Blood Hollow (Cork O'Connor) Read online

  Rose McKenzie, Cork’s sister-in-law, was the only other person in the room. She was a heavy, plain-looking woman, as good-hearted as anyone Cork had ever known. She’d lived with the O’Connors for more than fifteen years, had come to help raise their children, and in the process had become a beloved and integral part of their lives. When she’d learned of the search that was to be undertaken, she’d offered to do what she could to help. Because she had a reputation as a marvelous cook, it had been obvious from the start how she could best contribute.

  She turned from the stove. “Thank God. I was worried. You’re the last one in.”

  Cork hung the parka on a peg beside the door. The polished floorboards of the guesthouse were marred by dozens of wet boot prints. “The others?”

  “They all left a few minutes ago, following Freddie Baker’s plow. You need to leave pretty soon, too, before the road drifts over.”

  “Not until I’ve had some of that stew.”

  “That’s why I kept it hot.”

  Coming in from the cold affected Cork in the usual way. He headed to the bathroom, where he stood at the toilet for a full minute relieving himself. When he came back, Rose had a filled bowl, a napkin, and a spoon on the table.

  “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “I’m fine with just the stew, Rose.”

  He leaned to his bowl. Steam, full of the smell of beef and carrots and onions and parsley and pepper, rose up against his face. Cork thought heaven couldn’t smell any better.

  “Where’s Wally? Up at the house?” he asked.

  Rose moved to the sink and began to wash the last of the dishes, except for what Cork was using. “Yes,” she said.

  “How are Fletcher and Glory doing?”

  She turned, wiping her fleshy hands on her apron, one Cork recognized from home. She crossed to a window and looked toward the big house. “They’re scared,” she said.

  There was a history of bad blood between Fletcher Kane and Cork. Glory was a chilly enigma that no one, not even Rose who was her friend, quite seemed to understand. Yet Cork had put aside his personal feelings because he was a parent himself, and the idea of a child, anyone’s child, lost in that kind of hell left a metallic taste of fear in his own mouth that even Rose’s wonderful stew couldn’t wash away.

  “I hated coming in,” he said.

  “Everybody did.”

  The guesthouse had a small kitchen and dining area that opened onto a larger living room with a fireplace. The living room had been set up for the search. The radio sat on a big table near a window. Beside it lay the search log and other documents, including a blown-up photograph of the missing girl, a pretty teenager with black hair and a reserved smile. A topo-graphical map of the area had been taped to the wall. Cork could see the pins in the map, each search team denoted by a pin with a particular color. They’d covered what ground they could, but that was the problem. Charlotte Kane had vanished in the night on a snowmobile without telling anyone where she was going. She left a New Year’s Eve party that she’d thrown at Valhalla without her father’s consent. She was seventeen and intoxicated. Twenty-one inches of snow had fallen after her departure. Trackers—volunteers from the U.S. border patrol—had blown away the powder, what they called blue smoke, and had been able to say only that she’d headed to the graded road where she’d connected with a heavily used snowmobile trail that eventually branched in a dozen directions, and each branch in a dozen more. There was no guarantee that she’d even kept to the trails. With a full tank of gas, she could have made it halfway to North Dakota or all the way to Canada. It was an enormous area, an impossible area, to cover thoroughly.

  “The air-scent dogs?” Cork asked.

  Rose shook her head. “Nothing.” She headed back to the sink.

  “Thanks,” Cork said.

  “For what?”

  “Coming out. Helping.”

  “A lot of folks have helped.”

  “You’re still here.”

  “Somebody has to feed you. Jo would never forgive me if I let you starve or freeze to death.” As soon as she said it, she looked sorry. She put a hand to her forehead. “That wasn’t funny.”

  “It’s okay, Rose.”

  The door opened and a cold wind blasted Deputy Randy Gooding into the room and a lot of snow with him. He took a moment and breathed deeply the warm air inside.

  “And I thought winters in Milwaukee were tough,” he finally said.

  Gooding was tall and wiry, late twenties, good-looking in a square-jawed way, and possessed of a friendly disposition. Although he’d been in Aurora less than two years, he seemed to have fit nicely into the pace of life there. Like Cork, he was a man who’d fled the city for the north country, looking for a simpler way of life.

  Gooding acknowledged Cork with a nod. “Sheriff wanted me to check, make sure you made it in okay.”

  “Is he up at the house?”

  Gooding tugged off his gloves and his dark blue stocking cap. “Him and Father Mal. Dr. Kane’s not happy that the plug’s been pulled on the search.”

  Cork put his spoon down and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “If it were my daughter, I wouldn’t be happy either.”

  “How’s Glory?” Rose said.

  Gooding breathed into his hands. “She’s sedated herself pretty well,” he said. “Blue Sapphire gin.”

  “It’s hard to blame her,” Rose said.

  Gooding shook his head. “Tough on the doc, dealing with it all himself. He just stands at the window staring out as if that’ll make her materialize somehow.”

  Rose turned to the stew pot and stirred with a wooden spoon. “I took some food up earlier. I’m not sure they ate anything. They’ll be hungry eventually.”

  “The sheriff wants everybody ready to move,” Gooding said. “He’s afraid the snow’s going to close in right behind Baker’s plow.”

  Rose glanced at Cork, and he knew before she spoke what she was going to say. “Somebody should stay. Those folks should not be left alone out here.”

  “Father Mal’s planning on staying,” Gooding said.

  “Father Mal can’t cook. He can’t even boil water right.”

  Cork said, “I think he figures to offer a different kind of sustenance, Rose.”

  She gave him a sharp look. “I understand that. But they’ll all need to eat. It’s hard to hold on to hope when you’re hungry.”

  The door banged open, and once again the storm muscled its way in with the men who entered. Sheriff Wally Schanno carried on with the conversation he’d been having with Father Mal Thorne.

  “With this storm blowing like it is, I can’t guarantee we’ll be back tomorrow.”

  “All the more reason I should stay,” the priest said. “These people shouldn’t be alone at a time like this.”

  Side by side, the two men were distinct contrasts. Schanno was tall and gaunt, his face gouged by worry. He was in his midsixties, but at that moment, he looked far older. Father Mal Thorne was younger by twenty years. Although he was a much smaller man, his compact body seemed to hold double its share of energy. Broad-chested and in good condition, he always reminded Cork of a tough pugilist.

  Schanno noticed Cork. “Thought I told you to skip Hat Lake and come straight in.”

  “I made it back in one piece, Wally.”

  The sheriff looked too tired to argue. “See anything?”

  Cork thought about the gray visage behind the snow, the sense that he’d been guided back to his snowmobile, that somehow Charlotte had tried to reach out to him.

  “No,” he finally said.

  “Well, we’re all accounted for now. Let’s get this show on the road before we get stuck out here.”

  “I’m staying,” Rose said.

  Schanno began to object. “Goll darn it—”

  “Thank you, Rose,” Father Mal broke in. He smiled at her, and there were boyish dimples in his cheeks. “But you don’t have to do that.”

  “They’ve got enough o
n their minds without worrying about fixing food or cleaning up. You, too. Your hands will be full, Father.”

  Mal Thorne considered it and decided in the blink of an eye. “All right.”

  Schanno opened his mouth, but the priest cut him off.

  “The longer you stand here arguing, Wally, the worse that road gets.”

  “He’s right, Sheriff,” Gooding said.

  Schanno gave in and nodded unhappily.

  Cork stood up. He began to gather his dirty dishes to take them to the sink.

  “I’ll take care of those,” Rose said. She hugged him. “Give my love to Jo and the kids.”

  “I’ll do that. And I’ll see you tomorrow. You, too, Mal.” He put on his parka and his deerskin mittens. “I’m ready.”

  Schanno dug keys out of his pocket and handed them to his deputy. “You take the Land Cruiser. I’m riding with O’Connor.”

  Gooding shrugged. “Whatever you say.” He opened the door and pushed his way into the storm.

  Cork stood in the open doorway a moment, looking back at Rose and Father Mal. They were only two people, but he had a sense of something huge about them and between them, a vast reservoir of strength that neither the blizzard nor the long vigil they were about to keep could empty.

  “Shut the damn door,” Father Mal said.

  The Bronco was buried in a drift that reached to the grill.

  “You get in and get ’er started,” Schanno shouted over the wind. “I’ll clear the snow.”

  Cork grabbed the brush from beneath the front seat and tossed it to Schanno, then got in and turned the key. The starter ground sluggishly.

  “Come on,” Cork whispered.

  The engine caught and roared to life. Cork kicked the defrost up to full blast. Schanno cleared the snow from the windows and the tailpipe and climbed into the Bronco.

  “Damn,” the sheriff said, hunching himself against the cold.

  Cork couldn’t agree more.

  In a couple of minutes, Gooding eased the Land Cruiser forward, and Cork followed slowly.

  Dark had come early, descending with the storm. Cork could barely see the taillights ahead of him. The glare of his own headlights splashed back off a wall of blowing snow that appeared solid as whitewashed concrete.

  He knew Schanno was right to have been concerned about the road, knew that in a blizzard, snow became fluid in the way it moved. It ran like water around tree trunks, eddied against buildings, filled in depressions. It had already flowed into the trench that Freddie Baker had plowed not more than half an hour before, and as he followed in Baker’s wake, Cork felt a little like Pharaoh of the Exodus with the Red Sea closing in.

  “What is it, Wally?”

  “What’s what?”

  “You rode with me, not with Gooding. I’m guessing you wanted to talk.”

  Schanno took his time answering. “I’m tired, Cork. Worn to the nub. I figured you’d understand, that’s all.” He let out a deep breath. “Hell of a way to start a year.”

  It was the second day of January.

  The interior of the Bronco was lit from the reflection of the headlights off the snow. Schanno leaned forward, peering hard ahead. His face was gray and deeply hollowed. Skeletal.

  “Hell of a way to end a career,” he said.

  He was talking about the fact that in a few days a man named Arne Soderberg would be sworn in as Tamarack County sheriff, assuming the responsibilities for that office for the next four years.

  “You’ve done a good job, Wally.”

  “I did my share of stumbling. We both know that.” Schanno pulled off his gloves and put his big hands on the dash, as if preparing himself for an impact. “Soderberg. He’s no cop. Should be you taking the badge.”

  “I didn’t want the badge,” Cork reminded him. “Even if I’d run, there’s no guarantee I’d have won.”

  “You’d have won,” Schanno said. “You betcha, you’d have won.”

  “You’re not sorry to be leaving, are you, Wally?”

  “Today, not at all.” Schanno took his right hand off the dash and rubbed his forehead for a moment. The winter air had dried and cracked the skin of his fingers. “I told Garritsen when he comes tomorrow he should bring along his cadaver dog.”

  They hit an open area, and the wind slammed against the side of the Bronco with the force of a charging moose. Cork yanked the steering wheel to keep from plowing into a snowbank.

  He didn’t want to talk about cadaver dogs.

  “You and Arletta got plans?” he asked.

  “Going to spend the rest of the winter in Bethesda, enjoying our grandkids.”

  “Looking forward to retirement?”

  Schanno thought about it for a minute. “I’m looking forward to not being the guy who calls in the cadaver dog.”

  3

  AFTER HE DROPPED Schanno off at the sheriff’s office, Cork headed for home. The people of Aurora had seen this kind of storm many times before, seen worse. They’d sealed themselves behind heavily insulated walls and double-paned windows and settled down to wait. Cork’s Bronco was the only thing that moved against the wind, and it moved slowly.

  An enormous snowdrift blocked the door to Cork’s garage. He left the Bronco parked in the drive and waded to the side door of the house. As he stepped into the kitchen, he could feel how knotted his whole body had become from fighting the blizzard. He breathed out deeply, trying to relax.

  “Dad!”

  The soft gallop of little feet across the living room floor. A moment later, his seven-year-old son burst into the kitchen. Stevie raced toward his father and threw his small arms around Cork’s waist. The force of Stevie’s greeting nearly knocked Cork off balance.

  “You’re cold,” Stevie said. He smiled up at his father.

  Cork laughed. “And you’re not.” There were crumbs at the corner of his son’s mouth, and the scent of food ghosted off his breath. “You smell good enough to eat.”

  “Mom fixed soup and grilled cheese sandwiches.”

  “You mean she burned soup and cheese sandwiches,” Jenny said, as she came into the kitchen. At seventeen, Cork’s daughter was slender and bookish, trying fiercely to be independent. She’d recently emerged from a Goth phase during which she’d dyed her hair the color of night and her entire wardrobe was black. She’d returned to wearing clothes with color, and her hair was very near its natural shade of blonde.

  Cork’s wife was right behind her. “I admit everything was a little overdone,” Jo said.

  “Overdone? Mom, you cremated dinner,” Jenny said, but with a smile.

  Cork eased from his son’s grasp, hung up his parka, and laid his mittens on the counter. Then he gave Jo a long hug.

  “Hungry?” she asked.

  “For burned food?” He laughed softly. “That’s okay. Rose fed me.”

  “Where is Aunt Rose?” Stevie looked with concern toward the window beyond which raged the storm. “Didn’t she come home with you?”

  “She stayed out at Valhalla to help Dr. Kane and his sister. Father Mal stayed, too. They’re fine, Stevie.”

  “You didn’t find Charlotte?” Jo said.

  He shook his head.

  “Know what we’re going to do tonight?” Stevie danced with excitement. “Fix popcorn and watch The Lion King.” It was his favorite video.

  “Sounds great, buddy.”

  Jo put her hand on his cold cheek. Her hair was like winter sun, a shining white-blonde. Her eyes were pale blue. When she was angry, they could become cold and hard and pierce Cork like shards of ice, but right now they were warm and liquid with concern. “Why don’t you go up and take a good, hot shower?”

  “Thanks. Think I will.” He took one step, then stopped abruptly and asked, “Where’s Annie?” For he’d suddenly noticed the absence of his middle child.

  “Relax,” Jo said. “She’s at the Pilons. Mark and Sue insisted she stay the night with them rather than try to make it home in the storm. Go on now. That shower wi
ll do you good.”

  Upstairs in the bathroom, he turned on the water, then stood at the sink, looking into the mirror. As the glass steamed over, his own image was obscured, and he saw again the lone figure of Fletcher Kane at the window of the big cabin, staring at the frozen lake, with nothing to hold to but the thinnest of hopes.

  “You okay in there?” Jo called from beyond the door.

  Cork realized he’d been standing a long time gripping the solid porcelain of the sink. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

  After his shower, he came downstairs to the smell of fresh popcorn and found his family already gathered in front of the television. Stevie was in his pajamas.

  Cork sat on the sofa with his son snuggled against him, spilling pieces of popcorn into his lap. He paid little attention to the video. He was seeing instead the empty white trails that had been in front of him all day, and he was thinking, was there somewhere he should have looked but hadn’t? He was surprised when the movie seemed to have ended so quickly.

  “Time for bed,” Jo said to her son.

  “I’ll take him up,” Cork offered.

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure. Come on, buddy. How about a piggyback ride?”

  Stevie wrapped his arms and his legs tightly about his father and rode Cork’s back upstairs to bed. Cork tucked him in, sat down, and began to read from The Tales of King Arthur. Stevie lay staring up at the ceiling, his hands behind his head.

  “Does it hurt to die?” he asked suddenly.

  Cork lowered the book. At seven, Stevie had already withstood blows that some people lived their whole lives never having to face. Cork believed his son was strong deep down and he answered honestly.

  “It does sometimes.”

  “Annie says it’s like sleep. And then you wake up with the angels.”

  “It might be like that. I don’t really know.”

  “Angels are white, like snow.”

  Stevie said it as if he knew it was the truth, and Cork, who knew the absolute truth of nothing, didn’t argue.

  He read until Stevie’s eyes closed and his breathing was deep and regular, then he closed the book and listened to the wind push against the house as if seeking a way to enter. He pressed the covers tightly around his son, gave him a gentle kiss, and turned out the light.