They sat together while rain made everything that was illuminated by the streetlamps look liquid. The swing had been an important part of Cork’s life. He and Jo used to sit in it after the kids had finally gone to bed, and they’d talked about the things that parents and married people and longtime lovers discuss in quiet voices meant not to be overheard. He missed that. Missed Jo. Although his deep grieving had long ago ended, he still sometimes found himself feeling terribly sad and abandoned. His children were gone, establishing their own lives, and that was only natural. But where did it leave him? What was the road ahead for a man who was no longer a husband and was a father mostly at a distance?
Thinking of all these things brought him back to the question Faith Gray had posed earlier: Did he think his father might have saved Jo? It seemed like a question out of left field, but it had stung him, and he wondered now where his anger had come from. He wasn’t angry at Jo. He didn’t believe he was angry at his father. And although he’d snapped at her, he hadn’t been angry at Faith Gray.
“So who am I pissed at?” he asked aloud, putting the question to Trixie, who only looked up at him with her brown eyes and then nudged his hand to be petted.
At long last, Cork went back inside and headed upstairs to bed, where his only company for a long time had been his nightmares.
THIRTY-FOUR
Cork slept surprisingly well and woke with several ideas rolling around in his head, knocking together like ball bearings. He was eager to get some of them out of there.
His first stop that morning was the sheriff’s department. Marsha Dross was at her desk, sipping from a big coffee mug. She had a thick folder open in front of her and was so intent on what it held that she didn’t notice Cork’s arrival. His “Good morning” startled her, and she spilled coffee over the documents and swore. She looked for something to wipe up the mess, had nothing at hand and, when Cork offered a clean handkerchief, accepted it, almost grudgingly.
“Sorry,” he said.
“I didn’t expect to see you so early.” She handed his handkerchief back, damp and stained.
“You look like you could use a couple more hours of sleep.”
“I could use some sleep period,” she said.
“A case like this, a lot of monkeys on your back, I imagine.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
“I sat in that chair for seven years. Believe me, I do.”
“Oh, is that so?” She stood up and leaned toward him, not in a friendly way. “You ever have an old serial killing and new murder dovetail? You ever have the newspapers call the department, and I quote, ‘rural and rudimentary’? You ever had the entire board of commissioners visit you at ten P.M. on a Friday night to insist that you do more to, and I quote again, ‘resolve this unfortunate situation before Tamarack County becomes the new Amityville Horror’?”
“Not really,” Cork said. “Guess I must’ve been a better sheriff, huh?”
She gave him a hostile stare, then took stock of his smile, and finally let her body relax. “Have a chair,” she said. When she’d retaken her own, she asked, “So what brings you here too early on a Saturday morning?”
“A few questions about your confessed murderer, Hattie Stillday. I’m not convinced you’re getting the true story there.”
“Nor am I. Rutledge said he filled you in. She knows things only the killer would know, but she’s also wrong on some pertinent facts. She’s involved, I’m just not sure in what way exactly.”
“Are you going to hold her?”
“It’s the weekend, so we can hold her without charges until court opens on Monday. I’m hoping we can use that time to work loose some better answers and maybe get some disturbing loose ends tied up. I’d hate to have someone of her reputation falsely charged. Definitely wouldn’t look good for this ‘rural and rudimentary’ department.”
“Did you do a follow-up interview with Derek Huff at the Northern Lights Center?”
“Ed Larson took that.”
“And?”
“Huff and Lauren Cavanaugh were involved sexually. That’s all there was to it, he insists. Sex. He was pretty open and nonchalant about it. Made it sound like not an unusual thing for a California kid, having sex with a woman twice your age.”
“Kind of makes me wish I’d grown up out there.” Cork smiled briefly.
Dross leveled a sober look at him, then went on. “If Hattie Stillday is right about the time of Lauren Cavanaugh’s death, Huff has an alibi. He was out drinking with Sonny Gilroy. Larson confirmed that.”
“Did he talk about the nature of the sex with Lauren Cavanaugh?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve got my suspicions that Cavanaugh was not exactly the lady she led people to believe she was. Bed is a place where masks get dropped pretty quickly.”
“Maybe I’ll have Ed talk to the kid again, push that issue,” Dross said. “Have you come up with anything more in your own investigation?”
“You mean besides the probability that a Shinnob named Indigo Broom was responsible for the Vanishings and that he probably tortured and cannibalized his victims?”
“For God sake, don’t say that to anyone with a pen and pad in their hand. Rutledge is in Bemidji this morning, discussing that possibility with Agent Upchurch.”
“I’m pretty sure she’ll confirm it.”
“If it’s true, we’ll probably have to make it public at our press conference this afternoon. As for the possibility that Broom was burned along with his cabin, Ed and his guys are out there this morning, sifting through ash, looking for evidence. Depending on what they find, that could open a whole other can of worms on the rez. Cork, you’re getting some good information out there, but I’ll need to know names at some point.”
“I understand.” He stood up. “If I come up with anything else, I’ll let you know. You’ll do the same?”
“That’s our deal, isn’t it?”
They both smiled.
There was a program in progress at the Northern Lights Center, a showing. The lawn, still sparkling from the rain the night before, was set with easels displaying pieces by the current residents, who stood or sat next to their work. A long table had been set with refreshments and with a stack of brochures about the artists and the center in general. Cork ate a mini cinnamon roll and watched people milling about, moving from easel to easel, pausing, nodding, talking with the artists. Near the boathouse was a larger display, several easels with work clearly by the same artist, the featured artist, Derek Huff, who stood bathing in the glory offered him by the people of that rural and rudimentary county.
It was Ophelia Stillday whom Cork had come to talk to. He wanted to know if she was aware of the relationship between Derek Huff and Lauren Cavanaugh. But Ophelia was nowhere to be seen.
He wandered onto a large, recently constructed flagstone patio and walked through French doors into the house. It was quiet, and the enormous place felt empty. He made his way to Ophelia’s office, where he found the door closed but unlocked. He swung it open and was surprised to find Max Cavanaugh seated at Ophelia’s desk, intent on the contents of a file folder opened in front of him.
“Max?”
Cavanaugh looked up, startled. “Hey, Cork.”
“What are you doing here?”
Cavanaugh sat back and shook his head. “Battling, in a way.”
Cork came into the room and approached the desk. “What do you mean?”
“I never come here. I hate this place. When I was a kid, for years after we moved away, I had nightmares about it.”
“Lauren didn’t feel the same way, apparently.”
“Christ, I tried to talk her out of buying the estate, but she had her heart set on it. I knew nothing good would come from her being here.” His face contorted in a way that made Cork wonder if he was ill. “Can’t you feel it? This place is evil.”