He drove slowly as he approached Cavanaugh’s lake home. It was a behemoth of a construction. All the homes that went up on the lake these days seemed to be that way. When Cork was growing up, a place on the lake still meant a modest cabin or a small house with a screened porch that may or may not have been insulated for winter occupancy. There was often a tiny dock, where a boat with a reasonable outboard or a little skiff with a mast for a single sail was tied up. The woods drew close around those old places, and they shared the shoreline together in comfortable intimacy.
No one built small anymore. Certainly not Max Cavanaugh. And the woods stood back from his opulent construct, as if drawing away, repulsed.
The great home lay in deep purple cast from the evening sky. The wide lawn appeared to be an inlet of a wine-colored sea. The black asphalt gave way to a circular drive made of crushed limestone bordered with flowers. Parked in the drive, near the front door, was the red Explorer that Kufus had rented for her time in Aurora. Cork pulled up behind her vehicle, turned off his Land Rover, and stepped out onto the drive. He saw immediately that the Explorer’s tires were flat. On closer examination, he discovered they’d been slashed, all four. He also discovered that an envelope had been slipped under the windshield wiper on the driver’s side. On the face of the envelope, printed in the dripping red font called From Hell, was Kufus’s name.
When he reached the porch of Cavanaugh’s house, he wasn’t surprised to find another envelope, this bearing the name of Max Cavanaugh, printed in From Hell. The envelope had been pinned to the door with a hunting knife that would have been perfect for gutting a moose or slashing tires.
He rang the bell, twice. No one answered. He began a slow circumnavigation of the property, checking the windows as he went, unable to see anything because the curtains were all drawn. From the back of the house came the sound of soft jazz playing over good speakers. Rounding the rear corner, he saw the great bricked patio, the table and wine bottle, the two chairs with towels folded over the back of each, but he saw neither Cavanaugh nor Kufus. The music came from an opened patio door.
Cork was just about to head that way when he caught sight of the dock on the far side of the back lawn where it edged the cove. Cavanaugh and Kufus were there. Cavanaugh wore red swim trunks. Kufus wore a swimsuit, a black one-piece that looked designed more for exercise than for showing off at the beach. They stood close together, and, as Cork watched, Kufus put her arms gently around her companion. Behind them in the late dusk, the surface of Moon Haven Cove was a perfect mirror of the plum-colored sky.
Cavanaugh spotted him and pulled away. He said something to Kufus, and they both turned toward the house. They spoke a moment more, then walked the path to the patio.
“My, my,” the woman said, taking one of the towels from the back of a patio chair. “You do get around.”
“I rang the bell,” Cork said. “No one answered.”
“Can’t hear much from down there,” Cavanaugh said, indicating the dock. He had a body taut and sinewy but also scarred in a number of places. In the shower after one of the basketball games the Old Martyrs had played, he’d told Cork they were all the results of his mine work over the years. He’d said he liked the danger of the job. “What’s up?”
Cork said, “Ms. Kufus, did you know the whole county is worried about you?”
“It’s Genie, and whatever for?”
“Some more threats have been delivered. As a matter of fact, you have one waiting for you on your car. And, Max, there’s one for you.”
Cavanaugh looked confused. “What are you talking about?”
“Why don’t we all go to your front door and I’ll show you.”
Cavanaugh led them into the house, leaving a gray trail of water droplets on the white carpeting all the way to the front door. When he saw the envelope, he reached for the knife that pinned it.
“It might be better to wait, Max,” Cork said. “The sheriff’s people will want to go over it for prints.”
Cavanaugh ignored him, tugged the knife blade free, and opened the envelope.
We die. U die. Just like her. In dripping red From Hell.
He held it out for Kufus to see. She read it, and her response surprised Cork.
“Fuck them,” she said. She looked beyond Cavanaugh to where her rental was parked. The envelope was clearly visible on the windshield, a white rectangle against the reflection of a bruise-colored sky, and she said again, low and hard, “Fuck them.”
Azevedo was the deputy dispatched on the call. When he arrived, he told Cork the sheriff wanted to see both Kufus and Cavanaugh at the department as soon as possible. Cavanaugh stayed while the deputy filled out an incident report, but Cork offered to drive Kufus into town immediately. Cavanaugh told her to go ahead. He’d be in touch. Azevedo put the notes, the envelopes, and the knife into evidence bags and gave them to Cork to deliver to the sheriff. Then Cork and a taciturn Kufus took off for Aurora.
Dark had fallen, and a mist of stars covered the sky. Kufus sat silently on the far side of the Land Rover, and Cork could feel her anger.
“Mind if I ask a question?” Cork said.
“Would it matter?” Clearly she was still pissed. Maybe about the threats. Maybe about Cork’s intrusion. Maybe about having to be chauffeured back to Aurora by a guy she didn’t particularly like.
“What is it between you and Max?”
She looked out the window and up at the stars. “He knows I’m a swimmer, and he invited me out to swim in the cove.”
“And to talk about mine business?”
“Yes,” she said. “Mine business.”
“That’s why you were holding each other? Mine business?”
“It’s not what you think.”
“I haven’t told you what I think.”
“You’re a man. I’ve spent my whole life in a business dominated by men. I know what men think.”
“Men like Max Cavanaugh?”
“Max is different.”
“How?”
She looked at him. “Are you really trying to get me to open up to you? Because if you are, you’re doing a shitty job.”
He kept his eyes on the road ahead, but he could feel her glare.
“Hell,” she finally said, settling back. “Are you married?”
“I was. My wife died.”
It had been well over a year, but the actual words still felt alien to him, and every time he was forced to say them, he wondered if they would ever come easy.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice softening just a bit.
“Gauging by the rock and the gold band on your finger, I’d say you’re married.”
“To a wonderful guy named Steve, whom I love very much. Given what you’re clearly assuming about me, you may not believe that.”
“I don’t know you well enough to assume anything about you.”
Cork swerved to avoid a deer lurking at the edge of the road.
“Look, Max speaks highly of you, so I’m going to level,” she said. “I knew him a long time ago. Before Steve. We were in graduate school together at Carnegie Mellon.”
“You knew him well back then?”
“Very well.”
“The one that got away?”
“I let him go. He made it clear from the beginning that he had no intention of ever settling down, having a family. And those were things I wanted very much.”
“For two people who let go of each other a long time ago, you looked pretty cozy on the dock.”
“We’ve stayed in touch over the years, okay? He needed to talk to someone about Lauren. It’s tearing him up, and he doesn’t have anyone here he feels he can confide in.”
Cork said, “I appreciate what you’re telling me.”
“And I’d prefer it wasn’t something you share with people.”
“Worried about conflict of interest where Vermilion One is concerned?”
“The appearance of it. In my mind, there is no conflict of interest.”
“Folks around here would give a whole lot to know your thinking about the mine right now.”