Cork didn’t sleep well. The pain in his thigh kept him uncomfortable and he had fevered dreams: that his house in Aurora was full of mud and his children were sinking into it and he couldn’t find Jo anywhere; that he was driving a car and couldn’t get the brakes to work no matter how hard he pressed the pedal; a brief one in which instead of bullets he was loading wads of toilet paper into the cylinder of his revolver.
He woke up and the first thought he had was about what Dina Willner had said to him the night before: that sometimes he wasn’t a very compassionate human being. She might have been talking about recent events, but Cork suspected it went a bit further back.
She’d entered his life as a consultant hired by Lou Jacoby to see to it that Cork didn’t screw up the investigation of Eddie Jacoby’s murder. Dina had made it clear early on that she found him seriously attractive. Cork, devoted family man though he was, had found himself sorely tempted in return. He’d held back from acting on that temptation, but in the end he’d used Dina’s feelings against her. Briefly he’d led her to believe that she’d charmed him into submission and in doing so had laid a trap she’d stepped into. His motive had been understandable—to unravel the tangle of misdirection the Jacobys had looped around the case and to get to the truth of Dina’s involvement—but he’d hurt her badly and he knew it. Although the situation probably justified his actions, he wasn’t proud of his behavior. Especially considering all that Dina had done since to help him.
So sometimes he lacked compassion. Big deal. Hell, what did she expect? What could anyone expect of him now? It had been a tough couple of weeks. Three times someone had tried to kill him. He’d been suspended as sheriff, suspected of murder, was on the run from people trying to fit him into a coffin, and because of his wounded leg he was useless to everyone who needed him. To top it off, his family didn’t have the slightest idea of his current situation, whether he was alive or dead.
The wind had stopped and he couldn’t hear the rain anymore. Birds were just beginning to sing, and he knew dawn wasn’t far away. He thought about getting up, but instead lay there thinking about being a good cop.
A good cop. It was something that had been important to him, the line he followed to get through a lot of tough situations. He was a cop largely because his father, whom he’d loved fiercely, had been one.
He was still tired. He closed his eyes.
And his father walked out of the dark across four decades and stood beside him. He wore a tan chamois shirt, dungarees, and Converse high-top tennis shoes. He was tall and clean-shaven. His hair had recently been cut. He held a football in his big hands.
Day off? Cork asked.
Thought we’d toss the pigskin. His father smiled, displaying an incisor outlined in silver.
Cork loved Saturday afternoons in the fall when the leaves were like drops of butter and brown syrup on the grass, and the chores were done, and for an hour before supper his father directed him on passing routes in the backyard—down and out, post, buttonhook—floating the ball into Cork’s hands. “Little fingers together,” his father would call out. “And bring the ball into your body. Cradle it into your body.”
I can’t play today, Cork said. Bum leg.
His father tossed the ball straight up a couple of feet, giving it a twist so that the laces spun. He caught it with a soft slap of leather against his palms.
I screwed up, Cork said.
You think so?
I should be with Jo and the kids. I should be protecting them.
I thought you were. Isn’t that what this is about?
Did I do the right thing?
I can’t answer that for you.
There’s a girl here. She ought to be talking to the police.
Isn’t that you?
Out of my jurisdiction.
Doesn’t stop you from helping.
I’ve missed you, Cork said.
He could smell the leather of the old football, the scent of raked leaves clinging to the chamois shirt, the bay rum his father used every morning as aftershave.
Then it was gone.
An instant later he was aware of a pounding at his door that brought him awake in the faint light of early dawn.
“Yeah?”
“We need you. Something’s happened.”
He hobbled into Jewell’s cabin dressed in the jeans he’d borrowed the day before and a clean shirt that Jewell had given him that had also been Daniel’s. Everyone else had already gathered around the dining room table. Cork could smell coffee brewing.
Gary Johnson, the newspaperman, had called early and given Jewell some bad news. A friend of Ren’s, a kid named Stuart Gullickson, had been hit by a car the night before and was in critical condition at a Marquette hospital. Johnson thought Ren would want to know.
Jewell poured coffee for Cork and topped off what was already in Dina Willner’s cup. Ren and Charlie were drinking orange juice.
“I’m taking Ren to Marquette to see Stuart,” Jewell said.
“I’m going, too,” Charlie said. From her stubborn tone, Cork gathered it wasn’t the first time she’d put forward that proposition.
“I’ve told you, Charlie, it’s too great a risk,” Jewell replied. “If someone sees you, we could have the police here in no time.”
Charlie gripped her juice with both hands as if she were trying to strangle the glass. “He’s my friend, too.”
“I understand,” Jewell said. “But you’ll just need to be patient until Ren and I get back. I doubt they’re letting anybody but family see him anyway.”
Charlie sat back hard and crossed her arms defiantly. “We’re family, Ren and me.”
“They won’t see it that way, Charlie. You’re not going.”
Ren said to her, “I’ll call you from the hospital.”
Charlie stared at the table with stone eyes.
“Cork,” Jewell said. She gave a nod toward the front door.
He stepped onto the porch with her. The morning was cool and wet from the night storm. Leaves stripped from the trees littered the ground, and the bare patches of dirt had been turned to black mud. The sky was a promising blue, however, and honey-colored sunlight already dripped over the tops of the Huron Mountains.
“You’ll need to watch her,” Jewell said. “I’m afraid she might try to get to Marquette on her own.”
“I’ll put Dina on it. She already ran Charlie down once.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “We’ll feed her breakfast and do our best to keep her mind off things. She’ll be fine until you get back.”
Jewell looked tired. It had been at least a couple of nights since she’d had an uninterrupted sleep. With all the grief she carried, Cork figured it might have been even longer. Her eyes were dark circled and her black hair needed a good brushing. Yet, there was a strength in her voice, a determined sense about her actions that Cork admired.
“If what Gary told us yesterday is true, we might get other reporters out here,” she said.
“We’ll handle them,” Cork replied. “You and Ren do what you have to do.”
She took a deep breath. “Okay. How’s the leg this morning?”
“All this activity actually seems to help.”
“I’ll take a look at it when I come back.”
“Deal.”
She turned toward the door and started inside, then hesitated. “Cork, I’m sorry.”
“What for?”
“I’ve been hard on you. But I’m glad you’re here.”
He smiled and shrugged. “Family,” he said.