Blood Hollow co-4

by William Kent Krueger

  The tan wagon pulled to a stop a few yards from where the two men stood. Three people got out, a man, a woman, and a boy, maybe twelve or thirteen years old. They looked familiar to Cork.

  The man approached hesitantly. “Sorry to bother you people, but I’m wondering if you could help us.”

  “Be glad to,” Gooding said.

  The woman wore a white dress with daisies on it. She held her hands folded in front of her, in a way that seemed to bespeak great peace. The boy hung back and stood a little hunched, as if he were tired.

  The man said, “We’re looking for the grave of someone who was buried today.”

  “Right down there.” Gooding pointed toward the open hole into which Kane’s coffin had just been lowered.

  “Thank you,” the man said.

  “Did you know Fletcher Kane?” Cork asked.

  The man turned back. “Fletcher Kane?”

  Cork gestured down the hill. “The guy they buried today.”

  The man looked confused. “I thought it was Solemn Winter Moon.”

  “Winter Moon?” Gooding said. “He was buried out on the reservation this morning.”

  “Oh.” The man looked back at the woman and the boy.

  Cork suddenly realized who they were. “You’re from Warroad.”

  “That’s right. How’d you know?”

  Cork’s attention was suddenly focused on the boy standing beside his mother. “What happened to the wheelchair?”

  The boy didn’t reply.

  “Go on, Jamie. Tell the man.”

  The boy stammered, as if words were new to him. “He healed me.”

  “Solemn?”

  The boy nodded.

  The woman hugged her son and looked deeply into his eyes. “That good man healed him.”

  “Just a minute,” Gooding said. He walked toward the boy, who stepped back at his approach. “I’m not going to hurt you, son. I just want a closer look. I’m a policeman.” Gooding knelt in front of the boy. “Show me your hands.”

  The boy slowly lifted his arms, and the fingers that had been curled into claws opened toward the deputy.

  “Can you walk for me?”

  The boy took a few steps. They weren’t perfect.

  “Tell me your name.”

  “Jamie Witherspoon.”

  “How old are you, Jamie?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “You’ve always been sick?”

  “Yes.”

  “Always in a wheelchair?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your parents didn’t put you up to this?”

  “No.”

  Gooding stood up. “I apologize for that last question,” he said to the boy’s mother. “It’s just that it’s all a little hard to believe.”

  In the face of Gooding’s doubt, her own face reflected nothing but love. “Believing is what it’s all about.”

  Cork directed them to George LeDuc’s store on the reservation, told them to tell LeDuc their story, and he would escort them to Solemn’s grave. He also told them to ask George to guide them to the home of Solemn’s mother. She would want to hear what they had to say.

  As the old station wagon rattled out of the cemetery, Cork said, “You told me once that you’re a man inclined to believe in miracles. So what do you think, Randy?”

  For a long time, Gooding simply stared beyond the cemetery fence where the wagon had gone. Finally he shook his head. “I don’t,” he said. “Honest to God, I just don’t know.”

  44

  Cork arrived home to discover that Mal Thorne had apparently mistaken the front yard for a parking lot. The yellow Nova had jumped the curb, its front wheels coming to rest on the grass apron between the street and the sidewalk. Inside the house, Cork found Annie standing in the living room looking stunned.

  “Are you okay?”

  She stared at him. “Father Mal’s here.”

  “I figured that. Is he sick?”

  “Not sick,” she said. “Drunk.”

  “Where’s your mom?”

  “She took Stevie for a haircut. Father Mal came after they left. I didn’t know what to do.”

  “Where is he?”

  Annie’s eyes went slowly upward, but Cork knew she wasn’t looking toward heaven.

  “In Rose’s room?”

  “I heard them talking. He said he’s leaving the priesthood, Dad. He said he’s in love with Aunt Rose and he wants to marry her. How could he do that?”

  “He hasn’t done it yet,” Cork said.

  Annie looked deeply into her father’s eyes, maybe hoping to find something there that would help her understand. “He’s a priest. The church is his life.”

  High above them, in the attic room, something thumped.

  “You wait here,” Cork said.

  He bounded up the stairs and down the hallway to the opened door that led to the attic. He heard grunting coming from Rose’s room, the sound of a struggle. He took the attic stairs two at a time.

  At the far end of the room, Rose’s sewing table lay on its side and her sewing machine had tumbled to the floor. The whole mess was surrounded by a spill of fabric of a dozen designs. Amid the ruin, Rose and Mal Thorne stood locked in a desperate embrace. The moment Cork appeared, Rose peered over the priest’s shoulder and her eyes grew huge.

  “Help me,” she gasped. “I can’t hold him up.”

  Cork realized that Mal was buckling and all that kept him from falling was Rose’s strength. He slipped his arms around Mal Thorne’s chest, wedging his hands between Rose and the priest.

  “Got him,” he said.

  The priest roused, enough to help as Cork walked him to the bed. Cork released his grip and Mal flopped on his back on the mattress. Rose lifted his legs and, with Cork’s help, arranged him so that, more or less, he rested comfortably.

  Mal wore brown loafers, no socks. His khakis were wrinkled. His plaid shirt was torn, a long wound in the fabric beneath his right arm. His breath was all Southern Comfort. Through heavy lids, he stared up as Rose leaned over him.

  “I love you, Rose,” he said, his tongue thick, his lips barely moving. “I love you.”

  “Shhh,” Rose hushed him gently. “Just sleep.”

  Mal’s eyes drifted closed. He mumbled something, and a few moments later, he was snoring.

  Cork was breathing hard. “We’re not going to be able to move him, Rose.”

  “It’s okay.” She reached down, tenderly touched Mal’s cheek, the bristle of his red hair. “He can stay here for a while.”

  “I’d better check on Annie,” Cork said.

  Rose nodded, but she didn’t take her eyes off the man in her bed.

  While Cork was busy upstairs, Jo had returned with Stevie. Cork found her in the kitchen listening as Annie recounted, in a voice pitched at the edge of hysteria, what had happened.

  “He’s still upstairs with Rose?” Jo asked Cork.

  “Yeah, but he’s sleeping now.”

  “Sleeping?” Annie said.

  “Actually, he’s passed out on your Aunt Rose’s bed.”

  “On her bed?” Annie looked mortified. “What are we going to do?”

  “Let him sleep it off.” Cork walked to the refrigerator and pulled out a beer.

  “Then what?”

  What, indeed? Cork wasn’t happy with Mal, with this intrusion into his home, with the clumsy, thoughtless way the priest had chosen to make his feelings known. But he also understood the terrible conflict that must have been raging in Mal, dammed behind the calm face a man in his position had to maintain. He twisted the cap off his beer and took a swallow.

  “It’s not right,” Annie said. “He’s a priest.”

  Jo said, “Priests are just people, Annie. They have problems, too. They make mistakes, change their minds-”

  “Aunt Rose won’t let him change his mind. He’s a priest.” She caught the look that passed between her parents. “What?”

  “Your Aunt Rose loves him,” Jo said.
r />   That seemed to set Annie back on her heels a bit.

  Cork heard the creak of the stairs and saw Rose coming down from floors above. She walked to where the others had gathered.

  “I’m sorry you saw all that, Annie,” she said as soon as she stepped into the kitchen.

  “You won’t let him leave the church, will you?”

  “Annie,” Jo cautioned.

  “You won’t,” Annie said.

  Rose balled her hands together and closed her eyes, and for a moment it looked very much as if she were praying. “I think I’m going to have to talk to God about that one, Annie,” she said at last. “I’m a little confused myself.”

  Annie, who’d never run from anything, turned away and fled outside, letting the screen door slam behind her. Rose took a step to follow.

  “Let her go,” Jo said. “She’ll be fine. She just needs some time by herself to think.”

  Rose took a deep, quivering breath. “I could use some of that, too.”

  “Oh, Rose.”

  Jo crossed the kitchen and threw her arms around her sister. Cork stood drinking his beer, as bewildered by the events as everyone else.

  He called the sheriff’s department and caught Cy Borkmann just as he was leaving for the day. He explained to the acting sheriff what he wanted.

  “I don’t have a problem with you looking at the Kane girl’s file, Cork. But promise me one thing. You come across anything we missed, anything important, you let me or Gooding know. Deal?”

  “Deal, Cy.”

  “When do you want the file?”

  “ASAP. Mind if I copy the material? That way I won’t be a pest down there.”

  “I’ll go you one better. I’ll have a deputy make copies. It’ll all be waiting for you.”

  “One more thing.”

  “Don’t push your luck.”

  “Any chance of getting a look at the file on the incident at Kane’s place?”

  “What for?”

  “Maybe nothing. I’d just like to have everything that relates in any way to what happened to Charlotte Kane.”

  Borkmann thought a moment or two. “All right. Can’t see that it would hurt anything.”

  “Thanks, Cy.”

  “I hate making these decisions.” Borkmann hung up.

  An hour later, Cork picked up the promised documents. It was early evening by the time he returned home. Except for Jo, the house seemed deserted.

  “Where is everybody?” he asked.

  “Jenny’s with Sean. I think they’re going to a movie. Stevie’s across the street playing in the O’Loughlins’ tree house. Rose is upstairs, standing watch over Father Mal.”

  “Any word on Annie?”

  “No.”

  Cork looked outside, thinking about the man who’d stalked his daughter.

  “Don’t worry,” Jo said. “She’s always home before dark these days. Are you hungry? I’d be glad to make you a sandwich.”

  “What have we got?”

  “Ham and cheese on rye.”

  “I can make my own.”

  “Sit down. Relax.” Jo walked with Cork to the kitchen. “Chips and beer with that?”

  “Thanks.”

  Jo took a bottle of Lienenkugel beer from the refrigerator and gave it to him. On the kitchen table, Cork laid out the folders of material he’d picked up at the sheriff’s department and opened the first file.

  “You didn’t happen to discuss a reasonable fee with Oliver Bledsoe,” Jo said as she put a chunk of smoked ham on a cutting board to slice.

  Cork took a long drink of cold beer. “I’d do this even if they paid me nothing.”

  Jo set a block of cheddar on the counter and, beside it, put what was left of a loaf of dark rye. “People are asking if you’re ever going to open Sam’s Place again. Some of them. The rest seem to be wondering if you’re going to take the job as sheriff if it’s offered.”

  “Which group do you fall into?”

  “I don’t fall. I stand firmly behind whatever you choose to do.” She began to slice the ham. “Going to want mustard on this?”

  “Do you have any advice?”

  “It’s best with mustard.”

  “About the sheriff’s job.”

  “I have enough trouble keeping my own life in order. I know you’ll do whatever’s right for you.”

  Cork sat down and leaned back in his chair. “Want to hear a story, Jo?”

  “Does it have a happy ending?”

  “For a crippled kid and his folks, yeah.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  As he began to tell her about the family from Warroad, she sat down with him at the table. When he’d finished, she said, “What do you think?”

  “That I should have done more to protect Solemn. Maybe he had been given a gift, Jo, something important to share. Now that gift is gone.”

  She reached across the table and took his hand. “These people, you’re sure they weren’t part of some con?”

  “As sure as I am of anything right now. I’m not saying that Solemn had the gift of healing. Maybe his gift was just that he helped these people believe enough to make their own miracle happen. You know?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s important to me that people think of Solemn in a good way. So it’s important that everybody know the truth of what happened to Charlotte Kane.”

  “I understand. What can I do to help?”

  “For starters, you can finish making that sandwich.”

  Later, Jo ran a bath for Stevie, and while her son played in the tub, she came down to the kitchen where Cork had the documentation of Charlotte Kane’s death investigation spread out on the table.

  “Any luck?” she asked.

  “Nothing so far.” He folded his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. “One thing I keep going back to. The food wrappers at the scene of her death. The fact that some bastard sat there callously eating while she died. I keep asking myself what kind of ghoul would do that kind of thing?”

  “A sin eater.” Annie stood at the screen door, looking in. Night was beginning to settle in at her back. “Can I come in?”

  “Of course, sweetheart,” Jo said.

  She walked in, her eyes tracing the lines on the linoleum. “I’m sorry for the way I behaved.”

  “That’s all right,” Jo said. “Are you hungry?”

  “I’m always hungry.”

  “How about a ham and cheese sandwich?”

  “I recommend it highly,” Cork said.

  “Thanks.”

  Jo got the things from the refrigerator.

  “Just walk?” Cork said.

  Annie shook her head. “I bumped into Randy Gooding and he walked me to the Broiler. We talked. Look, he gave me this.”

  She held out a drawing that had been done on the back of a paper place mat from the Broiler, a pencil portrait of her. She looked very pretty and a little sad.

  “Helped?”

  “Yeah, it helped.”

  “Here you go,” Jo said.

  Annie took the plate. “Is it all right if I eat in my room?”

  “Sure. Just bring the dishes down when you’re finished.”

  Annie moved toward the living room, then stopped and glanced back. “I love you guys.”

  “Good night, sweetheart,” Jo said. She watched her daughter head upstairs and she smiled. “Think she’s okay?”

  “She’ll work it out. Good head on her shoulders,” Cork said. “And quite lovely. She gets that from you.”

  “Thanks, cowboy.” She bent to where he sat at the table and kissed the top of his head. “I’m going up to check on Stevie and get him into bed.”

  Cork went back to studying the files, looking for anything he might have overlooked before or seen and too quickly dismissed. It took a while before something dawned on him. When it finally did, he grabbed the documents that dealt with the night Fletcher Kane killed himself and Solemn, and he scanned the autopsy report for each man.
>
  He went to the telephone table in the living room and pulled out his address book. He took it back to the kitchen and made a long-distance call. Jo came downstairs just as he was finishing.

  “Stevie’s asleep,” she said.

  “Sit down, Jo.”

  She heard the taut pitch of his voice. She took a chair at the table. “You’ve found something.”

  “Maybe.”

  Jo looked at the phone on the table. “Who were you talking to?”

  “Boomer Grabowski in Chicago. Remember him?”

  “Sure. But you haven’t talked to him in years.”

  “I called him last week actually.”

  “What about?”

  “To see if he’d be willing to investigate Mal Thorne.”

  “Why?”

  “It was part of due diligence. But he was busy on a case in Miami, and then my head got all turned around for a while and I didn’t follow up with him right away. That was a big mistake, because Annie got me to thinking tonight, Jo. We believe that someone was with Charlotte and ate food while she died. Now take a look at this.”

  He handed her the autopsy report on Fletcher Kane.

  After reading it for a minute, she asked, “What am I looking for?”

  “Stomach contents.”

  “There’s not much.”

  “Exactly. Olga Swenson set a good pot roast dinner down on the table for Kane the night he killed himself. Somebody ate a lot of that food and drank a good deal of the wine that went with it.”

  Jo’s eyes went down to the document in her hand. “It wasn’t Fletcher Kane.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Solemn?”

  “He’d been fasting for several days, and his autopsy confirmed that.”

  Jo frowned. “You’re talking about Annie’s sin eater comment.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Cork, that was just joking. A sin eater? That’s crazy.”

  “Whoever killed Charlotte Kane wasn’t exactly sane. Who told Annie the sin eater story?”

  Jo thought a moment. “Father Mal.”

  “What do we know about him?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just what I said. What do we really know about the man who’s the parish priest?”

  “Why is this even a question? Because he told Annie the story?”

  “Humor me.”

  “He’s a good priest.”