Tamarack County (22 page)

Yet he had a sense that this was somehow the point of the dream, the vision. It had been eerily similar to the one Meloux described, and Stephen had a powerful feeling that a confrontation was looming. With whom or with what, he couldn’t get a handle on. At the moment, he was like the cottonwood fluff in the wind. He needed to bring the vision to him in a different way, bring it in a way in which he could participate actively. Despite his fear, he needed to face the devil. And he believed he knew exactly how to do that.

T
he ring tone of his cell phone woke him. The room was dark, he was sleepy, and he fumbled for several moments before he finally had the device in his hands.

“O’Con—,” he began but stopped because his voice was hoarse, both from just waking and from the dry air blown by the furnace of the Daychilds’ place. He cleared his throat. “O’Connor,” he said.

“Cork, it’s Marsha Dross. Is it convenient for you to come to my office?”

“When?”

“Now, if possible.”

He looked toward a window, saw no light at all in the sky outside.

“It’s important,” Dross said.

He wondered what time it was, but he’d put his watch in the pocket of his shirt, which he’d folded and laid on the floor at the foot of the sofa. He grabbed his shirt and began to dig.

Dross said, “I think I might have a handle on Evelyn Carter. I think her disappearance might be connected with the death of Wakemup’s dog.”

That brought him fully awake. He found his watch and saw that it was six-fifteen. “I’ll be there in half an hour.”

In the night, Stella had wakened Marlee and guided her, barely conscious, to the girl’s bedroom. Then she’d given Cork a blanket and pillow, kissed him a long, final time, and he’d bedded down on the sofa, so that if Marlee woke and came looking, it would appear that he’d been there all night. He didn’t like this kind of deception, but he wasn’t exactly comfortable with the idea of Marlee knowing—even guessing at—what had occurred between her mother and him. At some point, he’d have to analyze all of this, figure where he stood, emotionally and morally. He didn’t think of himself as the kind of guy who went looking for a one-night stand. Especially if it involved the mother of the girlfriend of his son. Which was a thought that, just in itself, was hopelessly complicated.

Stella must have heard his cell phone. When he stood up, he found her in the hallway, watching him, her hands in the pockets of her robe.

“I have to go,” he said.

“Not even breakfast first?”

“It’s business.”

“I’ve heard that one before.” Then she smiled, letting him know it was in jest. “Go.”

“The call was from Marsha Dross. She thinks she’s onto something that might help explain what happened to Dexter.”

“What is it?”

“I’ll know after I’ve talked with her.”

“You’ll let me know, too?”

“Absolutely.”

Cork had worn his pants to bed, and his T-shirt. He finished dressing, gathered his loose things, and stuffed them into his gym bag. While he did this, Stella got his parka. They stood together at the front door. This near to her, he could smell that she’d just gargled and could see that she’d run a quick brush through her hair and had put on lipstick. Just for him? Cork felt awkward, unsure what the protocol of parting dictated.

Stella seemed just as much at sea. She gave him his parka,
then looked down at her hands, empty now, and said quietly, “About last night.”

“What about it?”

“I don’t . . . I’m not usually . . . It’s just been a long time.”

“That’s okay. It was a lovely night.”

“Was it?” She lifted her eyes, dark and happy, to his. “For me, too.”

“Thank you, Stella.” He leaned to her and gently kissed her lips.

“You don’t have to call me,” she told him. “Really. Unless it’s about Dexter.”

“I’ll call,” he promised.

Outside, the air hit him like a fist. The wind was up, and the chill in it was monstrous. He quickly drew his gloves and stocking cap from the pockets of his parka and pulled them on. He was glad to get into Jenny’s Forester and out of the wind. He started the engine and let it warm up a couple of minutes so that the defroster would melt the moisture from his breathing, which had begun to form a crystalline coating on the inside of the windshield the moment he got in.

While he sat waiting, he thought about his night with Stella and how he felt about it. Was he relieved to be leaving in this way, quickly and without any emotional mess? Not really. Was he confused? Absolutely. But he was also, he realized with a smile he wasn’t even aware of until he caught sight of himself in the rearview mirror, grateful. Although there was a good deal of danger in what he’d shared with Stella, he’d enjoyed himself immensely. This did cause him some guilt, because he honestly wasn’t sure what last night meant in terms of his relationship with Rainy Bisonette. When Rainy left, Cork had tried to think of it not as an ending but as a hiatus. He’d believed that at some point he and Rainy would be together again and what was required of him was mostly patience.

Until last night, he’d thought of himself as a patient man. Now he wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure of a lot of things.

When the glass had cleared, Cork turned the Forester in a tight circle and headed away. He glanced in the rearview mirror and was just a little disappointed not to see Stella’s face at a window, watching him go.

He drove straight to the Tamarack County Sheriff’s Department. When he swept inside, Deputy Pender was on the public contact desk. Without Cork even having to ask, Pender buzzed him through the security door.

“She’s expecting you,” the deputy said, nodding in the direction of Dross’s office.

By the time Cork walked in, the whole sky was illuminated by the pale light of early dawn, and beyond the windows, the town of Aurora was emerging fully from the dark. Dross was at her desk, phone in hand, in the middle of a conversation. She waved him toward an empty chair. Cork shed his coat, draped it over the back of the chair, and sat.

“Honestly, Ed, there’s no reason for you to cut your visit short. We’ve got this thing in hand.” Dross listened, then nodded. “I promise I will. My best to Alice.” She hung up. “Ed Larson. He heard about Evelyn Carter, and he thinks he should cut his visit to San Diego short.”

Cork glanced at his watch. “Awfully early out there. Is he worried you can’t do this without him?”

“He’s worried he’ll miss out on an interesting case.”

“So fill me in on this interesting case,” Cork said.

Dross turned in her chair so that she sat in profile, silhouetted against the dawn. She seemed to be speaking more toward the brightening sky than to Cork. “Every time I question the Judge, I get the same feeling. He doesn’t really have a clue about what’s happened to his wife. In fact, it’s getting to the point where he doesn’t have a clue about much of anything anymore. I really believe he’s losing it. From everything I’ve been told, he’s been on that downslide for a while. His wife’s death seems to have snapped whatever was holding him to reality. So, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about Evelyn Carter. I keep asking myself is
there maybe some connection between her disappearance and the death of Wakemup’s dog.”

“Why would there be any connection?”

She turned back to him. “Because of Cecil LaPointe.”

Cork said, “I’ve been wondering if LaPointe might have something to do with the dog and with what happened to Marlee Daychild, but Evelyn Carter? I mean, if LaPointe wanted revenge, why not just go after her husband?”

“Okay, consider this. To a man in prison, what’s the most important thing in life?”

“Not getting a shiv stuck in him, I suppose. Or anything else stuck in him, for that matter.”

“Ask me, and I’d say it’s his freedom. The one thing you absolutely give up in prison is your freedom.”

“Okay, go on,” Cork said.

“What was the most important thing in the Judge’s life?”

“I give up,” Cork said.

“His wife. Without her around, he’s helpless. The way things are looking for him right now, in very short order, he’ll be in a nursing home, probably a locked memory unit, with no real say left in his life. About as near to prison as you can get without being behind bars. Or at least that’s how I’d look at it.”

“So how does Dexter fit in?”

“Ray Jay Wakemup’s been clean and sober for two years. If what his sister told me yesterday is true, Dexter was his best friend, maybe his only friend. Dexter was also his anchor. Without that anchor, odds are that Ray Jay’ll drift again right back into using. And here’s the kicker. Think about Sullivan Becker.”

“Becker? He’s in Florida and . . .” Cork stopped, because he saw exactly where Dross was going.

This is what they both knew about Sullivan Becker. After he’d prosecuted Cecil LaPointe for the murder of Karyn Bowen, a trial that he’d made sure got lots of media coverage, Becker had been offered a position by the district attorney for Dade County, Florida, who was an old law classmate of Becker’s. Becker was an
avid sailor. In Minnesota, he’d kept a small sailboat in the marina on Iron Lake and had a larger boat, a thirty-foot Hunter, moored in the marina at Grand Marais on Lake Superior. Summers, he sailed every weekend. He raced in regattas. He’d leaped at the opportunity to moor his practice and his sailboat in Florida’s sunny clime, and over the years, until his retirement, he’d made a good name for himself taking on the Cuban mafia.

Two years ago, after all hell broke loose with Ray Jay Wakemup’s accusation that Becker and Judge Ralph Carter and the Tamarack County sheriff had withheld important information that might have cast doubt on Cecil LaPointe’s guilt, Becker had escaped the media by taking to the sea. He’d issued statements, but always electronically. He didn’t return to Dade County until the media fire was finally smothered by LaPointe’s continued insistence on his own guilt.

Then, late last summer, while Becker was jogging—another passion, but meant mostly to keep himself in shape for sailing—he’d been the victim of a hit-and-run. He’d survived, but in the accident, both legs had been crushed, and both had been amputated. Sullivan Becker would probably never sail—or run—again. Although no suspect ever surfaced, the prevailing sentiment was that it was payback by the Cuban mafia for all the damage Becker had inflicted over all those years.

Cork said, “They took Becker’s legs, took what was most important to him, that’s what you’re getting at?”

“Bingo.”

“Didn’t kill him. Didn’t kill Ralph Carter. Didn’t kill Ray Jay Wakemup. Left them alive, but without whatever it is that would make their lives worth living.”

Dross said, “I’m guessing that if Roy Arneson or Harmon Wakemup were still alive, whoever’s behind this would have found a way to do the same to them.”

“It’s a stretch,” Cork said.

“But it would explain a lot.”

“That it would. So LaPointe is out for revenge?”

“Or someone is out to avenge him.”

“Who?”

“That’s what I’m going to try to find out. I called Stillwater Prison, and I’ve got permission to speak with Cecil LaPointe this afternoon.”

“Good luck. I tried two years ago, and he refused to talk to me.”

She picked up a book that had been lying facedown in front of her on the desk, and Cork saw that it was
The Wisdom of White Eagle
. “You’ve read this?” she asked.

“Sure.”

“What do you think?”

“I’m not big on the idea of channeling spirits. That said, it seems like a pretty good take on the spiritual journey. Very Indian.”

“Do you think the man who wrote this is capable of arranging the murder—if that’s what we’re dealing with—of Evelyn Carter?”

“I’d have a better idea of the answer to that if I could talk to LaPointe in person.”

“Which is why I want you to go with me down to Stillwater today.”

“You think he’ll be any more willing to talk now?”

She tapped the book. “If what he wrote in here isn’t bullshit, then he might talk to us, given what we’re dealing with up here.”

Cork thought about it. “And if he still refuses, I guess that would tell us something, too. What time do we leave?”

“I told the Stillwater people we’d be there at two.” Dross leaned toward him and studied his face. “Is that lipstick?”

“Grateful client.” Cork stood quickly, grabbed his coat, and said, “Pick me up at my place in an hour.”

I
t was Monday morning. When Cork arrived home on Gooseberry Lane, he found Jenny in the kitchen with Waaboo, both of them eating oatmeal, Jenny a lot less messy in this endeavor than her son. Stephen was nowhere to be seen.

“The Land Rover and the Bearcat are gone. Did Stephen take them?” Cork asked, hanging his parka beside the kitchen door.

“Yes,” Jenny said.

“To school?”

“Good boy,” Jenny said to Waaboo, who’d managed to put a whole spoonful of the cereal in his mouth without spilling any of it. “Stephen didn’t go to school today.”

“No? Where is he?”

“Crow Point.”

“To see Annie.”

“Not exactly.”

“What then?”

“He’s going to do a sweat.”

“Today? In this cold?”

“That’s what he says.”

“And you let him go?”

“He’s my brother, Dad, not my son. I don’t try to tell him what to do.”

“Sorry.”

“He had what he believes was a vision last night, apparently a lot like the one Henry Meloux had. Stephen’s hoping a sweat might make things clear to him. Ooops!” Jenny wiped a big blob of oatmeal off the floor where Waaboo had dropped it.

Cork slipped his boots off, left them on the mat beside the door, and considered the information Jenny had just given him. Apparently, Stephen had been able to dream the vision Meloux had urged him to attempt. Cork was proud of his son, but he wished Stephen had discussed it with him before going out to Crow Point on his own. Just one more example of how his children were outgrowing their need for him, which made him feel old and extraneous.

“Did he tell you what the vision was?”