Waking up didn’t take away the fear, the urgency, or what Stephen felt was the reality of the dream. He threw back the covers, got out of bed, and went to his window. He looked at the front yard, at the big elm with its mass of bare limbs and its great sturdy trunk. But what he looked at particularly was the shadow the tree cast across the snow as a result of the streetlamp at the curb. It was in that shadow that he’d seen the figure with the ember eyes. He thought about the vision Meloux had related over the telephone the day before. Had they both seen the same majimanidoo, the same devil? He saw nothing now, and he saw no tracks in the snow that someone-human or otherwise-would have left had they been there. He also thought about what Jenny had said. That she hoped he didn’t meet any monsters, ever.
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.
CHAPTER 27
The 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.”