“I’m sorry,” he said. “That was uncalled for. The truth is I’m having trouble buying her confession, especially considering the motive she’s given. I’ve known your grandmother all my life. She’s never cared anything about money. Whenever she’s had it, she’s given it away. So I’m thinking either she’s not telling the truth about killing Lauren Cavanaugh or she’s being untruthful about her motive.”
“She didn’t kill Lauren Cavanaugh,” Ophelia stated with absolute certainty. “Grandma Hattie couldn’t kill anybody. I need to go to her. Will they let me see her?”
“You can always ask.”
She turned and started away, then spun back. “My cane,” she said.
Cork picked up her cane from where it lay on the lawn near the tripod and handed it to her.
“Thanks,” she said and hobbled quickly toward the big house.
When he was alone, Cork headed to the boathouse where Lauren Cavanaugh had probably been killed. The door was barred with crime scene tape. He tried the knob. Locked. He walked the perimeter, peering in at every window, recalling that the boathouse had been remodeled into what was essentially a large boudoir, which made him think about the morning he’d been there with Ophelia and then Derek Huff had walked in.
He recrossed the lawn and came to the tripod and the camera, which Ophelia Stillday in her haste had left behind. It looked like an expensive piece of equipment with a powerful telescopic lens affixed. He thought he’d best take it into the big house, but before he did, he bent and squinted to look at the image she’d been framing for her shot. He almost laughed. Iron Lake hadn’t been the real subject of her interest. Brought marvelously close by the power of the lens was the image of Derek Huff, swimming laps far out in the lake. With every stroke, his great swimmer’s hands flung droplets of water into the air, where they arced, sparkling like diamonds.
Simon Rutledge was sitting in the swing on Cork’s front porch when Cork returned from walking Trixie that evening. Trixie bounded up the steps, jumped on the swing, and greeted the BCA agent with little woofs and a wagging tail. Cork wasn’t as enthusiastic.
“Evening, Simon,” he said.
“Cork,” Rutledge replied.
“Come on, Trixie,” Cork said, calling the dog to his side. “What’s up, Simon?”
Rutledge took a moment, as if composing himself, and began in a tone that was clearly part of an architecture of diplomacy. “We’ve known each other a long time, Cork. We’ve worked a number of difficult cases together. I’ve thought of us as friends as well as colleagues. The thing is, I think I can read you pretty well. And what I’m seeing right now concerns me.”
“What are you seeing?”
“Mist.”
“Mist? Is this a riddle, Simon?”
“Definitely. And the answer to the riddle is whatever is behind the mist, whatever it is that you’re trying to keep us from seeing.”
“You think I haven’t been honest with you?”
“Maybe. Or maybe it’s just that you haven’t been completely honest. I get the feeling that you’re throwing us bones, Cork, and keeping the meat for yourself.”
A fair reading of the situation, Cork decided. In truth, he appreciated that Rutledge was approaching him this way rather than in some kind of confrontation with Sheriff Dross or Captain Ed Larson present.
“What would you like from me, Simon?”
“How about a name?”
“What name?”
“I think you know a lot more than you’re telling about the Vanishings. I think you might even have a suspect in mind.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Ah, you see? You didn’t say I was wrong. Give me a name.”
“Not yet.”
“Why?”
“I need a little more time.”
“You’re asking a lot.”
“Not really. What went on over forty years ago is ancient history, Simon. For those involved, it’s over.”
“Not quite over. There’s Lauren Cavanaugh.”
“Did you Simonize Hattie yet?”
Rutledge smiled at the reference to his interview technique. “I questioned her. Her attorney was present.”
“What did she tell you?”
“I think that’s something I’ll hold on to.”
“I’ll make you a deal. I’ll give you a name if you tell me what Hattie Stillday said when you questioned her.”
Rutledge thought it over for a second. “Deal. You first.”
“Indigo Broom,” Cork said.
“What’s that?”
“The name of a man reviled by the Ojibwe on the Iron Lake Reservation more than forty years ago.”
“Responsible for the Vanishings?”
“I believe so.”
“How do you know this?”
“I’ve asked a lot of questions and put the answers together. That headache you heard about. Someone coldcocked me this morning when I was at the site of Indigo Broom’s cabin.”
“What were you looking for?”
“I didn’t know exactly. I just wanted to see where he lived. The cabin burned to the ground around the time the Vanishings ended, and Broom disappeared the same time. Word on the reservation was that he’d left to visit relatives and never returned. I think that wasn’t true. I think he was burned along with his cabin. And one more thing, Simon. I found manacles in the ruins. My guess is that’s where the victims were killed.”
“Where is this place?”
“A couple of miles north of the entrance Haddad and I found to the Vermilion Drift. I’ll draw you a map. Now, what about Hattie Stillday?”
“One more question first. Do you have any idea who coldcocked you?”
“Not at the moment. Like I told you this afternoon, I’m still working that one out. Honest.”
“All right.” Rutledge got up and stood at the porch railing. He looked across the quiet street, where rooftops half hid the setting sun. “Hattie Stillday definitely had something to do with the murder of Lauren Cavanaugh, but I haven’t figured out what exactly. She knows some things, she hedges on others, and to some of my questions she gave the wrong answer.”
“Like what?”
“Her story is that when she confronted Cavanaugh the woman went berserk. Began throwing things. Stillday moved to avoid one of the items and the gun went off. I asked her how far away from Cavanaugh she was at that point. She said a few feet. But according to the medical examiner, the powder burn indicates the shot was fired point-blank. Another thing. I asked her about the murder weapon, the thirty-eight she claims she’s had forever. I asked her if she ever cleaned the weapon. She said she did. I asked her how she went about it. She couldn’t answer.”
“What did she have to say about getting rid of the body?”
“You’ve been thinking about that, too?” Rutledge smiled, as if it made perfect sense to him. “Her story is that she panicked, drove back to the rez, thought better of it, and came back to the center to clean things up and get rid of the body. I asked her how she managed to drive her truck, with Cavanaugh’s body wrapped in a tarp, out to the rez and also get Cavanaugh’s car out there. She wouldn’t answer me. She’s a tough lady, but I saw worry on her face, Cork.”
“What did she say about the Vermilion Drift and the bodies there?”
“Absolutely nothing. When I tried to take the questioning in the direction of the Vanishings, she clammed up. Her attorney wouldn’t let her answer any questions about the old killings. I got the feeling that, even if Oliver Bledsoe hadn’t been present, Hattie Stillday would have told me squat about what happened over forty years ago. Is it possible she threw in with Broom back then?”
“Absolutely not, Simon. Hattie lost a child to the Vanishings. If it was Indigo Broom behind those killings, and I’m almost positive it was, the business Hattie had with him was a different kind of business entirely.”
Rutledge stared at Cork for a moment. “You said Broom was burned along with his cabin. An ac
cident?”
Cork shook his head. “I’d say justice.”
The two men both stared toward the sunset, where the sky was going red.
“Simon, Hattie insists that she had nothing to do with the second set of threatening notes. Do you believe her?”
“Yeah, I do. Why would she confess to the killing but lie about that?”
“You know what it means?”
Simon’s face was a red mask reflecting the vermilion sky. “It means we’re still in the dark in a lot of ways.”
“And,” Cork added, “it means people associated with Vermilion One might still be in harm’s way.”
THIRTY-THREE
After Rutledge had gone, Cork got out the box given to him by Millie Joseph that contained his mother’s journals. Since his conversation with Cy Borkman that afternoon, he’d been chewing on questions for which he had no answer. Had Borkman read the situation right? Had his father really been involved with another woman? If so, could that woman have been Monique Cavanaugh? Did his mother know?
He took the box to the patio and, in the warm blue of summer twilight, sat down and began to read.
January 1, 1965
We didn’t celebrate the beginning of this new year. We have no reason to celebrate. My husband is dead. My niece is dead, killed by a madwoman and an Ojibwe majimanidoo. And we who are left abide with our guilt, an uncomfortable companion in all our hours. I miss Liam so much. I will miss him forever.
His mother had known about Monique Cavanaugh’s involvement in the Vanishings, and something had happened in all that terrible, chaotic time that left her with guilt, an uncomfortable companion in all our hours. Was it something to do with Monique Cavanaugh’s death? Was it guilt over having driven her husband away, driven him into another woman’s arms? Guilt because there’d been no reconciliation before he died? But the guilt was some kind of collective guilt as well:… we who are left. Had she meant Cork, who, according to Borkman, had been party to driving his father away? Or had she meant someone else?
He read entry after entry with no indication of remonstration against his father for unfaithfulness. Yet Borkman had been certain of the infidelity, uncertain only of the true identity of the woman his father had picked up at Jacque’s.
Cork closed his eyes, trying hard to remember those days. He blanked. He recalled clearly the hospital vigil he’d kept with his mother while Liam O’Connor lay dying, but before that so much was missing, which was something he’d never really thought about before. Memories were always spotty at best, snapshots put together to create the sense of a more detailed whole. But the summer of 1964 was different. It wasn’t just that there were no snapshots; it was a sense that, like those missing pages of his mother’s journal, something important had been torn out.
It was nearly dark when he put the journals back into the box and went inside. He took the Rolodex from the desk in his office and flipped to a number he hadn’t called in quite a while. He got voice messaging.
“This is Dr. Gray. I can’t take your call at the moment. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
Cork waited for the beep. “Faith, it’s Cork O’Connor. I know you get this all the time, but here goes. I need your help and I need it now.”
A summer storm moved in after dark, bringing a steady rain. Cork was preparing a night deposit slip at Sam’s Place when Dr. Faith Gray returned his call. It was 10:45 P.M.
“You sounded pretty desperate,” she said. “Are you all right?”
“Not really.”
“I’m at home if it’s an emergency.”
“I’d appreciate talking to you.”
“Come on over. I’ll leave the porch light on.”
Faith Gray lived four blocks from the O’Connor house, in a rambler painted light blue with yellow trim. She was a quirky homeowner, with no particular love of lawns. Her property was given over to hostas and planter boxes and rickety-looking trellis affairs without any apparent master plan. Sun catchers and medallions and odd, glittery bits hung on ribbons from the low branches of her trees. Here and there she’d stuck signs amid the foliage. The signs changed from time to time, depending upon the political season and the affairs of the world beyond Aurora, but they tended to praise peace and advocate justice and, in general, exhort people to follow a reasonable and compassionate path through the minefield of life.
Her porch light was on, as promised, and when Cork came out of the rain and mounted the front steps, she was already waiting at the door.
“Come in,” she said with a gracious smile.
She was tall, solid, big-boned, with lovely, long gray hair, a plain, angular face, and eyes the welcoming green of ivy leaves. “I’m having chamomile tea. Would you like some?”
“No thanks.”
“Suit yourself. Have a seat.”
Her living room contained almost as much foliage as her yard, and Cork took an easy chair next to a healthy rubber tree plant.
“You look nice,” he said.
She sat on the sofa, which was backed by a shelf of ferns. “A date.”
“Do I know her?”
“This is about you,” she said. “Talk to me.”
“I need to remember some things, Faith.”
“Okay.”
“Things from my past. From my childhood. I try to reach back, and it’s like everything is there except the one thing I’m trying to remember.”
“That’s not unusual. Our memories are protective that way.”
“It’s important that I remember this period.”
“Why?”
“Is this confidential? Doctor-patient?”
Faith Gray was a psychologist. During his tenure as sheriff of Tamarack County, Cork had brought her on as a consultant to work on psychological assessments of new hires and to help establish guidelines and regulations concerning such things as treatment for deputies involved in officer-related shootings. He liked her. More important, he trusted her.
“I’ll consider it so,” she replied. “And I’ll bill you for this session. I ought to warn you, I charge overtime.” In response to his blank stare, she offered a smile. “That’s a joke, Cork.”
On the street outside, a car went past, and the sound of tires on the wet pavement was a long, heavy sigh. Faith Gray waited.
Cork gathered himself and said, “It’s about the Vanishings.”
He didn’t tell her everything. He left out the parts that might incriminate anyone, and focused on those elements that were about his family, particularly Borkman’s accusation concerning his father’s infidelity. As evidence that there were things hidden, he also told her about the missing journal pages. He asked if she could maybe hypnotize him in order to help him remember what happened in the late, fateful part of the summer of 1964.
“I don’t hypnotize people, Cork. But what I can do is guide you through some relaxation techniques that may help you retrieve the memories yourself.”
“What do we do?”
“Why don’t you start by lying down?”
They exchanged places, and Cork, once he’d laid himself on the sofa, could smell the hot chamomile tea in the cup on the end table.
“Close your eyes, and listen to my voice. What I’m going to do is offer you some suggestions meant to help your body and your mind relax. They’ll all be very simple and very safe, all right?”
“I’m ready,” Cork said.
She began in a soft voice and had him focus on his toes, on being aware of each of them. Gradually she moved up his body, toward the top of his head, but as she was leading him ever so gently through the relaxation of his eyes, Cork suddenly found himself in the middle of the nightmare, watching his father fall to his death.
He jerked awake.
“What is it?” Gray asked.
“Sorry. I must have fallen asleep.”
“That happens sometimes.”
“I was dreaming. A nightmare.”
“Want to talk about it?”
He sat up and shook his head. “It was just a normal nightmare.”
“One you’ve had before?”
“Yes.”
“Often?”
“They began a little over a year ago.”
“Is it the same nightmare every time?”
“Not exactly.”
She sat patiently. Outside the window, rain dripped off the roof and hit the leaves of her yard plants with steady little slaps. Finally Cork told her. About how, when his father fell, it was in different ways, and how the nightmare repeated itself, and how, the second time around, he stood outside and watched himself push his father to his death.
“Just a normal nightmare?” she said. “Cork, dreaming that you had a hand in killing your father isn’t exactly your usual thing-that-goes-bump-in-the-night nightmare.”
“All right, what is it?”
“What kind of relationship did you have with your father?”
“He was a terrific father. I loved him.”
“Yet time and again you push him to his death.”
“Not because I didn’t love him.”
“Why then?”
“You’re the mind reader. You tell me.”
“Any conflicts with him?”
“Not that I remember. Although people I talk to lately tell me differently.”
“What do they tell you?”
“That I was kind of a shit toward him.”
“But you don’t remember that?”
“No. It’s part of all that stuff I can’t recall.”
“How old were you when he died?”
“Thirteen.”
“It could be Oedipal,” she said.
“What? I wanted him out of the way so that I could sleep with my mother? Right.”
She shrugged. “I’m not a big fan of Freudian interpretations either.”
“So what else?”
“How did he die?”
Cork explained the shoot-out at the bank and the vigil at the hospital.
“You were with him when he died?”
“Yes. My mother was there, too. Praying her heart out.”
“What about you?”
“What do you mean?”
The William Kent Krueger Collection #4 Page 21
