“Were you praying your heart out?”
He shook his head and realized the headache he’d had most of the day was coming back, big-time. “I knew it was hopeless.”
“Why?”
“Because the doctor said so.”
“Is that the only reason?”
“Probably not. I wasn’t happy with God at that point.”
“Oh?”
“Didn’t believe him.”
“Any particular reason?”
“I’ve always thought it was my age.”
“Do you think it might have made a difference if you’d prayed?”
“Maybe. I suppose I’ve always wished I had.”
“So do you think it’s possible the root of the nightmare might be that you interpret not praying as pushing your father into his death?”
“I don’t need a nightmare to tell me that. I’ve always felt guilty and always wondered if I’d prayed like my mother would it have made a difference. I thought nightmares were about things you didn’t want to know about consciously.”
“Nightmares can be complicated and about more than a single thing. Our minds are pretty complex, and connections can be intricate. You told me that the nightmares began a little over a year ago. That would be shortly after your wife died, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Sometimes, Cork, when we see someone fall in our dreams, it may have to do with our own belief that we’re lacking an essential quality they possess or that we’ve let them down somehow.”
“But it was Jo I lost, not my father.”
“Do you believe your father would have saved Jo?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“Just a question. But I think it’s a relevant one, considering when the nightmares began.”
“Nobody could have saved Jo.”
“You sound a little angry.”
“There’s a lot going on. I’m kind of wound up.”
“I understand.”
She waited and watched him, and when she didn’t offer anything further, he blurted, “Look, it’s not about Jo, okay?”
“If you say so.”
He pulled himself back, tried to quell his inexplicable anger, and said, “So what else could it be about?”
“It’s possible the nightmare has to do with something very particular, something you don’t remember from that time you can’t recall.”
“If it is, what do we do about it?”
“The truth is that nothing is ever lost. It’s all in there somewhere,” she said, tapping her head. “It could take a long time to crack that nut, Cork, but I’m willing to help you try. If you call my office tomorrow, I’ll see when I can work you in.”
“A long time?” Cork closed his eyes and rubbed his throbbing temples. “I’ll think about it. Do I still have time on this hour?”
“Sure.”
“What do you know about psychopathy?”
“That depends on what you’re interested in.”
“Can it be inherited?”
“There’s a lot of research that points toward a genetic component.”
“People can be born bad?”
“‘Bad’ is a judgmental term. But I believe people may be born without a conscience, yes. Environment also plays an important part in shaping psychopathic behavior. What you’re talking about is generally referred to these days as dissocial or antisocial personality disorder, and psychopaths are generally referred to as antisocial personalities.”
“A rose by any other name,” Cork said. “They’re good at hiding who they really are, right? Like Ted Bundy?”
“They can be very good. They’re often bright, and although they don’t feel remorse or guilt or empathy the way most people do, they know how to mask that. There have been a number of famous cases in which serial killers were able to hide their activities from wives or husbands or parents. But just because someone might be diagnosed with this disorder, that doesn’t mean they’re dangerous like Ted Bundy was dangerous. These traits can make them very successful in competitive environments, like business or politics.”
“Are you saying our politicians are psychopaths?”
She smiled. “Some of them, probably. As were some of the great robber barons and industrialists, certainly.”
“But they didn’t kill people, at least not outright, not like Bundy or John Wayne Gacy. What makes someone do that?”
“We’re outside my comfort zone of knowledge here, Cork. If you’d like, I’ll do a little research on the subject. I know a couple of colleagues who are better versed in psychopathic behavior than I am. I’ll be glad to talk to them.”
“Thanks, Faith.” He stood up, prepared to leave.
“You’ll call tomorrow, make an appointment?”
“I’ll think about it seriously.”
But what he was really thinking was that he needed answers sooner than Faith Gray was going to be able to supply them.
It was still raining when he got home. As Cork stepped from the garage, Trixie poked her nose out the door of her doghouse and woofed. He freed her and let her in the house, gave her a fresh bowl of food and fresh water, took some Tylenol for himself, went out to the front porch, and sat on the swing. A few moments later, Trixie scratched at the screen, and Cork let her out so that she could join him.
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 o
f 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.”
“Mudjimushkeeki,” Cork said. “An Ojibwe word. It means ‘bad medicine.’”
“It’s certainly been bad medicine for my family.”
“So if you hate this place, why are you here?”
“You asked me for information about my parents during the time my mother was alive. I thought maybe Lauren might have something. She always had a fascination where our mother was concerned.”
“She was pretty young when your mother died.”
“Too young to remember her at all. Maybe the reason for the wonderment.”
“Have you found anything?”
“No.”
Cork nodded toward the folder opened on the desk. “Those look like financial documents. Anything to do with your mother?”
Cavanaugh closed the folder. Cork saw that on the outside someone had doodled a figure that looked like a dog or a wolf. “They deal with the center. As long as I was here, I thought I’d check on the financial mess Lauren left behind.”
“They’re holding Hattie Stillday for her murder. You’ve heard?”
“Yeah. I got a call. I was always afraid that Lauren’s shenanigans would get her into real trouble someday. I just never figured they would get her killed.”
“You think Hattie’s guilty?”
“I don’t know Ms. Stillday well enough to say one way or the other. But the sheriff told me there’s a lot of evidence pointing her way. And, hell, she confessed.”
“Yeah,” Cork admitted. “There’s that.”
Cavanaugh stood up, took the folder to one of the file cabinets, and slipped it into a drawer. When he turned back, he looked drained. “I’ve got to get out of here. This place is killing me.”
“I understand.”
Cork walked him to the front door, where Cavanaugh said, “You coming?”
“No, I’m here for the art show. Think I’ll stroll around some more. Take care of yourself, Max.”
Cavanaugh looked at him with eyes still sunk deeply in sadness. “You told me the other day, Cork, that time would heal. How much time does it take?”
Cork put his hand on Cavanaugh’s shoulder. “More,” he said.
After Cavanaugh had gone, Cork returned to Ophelia’s office and pulled open the file drawer in which Max had put the folder. He thumbed through until he found the one with the canine doodle on the front. The folder was marked “Stillday, H.”
Cork opened it and found several invoices for artwork. A yellow Post-it was affixed to the first invoice. On it was a handwritten note: Pay this, you stinking whore!
Hattie’s writing? Cork wondered.
He put the folder back in the drawer, left the office, and headed down the hallway toward the north wing, which had been Lauren Cavanaugh’s private residence. The door to the
wing was unlocked. He retraced the steps he’d taken only a few days earlier, when he’d first been hired to find Max Cavanaugh’s sister: through the study, the parlor, the dining room, the bedroom. As he went, he noted again the artworks that hung on every wall. Some were paintings, oil and watercolor and other media he couldn’t even guess at. Many were photographs, a lot of them by Hattie Stillday but a few by Ophelia as well. The approaches of both women were similar, though Hattie clearly had the more seasoned eye. Her nature photographs didn’t just frame a scene, they evoked atmosphere and mood and texture. They suggested story. He wondered which of the photographs were those Lauren Cavanaugh had purchased but never paid for, photographs important enough that Hattie claimed she had killed for them.
He sat on Lauren Cavanaugh’s bed, wondering if this was where she’d had her romps with Derek Huff, or had she used the bed in the boathouse for that? He opened the drawers of her dresser again and went through her vanity. He checked her closets. He returned to the study and rifled the drawers of the desk. He came up empty-handed, even though he hadn’t really known what he was looking for. He sat in an easy chair in the parlor and stared at the east wall, which was hung with an arranged display of photographs of the North Country. Three of the photos together formed a long panoramic view of a dramatic shoreline. They’d been shot in black and white, an odd choice, Cork thought, when the subject in reality was so vivid in its color—Iron Lake, which would have been hard blue against the powder blue of the sky, the face of a rock cliff, probably the gray of wolf fur, topped with aspens whose trunks were ivory and whose leaves would have been pale jade. He’d never understand art or artists, he decided, and got up and started away.
He’d reached the French doors and was about to step outside when it hit him. He turned and hurried back to the parlor and stood in front of the three photographs. The reason he’d been able to visualize the colors of the scene so well, he realized, was because he knew the place. A place of bimaadiziwin. It was where Cork’s revolver had been hidden but was no more.
Although he could already tell who’d taken the photos, he leaned close and read the artist’s tag to be absolutely certain.
The William Kent Krueger Collection #4 Page 22
