It was the crow who saved him. The black bird suddenly let out three shrill caws that broke like thunderbolts through the stillness of the meadow. The doe’s eyes darted toward Cork and she lurched away with the two yearlings leaping wildly after her. The figure at the mission watched the deer intently as they fled. In the moment before the animals disappeared again into the woods, when the eyes of the watcher were turned farthest from Cork, he threw himself and the Winchester over the snowbank and sunk facedown into the soft snow on the far side. He lay unmoving as the vehicle-an old truck, he guessed from the deep sound of the engine and the rattle of the undercarriage-followed the road into the low-lying marsh area, came up the rise, and passed on the other side of the snowbank. He heard it pull to a stop at the mission and heard the sound of its old doors squeaking open and slamming shut. He heard voices briefly, but didn’t want to look for fear of being seen.
Several minutes passed before he finally risked a peek. There was no one to be seen at the mission. The vehicle that had come along the road had parked on the far side of the building and wasn’t visible to him. He grabbed the Winchester, made a dive over the snowbank, and rolled onto the road. Crawling to the shelter of the snowbank’s shadow, he crouched, shivering violently. He was wet from lying in the snow, and he knew he had to do something quickly. He could head for the Bronco and warm up, but if he did he might miss a chance at uncovering something important at the mission.
He moved toward the building, staying below the snowbank and in its shadow as much as possible. As he approached the mission, he saw that both Lazarus and Father Tom Griffin’s old Kawasaki motorcycle were parked behind it. Cork dashed to the side of the building, where he stood in a thigh-deep drift and pressed himself against the old white wood planking. The shades over all the windows had been pulled. He leaned near the glass of a front window and listened.
Inside, someone whimpered as if being hurt.
40
Cork crept to the back of the mission building and peered around the corner. A half cord of split wood lay stacked near the back door. The snow behind the building was hard packed by a lot of comings and goings. The deep snow off to the sides of the back entrance was stained yellow where someone had done a good deal of urinating. He edged his way to the door. Leaning close, he listened again for the whimper. This time the only sound he heard was the click of the latch as the door was throw open and the long blue barrel of a rifle came at him out of the dark inside.
“You alone?”
“Alone.” Cork nodded. He slowly lowered the Winchester and leaned it against the side of the mission.
Wanda Manydeeds motioned him back with the rifle and risked a glance out the door, right then left. She jerked her head toward the room behind her. “Inside.”
She moved back to let Cork through, then closed the door behind him. Only a dim light filtered through the drawn shades into the mission’s single room. Cork’s pupils were still contracted from the sunlight outside and he felt blind, as if he’d stepped into a dark cave. He stumbled over something soft, but caught himself before he fell. Near one of the windows he identified the black, bulky silhouette of a potbelly stove, the source of the warmth in the room. Not far to his left, stacked against a wall under a window, lay a clutter of two-by-fours along with a couple of sawhorses, evidence of St. Kawasaki’s continuing efforts to refurbish the old structure. Directly ahead, worn gray benches marched away in rows toward the far, as yet impenetrable, dark at the front of the mission. From that dark came a whimper.
“Shhhh, Makwa. Shhhh,” a soft voice cooed.
Another voice suggested firmly, “Put the rifle down, Wanda.”
The old floorboards squeaked and groaned as St. Kawasaki came forward out of the dark. He was followed by Darla LeBeau. Someone else came a few steps behind Darla. It was Paul LeBeau. He carried a squirming bundle of blanket in his arms.
“Poo-wah,” Paul said, speaking in Ojibwe slang. It stinks. “He needs his diapers changed, Aunt Wanda,” he said in English.
Wanda Manydeeds set the rifle against the wall and took the baby.
The priest was grinning. “Here Darla and I spent all morning trying to find you, and it was you who found us. How’d you know to come here?”
“I was looking for Lazarus,” Cork replied. “It keeps rising from the dead.” Cork glanced at the stove. “I’m freezing, Tom. Mind if I warm up?
“Go ahead. By all means.”
Heat rolled off the stove, and Cork stood turning first one side of his body then the other to the hot cast iron.
“You saw me coming?” he asked.
“Paul saw someone,” Tom Griffin replied. “We didn’t know it was you.”
“You’ve been here the whole time?” he asked the boy.
Paul looked to the priest, who gave him an almost imperceptible nod. “Mostly,” Paul answered. “Father Tom thought it was the safest place.”
Cork, whose eyes had just about adjusted to the faint light inside the mission, noticed the sleeping bag rolled and tied on the floor. That was the soft obstacle he’d stumbled over on entering the mission. He also saw several sacks of groceries lined up on one of the benches.
“Safe from what?” he asked.
No one answered his question. He studied the boy-hardly a boy anymore. Paul stood nearly as tall as he. If he kept growing, he’d easily reach his father’s height.
“Someone drove Lazarus out to Harlan Lytton’s place yesterday,” Cork went on. “Was it you, Tom?”
“No.” The priest looked puzzled and glanced at the boy.
“I was there,” Paul admitted.
“In the ski mask?” Cork asked.
The boy shook his head. “I fired a couple shots at the ski mask and scared him away.”
“Fired a couple of shots?” the priest said with surprise. “Wait a minute. Paul, put some more wood in that stove. Crank up the heat for our friend. Cork, we’ll tell you everything, but it’s going to take a while.” He glanced at Paul. “Maybe even longer than I thought. How about putting some hot water on the stove, Darla? I could use some coffee. Even if it’s instant.”
Paul and Darla did as the priest directed. Wanda Manydeeds finished changing Makwa’s diapers.
“Cork, help me haul this pew nearer the stove,” the priest said. “Give you a warm place to sit.”
When the backless old pew was settled, the water hot, and the instant coffee stirred into foam plastic cups that had been pulled from the grocery bags, the priest said, “Okay, let’s talk. But before we do, I want to remind you of a couple of things, Cork. First of all, you’re not the sheriff anymore. That’s one reason we’ve all decided to trust you. Also you told me not long ago that you don’t believe there is such a thing as justice. These people feel the same way.”
Cork sat on the pew near Wanda Manydeeds, who rocked Mawka. Darla and Paul stood near the back door. Tom Griffin moved about freely with his coffee in his hand, gesturing toward those present.
“What we discuss here goes no further,” the priest said.
“Then why tell me at all?”
“Because I think you’ll keep digging until you know the truth anyway. We’d just as soon try to deal with it now.”
Cork considered them all a moment. “All right. But first there’s something I have to tell you.” He looked at Darla and Paul LeBeau. “You might want to sit down.”
Darla moved to her son and put her arm protectively around him, although he was a full head taller than she. “We’re fine,” she said.
He plunged in, telling it bluntly because there seemed no other way. “Joe John’s dead. I believe he was murdered.”
He’d delivered tragic news before. It had been part of the job, but he’d never become immune to the effect tragedy had on those who had to hear of it, and he’d never become used to his own feeling of helplessness in those situations. But the LeBeaus surprised him. Their faces didn’t change in the least.