“Why do you do that?” she said, suddenly irritated.
“What?”
“Identify yourself as Ojibwe. You’re only a small part Ojibwe. Less than Jubal was Blackfeet, and he only called himself Indian when it was to his political advantage.”
“If I only identified myself as Ojibwe when it was advantageous to do so, I probably never would. And you didn’t answer my question. Why do you think it was a Shinnob?”
She was wearing a knitted shawl whose color, in the faint evening light, was hard to tell exactly. She pulled it more tightly around her.
“Because Jubal had to sacrifice someone for the greater good,” she said, rather coldly, “and it was your people he chose for that honor. He’s always received threats, but lately they’ve been more vicious and more specific about the casino issue.”
“I’m sorry,” Cork said.
“No reason to be.” She eyed him pointedly. “Unless you made them.”
He decided it was time to cover other territory. “Camilla, before he died, Jubal told me—”
From the great house, someone called, “Camilla?”
“Just a minute, Alex,” she called back, then returned her attention to Cork. “Jubal told you what?”
“Now,” Alex said in a voice that clearly meant business.
Camilla frowned toward the house. “We’d better go. He’s eager to talk to you.”
She turned and began ahead of Cork up the flagstones. He watched her walk away, appreciating the natural grace that had been part of what had caught Jubal’s eye long ago and knowing, at the same time, that all her graces and all her money would never have been enough to make up for the one thing she could not be: an Ojibwe woman named Winona Crane.
CHAPTER 15
From his days as a premier NFL quarterback and the investments he’d made then, Jubal Little had money, but not enough to mount a significant political campaign. He didn’t have that kind of cash until he married Camilla Jaeger, of the meatpacking Jaegers. Great-great-grandfather Jaeger had been a German immigrant from Düsseldorf, an astute and ruthless businessman who’d built an empire slaughtering midwestern hogs. His son had amassed a second fortune as the result of an innovative process for grinding, compressing, and canning all the unsavory animal parts so that they could easily be shipped or stored, creating a product packed in revolting gelatin that he called Pork’m, which was a mash-up of the words pork and ham. In modern times, the name had become a joke, but the product itself continued to enjoy an inexplicable worldwide popularity.
The family no longer had a stake in the company, which had been sold years before to a faceless conglomerate, and the current generation of Jaegers were free to pursue interests that had nothing to do with slaughtering hogs. Mostly, their interest was politics, where generally the only slaughter involved the truth.
Camilla Jaeger’s father had been a senator and had twice made a pretty good run at his party’s presidential nomination. He was an old-school midwestern progressive, a man of good intentions and powerful ego. At the age of seventy, he’d died as the result of a stroke suffered on the floor of the U.S. Senate while delivering an impassioned defense of a bill he’d introduced that was intended to create a system of free day care for low-income women who wanted to work. His sacrifice made no difference. The bill was soundly defeated.
Senator Jaeger had three children. In addition to his daughter, Camilla, there were two sons: Alexander and Nicholas. When Cork accompanied Jubal Little’s wife inside, he found the two brothers waiting in the large den. They were alone. The media team and campaign people had made themselves scarce. The room was comfortably furnished in plush brown leather and smelled of the cherrywood burning in the great fieldstone fireplace. Alex Jaeger stood near the bar, with a drink in his hand. Nick Jaeger leaned against the fireplace mantel. He also held a filled liquor glass. Cork had met the brothers before, but only briefly, when as sheriff of Tamarack County, he’d been involved in coordinating security for Jubal’s appearances there. From what Jubal had told him, Cork had gathered that drinking was another major interest the Jaegers had taken up since they left off killing pigs.
Without a word of greeting or any other normal cordiality, Alex said, “Another body up there, we’ve heard.”
In his mid-forties, Alex was the eldest of the Jaeger progeny. He’d graduated from the Naval Academy near the top of his class and had served a number of years before being assigned to the USS Cole. He’d been aboard ship the day it was torn apart while refueling in the port of Aden, and he was among the severely injured. He’d spent months recuperating and had finally been sent home with a face that would have made a suitable model for a Halloween mask. He’d undergone a number of reconstructive surgeries since, with limited success. His was still a face that, in a crowd, drew the curious eye. Cork knew that Senator Jaeger had hoped Alex might, at some point, follow in his political footsteps, but in a day when being photogenic was a more significant requirement for political office than being astute, Alex Jaeger didn’t have a prayer. That hadn’t stopped him from entering the political arena, but in another way. He’d worked for his father behind the scenes in Washington and at home in Minnesota. He’d become adept at negotiating treacherous political terrain and forging impossible alliances. He could be charming and ruthless in the same moment, and the power you felt when standing in his presence was undeniable. He’d managed the campaigns that had put Jubal Little in Washington as a U.S. representative and kept him there through several terms while he established his political credentials and acumen, and then had run the campaign that had promised to make Jubal governor.
“Yes,” Cork replied. “Another body.”
“New?”
“I’m not sure what you mean by that, but he was probably there when Jubal died.”
“Why didn’t the police find him yesterday?”
“No reason to look where the body was found.”
“But you had a reason?”
“I saw some things they didn’t.”
Nick Jaeger drank from his glass and nodded. “That’s right. You still-stalk. Whenever I hunted with Jubal, he was always going on about what a great goddamn tracker his friend Cork O’Connor was.”
Nicholas was the youngest of the Jaegers, in his late thirties. Cork had the sense that he was an adrenaline junkie. Nick was always off somewhere exotic, doing something dangerous—climbing difficult mountains, hunting big game, enterprises generally reserved for the very rich.
“Who was he, the new dead man?” Alex said in a steel voice. “And what did he have to do with Jubal’s murder?”
“I don’t really know. And that goes for both questions.”
Alex finished the liquor in his glass and studied the ice. “Don’t the police think it’s odd, your connection with both killings?”
“I’m sure they do. Hell, I think it’s odd.”
“A coincidence?” Camilla asked.
She’d seated herself in one of the big leather chairs, and Nick brought her a drink. He said, “I’ll bet our Mr. O’Connor doesn’t believe in coincidence. Am I right?”
Cork shrugged. “It happens sometimes.”
“So. Is that what happened up there?” Alex asked. “Coincidence?”
Cork said, “We’ll all know more when they’ve finished their investigation.”
Alex gave him an unflinching stare, and the room was quiet except for the crackle of the cherrywood in the fireplace.
“Three hours, Cork.” Alex finally said what was really on his mind. “You waited three hours before you went to get help.”
Cork was getting tired of explaining that he hadn’t gone for help at all, so this time he didn’t. He simply said, “Jubal asked me to stay.”
“He didn’t want to be alone?” Camilla looked as if she was on the verge of tears.
“That’s right.”
“Was he in great pain, Cork?” Her voice was small and fearful, as if she wasn’t at all certain that she wanted to know the truth.
&
nbsp; And the truth was yes, Jubal had suffered. But what good would it do her to know? So Cork told her, “Not as much as you might expect. He was able to talk much of the time.”
“What did he talk about?”
“You, for one.”
“Me?” Camilla seemed surprised and happy. “What did he say?”
“He asked me to tell you something. He said he had a lot of regrets, and one of his greatest was that he didn’t treat you better. He asked me to tell you that, although he didn’t show it or tell you often enough, he loved you very much.”
Which was the absolute truth of what Jubal had said. Cork left it to Camilla to decide the truth of the statements themselves.
Camilla covered her face with her hands, and the tears came in a flood against her palms. Nick leaned down and put his arm around her shoulders.
“Did he talk about anything else?” Alex asked as he poured himself another drink from a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue.
“He did a lot of reminiscing. Life-flashing-before-his-eyes kind of thing. And he talked about dying.”
Camilla looked up and wiped at her eyes. “Was he afraid?”
“No.”
“The greatest adventure of all,” Nick said and lifted his glass as if in a toast.
“Oh, shut up,” Camilla snapped.
Her younger brother smiled indulgently. “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve thought I was on the verge of dying?”
“Do you have any idea how little I care at this moment?”
“What I’m getting at, Camilla, is that, when you look death in the eye, I mean when it’s right there in front of you, breathing into your face, it’s an extraordinary experience. Did he laugh, Cork?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
Nick nodded, as if that was exactly what he’d expected. “When you’re about to let go for good, there are moments of euphoria,” he said grandly. “I’ve seen it before.”
Alex didn’t seem to be paying any attention to what his brother was saying. He shook his head and muttered to himself, “What a waste.”
Cork found it interesting that Alex Jaeger hadn’t characterized Jubal’s death as tragic or devastating or any number of things that might have signaled a deep personal feeling about a terrible loss. He’d said “waste” instead, as if Jubal Little had been nothing to him but a highly valuable commodity.
“Is there anything else?” Cork asked, more than ready to go, because he was tired—of the day, the circumstances, and especially these people.
Alex put his drink on the liquor cabinet, crossed the room, and positioned himself threateningly near Cork. He said, “You didn’t kill Jubal?”
“Why would I?”
“We all have secrets. Some of them are probably worth killing for.”
Cork had had enough. “It’s been a rough day,” he said curtly. “I’m tired. I’m going home.”
“I’ll walk you to your car,” Camilla offered.
She stood and took his arm as if he was her escort at a ball, and they left the room. Behind him, Cork heard the sound of ice being dropped into a glass.
Outside, in the charcoal light of that dismal evening, they found Yates standing on the crushed limestone, looking up at the overcast. “Smells like winter,” he said. Then he said, “I miss Texas.” And finally he said, “Do you need me for anything else, Camilla?”
She shook her head. “Thank you, Kenny.”
He turned his big, dark face toward Cork, sizing him up, the way he might have appraised an opponent on the gridiron. He looked as if he wanted to say something. Instead, all he said was “Good night,” and left them alone and returned to the house.
From somewhere above the lake, but too deep in the approach of night to be seen, came the call of geese heading south. It was a sound Cork had heard a thousand times in his life, but at the moment, it struck him as profoundly sad, like the call of someone hopelessly lost and afraid.
“Camilla, does the name Rhiannon mean anything to you?”
She thought a moment. “No. Why?”
“When he was dying, Jubal mentioned it.”
She shook her head. “The only name that seemed important to him was . . . hers.” She leaned against the driver’s door of his Land Rover, so that Cork couldn’t have left immediately even if he’d wanted to. “Have you talked to her?”
Cork knew who she meant. “No.”
“Do me a favor?”
“Sure.”
“When you see her, tell her . . .”
Cork waited. Even in the gathering gloom, the tears that rolled down her cheeks were obvious and the hurt in her eyes unmistakable.
“Tell her I’m planning an elaborate funeral for Jubal. Everyone will be there. Everyone except her. Tell her that I’m not going to bury him up here either. I’m going to bury him in Saint Paul, next to the plot reserved for me. Tell her that she may have had him in this life, but he’ll be at my side for eternity.”
CHAPTER 16
Camilla’s parting comment put Cork in mind of burials, and as he drove away from Jubal Little’s home on Iron Lake, he recalled an incident at Donner Bigby’s funeral.
After Donner’s death, Cork told the investigators as much of the truth as he could. That he and Jubal had arrived after Bigby was well into his climb up Trickster’s Point. That Bigby had reached the top. That from below they’d watched him disappear from view. That the next thing Cork had heard was Bigby’s scream as he fell. That he didn’t see the fall or what might have caused it. That when they reached him, Bigby was already dead.
When Cy Borkman asked Cork what they were doing at Trickster’s Point in the first place, Cork told him that they’d come to confront Bigby about what had happened to Winona Crane, but Bigby had fallen before they had a chance to talk to him. Which was mostly true.
Jubal told the same story. It was uncomplicated, easy for them to stand by, and involved only one outright lie—that they both had stayed on the ground.
The whole sheriff’s department knew Cork well. His father had led them as sheriff, and they’d watched Cork grow from a baby. Aurora was a small community, and everyone knew Jubal, or at least knew his reputation as a fine athlete and natural leader. And everyone knew the kind of kid Donner Bigby had been, and most folks suspected that he was responsible for the brutal attack on Winona Crane. When it came down to scraping the bedrock of people’s belief, Cork and Jubal were good kids, and providence alone had delivered to Donner Bigby his just deserts.
Bigby’s father felt differently. Buzz Bigby was a man as huge as the trees he felled, and anyone who’d had occasion to run afoul of him knew there was a good deal in him to fear. Which was exactly the experience Cork had at Donner Bigby’s funeral.
He didn’t want to go, but his mother insisted. “He was your classmate,” she told him. “And I’ve known his mother all my life. I don’t care what he might have done when he was alive. That’s in God’s hands now.”
The service was well attended, which surprised Cork. In his mind, the whole world had disliked Donner Bigby. Afterward, those in attendance gathered in the community room in the basement of Zion Lutheran Church for a meal. The room had been set up with a big poster on which were glued photos of Bigby taken as he grew up, and Cork was yet again surprised when he saw visual proof that Donner Bigby might once have been something besides big and mean.
He recognized Mrs. Bigby from that fateful morning when he and Jubal had come knocking at her door, and as he stood with his mother in the basement, holding a plate of potato salad and sliced ham and black olives, he saw the woman look his way and then maneuver toward him through the large gathering.
“Hello, Alice,” Cork’s mother greeted her. “I’m so sorry about Donner.”
“Thank you, Colleen,” Mrs. Bigby said, then her eyes, blue and fragile as butterflies, settled on Cork. “I understand you stayed with Donner while your friend went for help.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Cork replied.
“Thank you
. It’s a comfort knowing that he wasn’t alone.”
He was dead, Cork thought. Beyond alone. Or maybe as alone as you could ever get.
She hesitated, then asked, “He didn’t suffer?”
“No, ma’am, he couldn’t have. The fall killed him instantly.”
She nodded and looked down. “He was so often . . . unhappy.” She raised her head and stared at her husband on the other side of the big room, where he dominated in the way a redwood might stand out above all other trees. “He believed he had a lot to live up to.”
Beside Buzz Bigby stood Donner’s kid brother, Lester. He was maybe ten years old, dressed in a dark suit and tie. It was clear he would never be big, not in the way Donner had been. He seemed to have inherited more of his mother’s genes. Cork was glad to see him, to know that the woman had another son. Another chance, maybe.
Bigby’s father caught sight of his wife and then—Cork’s heart dropped—seemed to recognize Cork. He’d been talking to the Lutheran minister, but he cut off the conversation abruptly. He crossed the room, and the gathering made way before him. Lester trailed behind him like a leaf caught in a strong draft.
“You,” Mr. Bigby said in a loud voice. “What are you doing here?”
“I asked him to come with me, Clarence,” Cork’s mother said.
Alice Bigby put a hand on her husband’s arm and cautioned, “Buzz.”
He shook her off and drilled Cork with accusing eyes. “There’s something not right about what went on out there. My kid was like a mountain goat. I watched him climb. I don’t understand how he could just fall.”
“Leave him alone, Buzz,” Alice Bigby said in a low, cold voice.
Cork looked up into Mr. Bigby’s face. The funeral, the comforting scripture and the kind things that had been said, the poster with so many pictures of Bigs as a child, they’d all worked to haze over Cork’s feelings about the unpleasant kid he’d known Donner Bigby to be. But staring up into that angry, bullying face, Cork saw the Donner Bigby he’d always feared and hated.
“I don’t understand it either, sir,” Cork managed to reply. “I just know that he did.”
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