He stood, inhaling air so bitter cold that it was like a sharp blade slicing the inside of each nostril and exhaling explosions of vaporous white.
He knew there were explanations for the damage that were reasonable and innocuous. It might have been caused by the passage of a deer or bear or even the boisterous bounding of Dexter. But it might also have been the result of a two-legged animal sliding through, seeking, perhaps, a place from which to observe the house unseen.
His cell phone rang. He pulled it from his belt holster and saw that it was Marsha Dross.
“Morning, Cork,” she said.
“What’s up?”
“I thought you’d want to know. The Judge went a little crazy last night. Attacked his daughter.”
“Attacked? How?”
“Tried to strangle her.”
“Provocation?”
“In a way, I suppose. She told him she thought it was best for him to live in a nursing home.”
“Did he hurt her?”
“Bruises on her neck.”
“Witnesses?”
“No, but those bruises are pretty compelling evidence.”
“What’s the status?”
“He’s been sedated. Frank Parkkila is reviewing the situation to see if he thinks charges are warranted.”
Parkkila was the Tamarack County attorney.
Cork said, “Any more on Evelyn?”
“Nothing.” Dross sounded tired and a little irritated. “Christ, it seems like she’s just vanished into thin air.”
“Not without help,” Cork said. “Did you get the Carters’ phone records?”
“Yes, and we’re following up on the calls the Judge made before his wife went missing. So far, nothing of interest, but we’re still at it. You have anything more on the Daychilds?”
“Not at the moment. I’ll keep you posted.”
Cork ended the call. He heard the front door of the house close and looked up as Stella came down the porch steps and started across the clearing. He met her halfway.
“How’s she doing?” he asked.
“Beat up in so many ways,” Stella said. “But she’s tough. Cork, I have another favor to ask. It’s a big one.”
“What is it?”
“Ray Jay gets released from jail tomorrow. He should know about Dexter before he comes home.”
“What do you need from me?”
He expected that Stella would ask to borrow the Forester so she could go into Aurora while he stayed and kept watch over Marlee. Her actual request caught him completely off guard.
Stella asked, “Could you tell him?”
“Me?”
“I would, but Marlee doesn’t want me to leave her,” she explained. “I know it’s a lot, but could you?”
“I’m not on the list of authorized visitors.”
“I’ll bet you could get that waived. Everybody knows you’re cozy with the sheriff.”
“This really feels like something that should come from you.”
“Ray Jay’s my brother, but we’re not that close. He keeps his distance from everyone. The only thing he cares about is Dexter. Please, Cork.”
He could have said no. This was family business, between Stella and her brother. But Stella gazed up at him, her brown eyes imploring, her face soft and worried and, he thought, unusually lovely. What could he say but yes?
CHAPTER 20
Henry Meloux had once directed Stephen to sit for a day in the meadow on Crow Point and do nothing. Just sit. Meloux gave no other instruction nor did he give a reason. Stephen did as the old Mide asked. From the moment the sun climbed above the ragged tree line until it set below the far shore of Iron Lake, he sat among the wildflowers and tall grass. Mosquitoes and blackflies plagued him, and the sun was hot, and he grew thirsty, but still he sat. A wind came up, and the grass bent. The wind died, and the grass grew still. A couple of turkey vultures circled on the thermals above him, spiraling upward until they were like small ashes against that great hearth in which the sun burned. Because he didn’t know the reason he was there, had no purpose that he could understand, his mind was filled with a flood of debris-pieces of thoughts, drifting images, half-formed questions.
Near the end of the day, his eyelids grew heavy and his mind grew quiet and he saw something he had not seen before. He saw that he was no longer sitting in the place he’d sat that morning. He hadn’t moved, yet nothing around him was the same. He realized it had been that way all day. In every moment, everything had abandoned what it had been in the moment before and had become something new. He was looking at a different meadow, a different lake, a different sky. These things were very familiar to him, and yet they were not. He was keenly aware of each scent as if he’d never smelled it before, each new sound, new breath of wind, new ripple in this new universe.
When, at twilight, Meloux emerged from his cabin and crossed the meadow, he said nothing to Stephen, simply stood looking down at him. And Stephen realized that Meloux was different, too. He saw that the old man was older. He saw that the old man was dying, dying in every moment. It was a startling realization, but not a sad one, because he understood.
Meloux didn’t speak of the experience or of what Stephen might have learned from his time on Crow Point that day. He said simply, “I have made soup.”
Things changed. That was the nature of all creation. Stephen knew this and tried to accept it, but that morning, standing in the lobby of the Four Seasons, waiting for Skye Edwards to come from her room, acceptance was difficult. He stared through one of the windows overlooking the empty marina and the frozen white of Iron Lake. He didn’t want things to change. He wanted Marlee. He wanted her not to be angry with him, if anger it was. He wanted to be near her. At the same time, he felt himself resisting that temptation. He was full to bursting with contradictory impulses. He felt hot and cold toward Marlee at the same time. His mind, in a single moment, said to him two different things. It said, “Stay,” and it said, “Run.” His heart felt as if it was flying dizzyingly high and free, and yet was also imprisoned. He didn’t like this mix-up of emotions. He didn’t like that he felt out of control. On the other hand, he so enjoyed where that lack of control sometimes led him. For all its tragedy, the day before stayed with him in a way that did not feel tragic. He couldn’t shake the image of Marlee’s breasts, the dark eyes of her areolas staring at him, the feel of her flesh warm and yielding in his palm. Even now, to his great embarrassment, he had an erection.
“Stephen?”
The voice brought him suddenly out of himself. He shifted his left hand so that the coat he was holding covered him below the waist. He turned and found himself face-to-face with a tall, slender woman whose smile, from that first instant, won him.
“Skye?” he asked.
“This is such a pleasure,” she replied. “Annie’s told me so much about you. You’re every bit as handsome as she says.”
She offered her hand, then saw that his was bound in gauze. “Oh my, what happened?”
“Long story,” Stephen said and didn’t elaborate.
“Well, if I can’t shake your hand,” she said. She stepped to him and gave him a hug, heart to heart. She smelled of milled soap, fresh and clean, and he didn’t mind in the least the gentle force with which she pressed him to her.
When she released him, Stephen said impulsively, “Minobii-niibaa-anama’e-giizhigad.”