The sheriff said, “He’s dead, Cam. So the privacy of what he might have told you in those confessions seems a moot issue now.”
“What are you asking, Liam?”
“I’m wondering about his confessions. I’m wondering what he told you that might help me understand why he killed himself.” Then he added, “If, in fact, he did.”
“Dead or no, Liam, the Seal of Confession still applies.”
“Then tell me this. Do you believe he’d fallen off the wagon, as the evidence seems to indicate?”
“People in confession seldom confess to everything, Liam.”
“Do you know of anything that might have driven him back to the drink?”
The priest simply stared at him and held to silence.
Laughter from the lawn rumbled through the open door, and Liam glanced out to where all the scouts seemed to be enjoying the antics of a stray dog who was scampering among them, disrupting Scoutmaster Dordt’s lesson on honing.
“Okay, Cam, how about this? In the confessional, has Duncan MacDermid confessed to something that might cause you personally some great conflict of conscience?”
“I’m not going to answer that.”
“Then there was something?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Would you say that Duncan has some terrible sin weighing on his soul?”
“What man doesn’t, Liam, including you? I don’t tell others what you’ve told me in confession. Why would you think I’d behave differently with Duncan MacDermid or Big John?”
“I’m asking, Cam, because I have reason to suspect that MacDermid may know something about Big John’s death. So, all I would like to know from you is this: Is it possible I’ll discover something significant if I press Duncan MacDermid?”
The priest turned from Liam and gazed down the center aisle toward a life-sized crucifix that hung on the wall behind the altar. After a long moment, he turned again to Liam and said, “Duncan isn’t the only MacDermid who enters my confessional.”
Liam thought about this, then nodded. “Thank you, Cam.”
“Will I see you at Mass tomorrow?”
“I’m on duty.”
“Pity. You look like a man who could use a little spiritual comfort.”
CHAPTER 17
Saturday night was the one time in every week when Liam O’Connor took over the kitchen. With his son’s help, he prepared the evening meal, which was almost always hamburgers, baked beans, and coleslaw. In summer, dessert was usually hand-cranked ice cream.
Liam loved this tradition in which the men of the O’Connor clan fed the women. He mixed the meat and Cork shaped the burgers. Cork chopped the cabbage and Liam threw together the slaw. Liam prepared the ice cream mixture and settled the canister into the rock salt and ice of the bucket, and he and Cork took turns with the cranking. They absolutely wouldn’t allow Colleen or Dilsey to lift a hand in the preparations. While Liam and Cork worked, they talked. Which was maybe the best part of the whole arrangement.
That Saturday, Liam was deep in thought, and he didn’t hear Cork talking to him.
“Dad!” Cork finally said, his voice demanding.
Liam stood at the kitchen counter, slicing tomatoes for the burgers. He glanced over his shoulder at his son, who was turning the crank on the ice cream bucket. “What is it?”
“I’ve been talking to you.”
“Sorry. What were you saying?”
“I bought Mom’s birthday present this morning.”
“Good man.” Liam returned to his work. “What did you get her?”
“A book. Two actually, but one’s a gift from Sandie Herron.”
“She’ll like that.”
“Mrs. MacDermid came into the shop while I was there.”
Liam turned fully now, knife in hand, his fingers red from the juice of the sliced tomatoes. “Did you happen to talk to her?”
“Just to say hello. But, Dad, she was wearing this special perfume. It’s called Shalimar.”
Liam waited for Cork to go on, trying to keep his face unreadable.
“It’s like this. Before they buried Big John, I went to the grave they dug for him out at the mission. There was a note all folded up at the bottom of the grave. I was curious so I opened it. There was one word written on it—’goodbye.’ The paper was scented with perfume. Then I smelled that same perfume on Mrs. Pflugleman at the wake, and when I asked her, she said it was called Shalimar. And this morning at the bookstore, Mrs. MacDermid was wearing it, too.”
“Just the one word on the paper, ‘goodbye’?”
“Yes.”
“How was it written?”
“What do you mean?”
“In script or block letters?”
“Script.”
“If you had to guess, was it written by a man or a woman?”
Cork thought about how the word had been written, and it reminded him of the way his mother wrote, clean and delicate. “A woman, maybe.”
“And this paper, was it regular paper?”
“Pink stationery. With flowers across the top.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about the note before this?”
“It didn’t seem important before. But now I think it’s a crumb, and like Henry Meloux said, we should follow the crumbs.”
“Where exactly?”
“To the truth about Big John’s death.”
Liam put the knife down and came and sat beside his son, who went on cranking. “The truth about Big John’s death is my worry, Cork. I don’t want you involved in this.”
“You said I could follow my own trail of crumbs.”
“Things are getting a little more complicated now.”
“It means something, Dad. The note and the perfume.”
“What does it mean?” Liam’s voice had become taut, and he saw his son draw back.
“I don’t know. But that’s what an investigation is about, right? You don’t know what the crumbs mean until you follow them to the end.”
“You’re twelve years old, Cork—”
“Almost thirteen.”
“Almost thirteen,” Liam granted, working to quiet himself. “There’s a lot about this world and how people behave in it that you don’t understand.”
“What don’t I understand?” Now his son’s voice was rising, challenging.
“I’m not going to argue about this, Cork. I don’t want you doing any more poking into what happened to Big John. That’s that.”
Colleen stepped into the kitchen and smiled when she saw them sitting together. “Boys sharing secrets?”
“Something like that.” Liam stood and went back to slicing tomatoes at the counter.
“How’s that ice cream coming?” Colleen asked.
Cork said with a dismal tone, “My arm feels like it’s about to fall off.”
“I’d be happy to crank for a while.”
“Out,” Liam said. “This is men’s work.”
* * *
After dinner, Dilsey, who always came into Aurora to share the Saturday night dinner, set up a card table in the living room, and Colleen brought out the Parcheesi game, another Saturday night ritual.
They were deep into the game when a knock came at the front door. Liam answered and found Sam Winter Moon standing on the porch with another man, a silver-haired Shinnob with a deeply lined face.
“Liam, this is Calvin LaRose,” Sam said. “From Leech Lake. They’ve got a girl missing over there.”
Liam reached out and shook the stranger’s hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
LaRose gave him a guarded look. “Sam said I should talk to you. Sheriff,” he added with a note that rang sour.
Liam understood. He’d heard that same tone enough times from folks on the rez. Not all of them, but there were those who lumped him in with all other white people, and especially with all other cops.
“Tell me about the girl,” he said.
“Her name’s Louise. Louise LaRose. She run away. W
e been looking for her nearly a month. Heard she might be over this way.”
“Do you have a photograph?”
The man reached into his shirt pocket and drew out a snapshot. He handed it to Liam, who studied it, then shook his head. “I haven’t seen her.”
“She hasn’t been seen on the rez either,” Sam said. “I thought maybe you could have your guys keep an eye out for her.”
“How old is she?”
“Fifteen,” LaRose said. “But looks older. Acts older.”
“Can I keep this photo?”
LaRose nodded. “She’s a handful.”
“Is she your daughter?”
“Granddaughter.”
“Does she have friends up here?”
“None I know of.”
“How’d you hear she might be in Tamarack County?”
LaRose glanced at Sam Winter Moon, who said, “Word travels, Liam.”
Rez telegraph, Liam thought. “How can I get in touch with you?”
“I’ll get word to him,” Sam said.
“In my experience, kids return home, Mr. LaRose. It may take them a while to come to their senses, but eventually they return home.”
The man’s face was stone. “Not all of ’em. Not if they’re Indian.” He turned around, pushed the screen door open, and left.
“I’ll do what I can, Sam,” Liam said.
“I figured you would. Good night.”
Liam returned to the card table, and Dilsey said, “We heard. What do you think?”
“There’s not a lot I can do except make sure my men are keeping their eyes peeled for her. If she’s in Tamarack County but hasn’t gone out to the rez, it’s probably because she doesn’t want anyone Ojibwe knowing she’s here, afraid word would get back to her people.”
“She’s just a child,” Colleen said. “How can she stay hidden? She needs food, shelter.”
“Kids are resourceful, Colleen. Especially if they’re scared.”
Nobody asked what the girl might be afraid of. The possibilities for a kid, any kid, were many, and for an Indian kid especially, they were legion.
* * *
After the Parcheesi game, which Grandma Dilsey won, they watched some television, then Cork shined his shoes for church the next day. After that, he took his usual Saturday night bath and got ready for bed. His mother came in while he was reading Journey to the Center of the Earth for the fourth time. Cork made room for her to sit at the edge of his mattress.
“You okay?” she asked.
He put the book down. “Sure.”
“You seemed a little quiet tonight. Your dad, too. Anything you want to talk about?”
“I’m okay.” But he could see she wasn’t convinced. “Dad told me I have to stay away from anything that has to do with Big John.”
“Did he tell you why?”
Cork shook his head.
His mother reached out and smoothed his hair. “He has a lot on his shoulders right now. I think he doesn’t want to have to worry about you as well.”
“I won’t give him anything to worry about.”
“He’s also trying to understand the truth, and there’s a lot more to that than just answering questions.” She gazed at him a long time, then smiled gently. “Your father loves you, you know that?”
“I guess.”
“Try to get some sleep, all right?” She leaned to him and kissed his forehead. “Night.”
After she left, Cork lay with the book open on his lap, but he wasn’t reading. He was thinking about the missing girl, about the lurking spirit of Big John, and about his father. All evening Cork had fumed over the way his father had treated him, as if he were just a kid, forbidding him from following the trail of crumbs. His anger had cooled some, and he was considering now what his mother had said, that there was probably a whole lot more to the truth than simply finding answers. But finding answers was the beginning, wasn’t it?
He put the book away, turned out his light, and closed his eyes, thinking that there were still answers to be found, and he would find them. But he would have to be careful to make sure his father didn’t know he was looking.
* * *
In the dark near midnight, Liam stood in the doorway to his son’s bedroom. Moonlight fell through the window and lit the room in ghostly silver. Jackson lay at Cork’s feet, the big dog sprawled all the way across the mattress. He blinked at Liam but didn’t even bother to raise his head. Liam watched the slow rise and fall of his son’s chest, listened to his soft breathing, heard him mumble briefly in his sleep.
They’d been angry with one another, something that sat heavily on Liam’s heart. He loved his son with a deep, fierce passion, but that was an impossible thing for him to speak aloud. Growing up in a world filled with cops, in a house overseen by one, he’d never once heard his own father say the words I love you, Son. He wasn’t cruel to Liam, not even when he’d been drinking heavily, but those words that help to armor every child against the indifference of the world were never spoken. Liam didn’t know how to say them either, not even now, when there was no one to hear but a drowsing dog.
At last he turned away and headed back to his own bed, feeling as if he was losing something, as if something essential was slipping through his fingers, but try as he might, he couldn’t say what that was. He just knew it left him feeling afraid and empty and alone.
CHAPTER 18
They always sat on the right side of the center aisle and always in the first pew. They were first to contribute to the collection plate, first to the altar for the Holy Eucharist, and among the first to leave the church when the service ended. They almost never stayed for coffee and fellowship afterward, and they almost never seemed happy to have been there.
That Sunday morning, Cork studied Mr. and Mrs. MacDermid more carefully than he ever had before. His father was absent, on duty, and his mother was singing in the choir. Though she’d been baptized and confirmed in the Catholic Church, Grandma Dilsey no longer attended. She said she’d had more than enough of religion from the nuns in the boarding school to which the government had sent her when she was a child. So, Cork would have been sitting alone if it hadn’t been for Jorge, who’d joined him in the pew near the back of the sanctuary. Jorge’s mother sat several pews forward with Nicholas Skinner, the MacDermids’ lawyer.
Cork watched the regal couple in the first pew carefully as they went through the motions of the service. Although everyone in the sanctuary knew when to rise, when to kneel, when to cross themselves, knew every responsive refrain, as he watched the MacDermids, Cork thought of them as robots, stiff in all their movements, like the Tin Man, who went about his business without a heart.
He was intent on his own concerns but at some point became aware that, like him, Jorge wasn’t paying much attention to the service. His eyes were on his mother and Nicholas Skinner, and the look on his face wasn’t particularly Christian.
“You okay?” Cork whispered as Father Cam walked to the pulpit to deliver the homily.
“She didn’t come home until this morning,” Jorge whispered back.
Cork thought about that for a moment. “Was she with…?” He tilted his head toward Nick Skinner.
Jorge gave a confirming nod. “She said they were watching an old movie on TV and she fell asleep.”
“At his place?”
Another nod.
“So?”
Jorge turned his smoldering eyes on Cork. “Fell asleep watching television? And didn’t wake up until morning? Come on.”
Cork was pretty sure he knew exactly what Jorge was intimating, but it was an area of consideration in which he didn’t feel at all comfortable lingering.
“I thought you said you liked him.”
“I never said that. I said Mom likes him.” Jorge turned his glare again toward the back of Skinner’s head. “We were doing fine without him.”
Mass progressed, and after he’d taken communion, Cork returned to his seat and closed his eyes, trying to giv
e the sacrament he’d just received due consideration. He felt a body settle next to him on the pew. He opened his eyes and to his profound surprise found his father there, in full uniform. Liam O’Connor looked straight ahead, following the movements of the priest as the ceremony wrapped up.
“You’re supposed to be at work,” Cork whispered.
“I am,” his father whispered back without taking his eyes off Father Cam.
Jorge leaned forward and whispered across Cork, “Morning, Mr. O’Connor.”
Cork’s father gave him a solemn nod in return.
When the service was over and the congregation rose, Cork’s father went quickly to the narthex door, where the priest always stood to speak with his parishioners as they left. Cork followed close behind him and listened in on their conversation.
“A word, Cam. You’ve told me more than once that you get down-and-out people stopping by the church looking for a handout. Have you seen this girl?”
Father Cam studied the photo Cork’s father gave him. “Yes.”
“Where? When?”
“A couple of weeks ago, maybe a little more. As you say, she was looking for a handout. I gave her food and urged her to go back home.”
“You knew she was a runaway?”
“She was so young.”
“Did she say anything to you? Where she might be staying or going?”
Father Cam shook his head. “She thanked me for the food and was gone. I haven’t seen her since.”
People were coming up behind Cork, awaiting their turn to greet the priest.
“Her name’s Louise LaRose. If she comes back, will you call me?” his father said. “Her people are looking for her.”
“That I will, Liam.”
Cork and his father moved out onto the steps and headed toward the church parking lot, where the Tamarack County Sheriff’s Department cruiser was parked. Jorge tagged along.
When they reached the car, his father stopped and looked back toward St. Agnes. “What’s up with you two this afternoon?” He spoke in a distracted way, his attention really focused on the church door as people exited.
“You know, just messing around,” Cork said.
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