Tamarack County (34 page)

He turned off the Arctic Cat’s engine and pulled his cell phone from its belt holster. He punched in the number for Dross’s cell.

“Cork, where are you?” she answered without preliminaries.

“I caught up with Frogg.”

“Where?”

“The open water by the old brewery. He went in.”

“Is he still in, or have you pulled him out?”

“I can’t see him. His snowmobile’s on the bottom of the lake. I think he’s down there with it.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

“We’re already on our way.”

“Weber is injured.”

“We know. We’ll take care of it. You just wait there.”

Cork put his cell phone away and sat on the Arctic Cat while the snow went on falling in a storm that seemed oblivious to the human drama within it.

C
ork didn’t stick around to watch the divers go into Iron Lake to retrieve Frogg’s body. He was bone tired and would have loved nothing better than to lie down and sleep for a week. But Stephen lay in a hospital bed eighty miles away, and Cork wanted to be with his son during the ordeal of recovery still ahead. Frogg had done a lot of damage in Tamarack County, and a lot of healing would be necessary. Meloux could help with some of that. Maybe time would help with the rest.

Cork called home and told Jenny what had occurred. He could hear the relief in her voice as she relayed the news to Anne. She asked, “Will you be home soon?”

“In a while,” he replied wearily. “And then I’m driving to Duluth to be with Stephen.”

Marsha Dross gave him a lift back to his Land Rover, which was still parked on the North Star Trail, hubcap deep in drifted snow. She said, “Come in any time tomorrow, and we’ll get your statement. There’s no hurry. You want to know when we’ve pulled the body from the lake?”

Cork shook his head, but then thought a moment and said, “Yeah. Maybe I’ll be able to sleep nights again.”

“Good luck with Stephen. I’ll wait here until I know you’ve got your Land Rover out of that drift.”

“Thanks.”

He climbed out and waded through the snow. He cleared the exhaust pipe on his vehicle, got in, and fired up the engine. He backed out onto Becker Road, grateful for the Land Rover’s big tires and all-wheel drive. He waited while Dross made a U-turn, and then he followed her into town. As he neared the shoreline of the lake, he could see the illumination from the big floodlights which the fire department had set around the open water. A hundred or so yards south was Sam’s Place. The old Quonset hut should have been dark, but Cork saw that the windows were squares of light. Someone was inside. When he came to the access road across the narrow, open meadow, he turned in.

The Land Rover climbed over the raised railbed of the BNSF tracks, and Cork pulled into the parking lot, where he kept a small area plowed for those days when he worked out of his office in the back of Sam’s Place. Jenny’s Forester sat there. He found Anne inside the Quonset hut, sitting at the table he used for both business and dining. Trixie lay on the floor at her feet. His daughter held a mug of coffee and was clearly startled when he came in the door. Trixie bounded up, barking, then saw who it was and trotted to him.

“Everything okay?” he asked from the doorway, reluctant to barge in.

“I just dropped Skye off at the Four Seasons,” she said. “And Trixie needed to be walked.”

“And you wanted to be alone for a little while?”

She shrugged, gave a little nod. “A lot on my mind.”

“I’ll leave.”

“No, that’s okay.” Her eyes swung to the north window, where the floodlights were glaring on the ice down the shoreline. “Ever since you called and told us what happened, I’ve been thinking about Walter Frogg.”

“Thinking what?”

“That the people who behave the worst are the ones we ought to pray for the most.”

“You’ve been praying for Frogg?”

“That he’s found peace now.”

“And Stephen and the other people he damaged or killed?”

“I pray for them, too. Prayers are something I seem never to run out of.” She sipped her coffee, holding the mug in both hands as if it were heavy.

“Mind if I steal a cup?” Cork asked.

“Your coffee. I just put it together.”

Cork pulled a mug from the cupboard, poured some brew from the pot Anne had made, and sat down at the table with her. She was staring out the window toward the floodlights, which were hazy through the falling snow. Although he could tell from the dim silhouettes crossing the lights that there were a lot of people around the open water, he was pretty sure the divers hadn’t gone in yet.

“We haven’t had much chance to talk,” he said.

She sipped her coffee. “You’ve been busy.”

“How’re you doing?”

“Confused,” she said.

“Saving any of those prayers for yourself?”

When she spoke next, she sounded old beyond her years. “I’ve never been in a spot before where no matter what I do it’s going to hurt.”

“I wish I could help, sweetheart. Whatever you decide, I’m right there with you. We all are.” She didn’t reply, and he offered, “Strange that it’s so hard to know your own heart sometimes.”

“I feel like it’s being torn in two.”

“That’s love for you.”

“Then I’m not sure I want it.”

He watched a tear crawl over the lower lid of her eye.

“That’s all there is,” he said. “For someone like you.”

She looked at him, and it was clear she didn’t understand.

“I believe we come into the world who we are, and all we do after that is struggle to accept it. You were always all about love, right from the beginning. I’ve seen you get passionate about a softball game or in defense of someone or something you care
about. But I’ve never seen you act out of anger, Annie. It’s always amazed me, your capacity for calm, for forgiveness, for being able to open your arms to everything and everyone. It’s a gift.”

The tear went on crawling, leaving a wet, crooked line down her cheek.

Cork took a final swig of his coffee and stood up. “I’m going home and shower and see if I can wake myself up enough to drive to Duluth. You want to come with me?”

“I’ll be along in a bit,” she replied. “I’d like to be alone a little longer, if it’s okay.”

“Want me to take Trixie?”

“I haven’t really walked her yet.”

“All right. See you at home.”

He kissed the top of her head, put the mug in the sink, and left the Quonset hut.

At home, he found Ken Mercer in the living room, watching television. The deputy stood up when Cork walked in. Mercer explained that Dross had contacted him, told him that as soon as Cork showed up he was to join the others at the open water on Iron Lake. Town folk were gathering, and the sheriff needed some crowd control. Cork thanked him for his help, and the deputy left with still a long night of duty ahead.

Jenny came down from upstairs, Waaboo in his pajamas in her arms. Cork’s grandson looked tired, his head against his mother’s shoulder. He didn’t say anything, just blinked sleepily at his grandfather.

“Is it really over?” Jenny asked.

Cork nodded. “Everything except the healing, and there’s a lot of that to be done.”

“Are you going back to Duluth tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“I need to stay here with Waaboo.”

“That’s okay.”

“Annie’ll go with you when she comes back. I thought she’d be here by now.”

“I ran into her at Sam’s Place. She wanted some time to herself.”

Waaboo yawned big and murmured, “Lie down.”

“I’m on it, kiddo,” Jenny told him. To her father, she said, “I’m going to put him back to bed. I may lie down, too. I’m pretty beat.”

“Go ahead. If there’s anything you need to know from the hospital, I’ll give you a call.”

“Thanks, Dad.” She leaned and kissed his cheek. “It’ll be all right, I know. Somehow, it’ll be all right.”

She headed back upstairs, and the telephone rang. Cork took it in the study down the hallway. He saw from the caller ID that it was Rainy. He closed the study door and answered.

“Cork,” Rainy said, sounding distressed. “I just heard about Stephen. I’m so sorry. How is he?”

“Alive. We don’t know yet if the damage is permanent.”

“What kind of damage?”

Cork explained.

“Oh, Cork, I wish I were there.”

“We’re doing all right, Rainy.”

“I’m sure, but . . . Ah, damn.”

“I know. Henry’s here, did you know that?”

“Yes. The one bright spot.”

“There’s another,” Cork said.

“What?”

“The man responsible for everything is dead.”

“So it’s over?”

“It’s over.”

She was quiet on her end. Then she said, “I’ve heard some other things via the rez telegraph.”

“What have you heard?”

“Stella Daychild.”

“Could we talk about this later, Rainy? I’m pretty beat right now.”

“I just want you to know, Cork . . .”

He waited.

“We made no promises,” she said.

Was she giving him a way out? Did she want out?

He picked up a framed photograph of Rainy, which was one of two photos he kept on the desk. It was taken the previous summer. She was standing in the meadow on Crow Point, in brilliant sunlight, smiling beautifully amid wildflowers in full bloom. He’d snapped the picture himself, and he recalled that day well. He remembered how happy he’d been. He thought now how quickly life could change, how so much was beyond anyone’s control.

“Cork, are you there?”

“I’m here. Things are a little confusing right now, Rainy.”

“I’m sure.”

There was no note of anger or censure in her voice, just an acknowledgment of the truth of Cork’s situation, of the situation they were both in.

He stared at the woman in the meadow. “I’ll call, after I’ve had a chance to rest some.”

“I’ll be waiting,” she said. Then, just before she hung up, she added, “I love you, Cork.”

He should have echoed the words back to her. Instead, he said, “We’ll talk.”

He hung up. He sat down in the chair at the desk and looked at the other framed photograph he kept there. It was of his wife, Jo, standing beside a tandem bicycle on a trail in Itasca State Park. Another photograph that Cork had taken. In all the years they’d lived together in the house on Gooseberry Lane, Jo O’Connor had used the study as an office for her law practice. After she was killed, Cork had removed the law books from the shelves, but he hadn’t replaced them yet, and the room had an unfinished feel to it. He sometimes operated his own private investigation business from the study, had tried to make the room seem his, but it felt odd to him whenever he did so, a kind of trespass. Another confusing situation he’d have to think
about eventually. Which brought him back to a consideration of the photograph of Rainy in the meadow on Crow Point. He’d already lost people he loved deeply. Did he want to lose more? He thought about Stella Daychild and tried to understand what, exactly, he’d shared with her and what, exactly, he wanted still to share. And he thought about Anne and her wonderment whether love was worth all the pain it caused. He didn’t have the answer to that one.

He was still deep in thought when the study door opened. He turned in his chair, expecting Anne back from Sam’s Place. But it wasn’t Anne. It was a man back from the dead.

“I
thought you were on the bottom of the lake,” Cork said.

“I was hoping that’s what everybody would think. So, you know who I am.” Walter Frogg seemed surprised.

“I know all about you. I talked with Cecil LaPointe yesterday. I visited your mother this morning. I spent an interesting few minutes with your cousin Eustis tonight.”

“You get around.”

Frogg held a pistol in his hand. He closed the door behind him and crossed to where Cork sat. The lamp on the desk lit the room dimly, and Cork’s visitor stood in a place that was more shadow than light and from which, when he pulled the trigger, the bullets could hit Cork anywhere Frogg wanted them to.

“You shot my son,” Cork said.

“Yes.”

“Why him?”

Frogg blinked, a face without emotion. “I could have killed one of your girls, but I figured your only son would be a dearer price.”

“He’s alive,” Cork said.

“I heard.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

“Pretty much.”

“Just me?”

Frogg lifted his eyes toward the ceiling. In the bedrooms above them, Jenny and Waaboo slept. He considered for several seconds, then nodded. “That’ll pay the tab. Justice done.”

“Justice. Because of LaPointe? I didn’t know anything about Ray Jay Wakemup’s story until he went public with it.”

“That’s what you say.”

“LaPointe holds no grudge.”

“No, he wouldn’t.” His voice softened when he said this, as if their discussion had brought back to him a pleasing memory. But if so, the emotion passed in an instant, and when he spoke again, he spoke coldly. “This isn’t about grudges. Like I said, justice done. Truth elevated.”

Cork rocked forward in the chair, and Frogg shoved the pistol toward him in warning.

Cork said, “All right, since we’re talking truth here, let me lay a truth or two on you, Walter. You tell yourself that what you do, this vigilante crap, is justice. That’s bullshit. Or maybe you’re doing it because you believe you owe something to Cecil LaPointe. But the truth is that you’re just a little man who likes scaring people, a little man who’s pissed at everyone who has power over him, a little man who all his life has carried this big chip on his shoulder. You killed Evelyn Carter and you crippled my son, two people who never did you any harm. There’s nothing noble in that. It’s got nothing to do with justice or truth. It’s no tribute to a man like Cecil LaPointe. It’s pathetic and it’s psychotic.”

From the shadows where he stood, Frogg said, “And sending an innocent man to prison, what’s that?”

“Wrong. It’s wrong. I’m not going to defend it. But the faults of a system and those in charge of it are one thing. This”—Cork nodded toward the pistol pointed at his chest—“is something else. This is cold-blooded murder.”