him.
“Sorry, Wally. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. You looked deep in thought.”
“I was just thinking it’s a pretty town. I’ll miss it.”
“Miss it? You’re leaving?”
He was wearing a white-knit golf shirt. He had several more at home in various pastel shades. In their last years together, Arietta had been after him to take up the game as a way of relaxing. The shirts had been just the beginning. She gave him clubs and a bag. He was an atrocious golfer, and he hated the game, but he went out on the links once a week or so anyway because Arietta had done these things for him and he wanted her to know he was grateful. He never told me this. It’s just my interpretation of events.