Faith Gray, MSW, PhD, was the consulting psychologist retained by the county for a variety of purposes. She did psychological testing for certain positions and was also responsible for counseling any sheriff’s personnel involved in an officer-related shooting until she was ready to certify that they were fit for duty.
“I didn’t shoot anybody,” Cork said.
Cork had been toying with the silver pen he’d used to work on the duty roster. The pen slipped from his hands. He bent to retrieve it and, when he came up, realized that Larson’s dark eyes had followed every move.
“You were shot,” Larson said. “I can get you the policy statement, but you ought to know what it says. You wrote it.”
“All right.” Cork put up his hand as if to stop an argument. “I’ll do it.”
“It would be a mistake to put it off.”
“I said I’d do it.”
Larson nodded, rose from his chair, and left.
Cork sat for a while, eyeing the telephone. Finally he lifted the receiver to call Faith Gray and noted, a little distantly, that his hand was shaking.
As he’d promised, he was home for dinner. Jenny had put in a meat loaf, Annie had done potatoes and a tossed salad, and Stevie had set the table. His children weren’t always this organized or cooperative, but whenever the foundation of the family seemed threatened, they pulled together admirably. They greeted him with prolonged hugs, as if he’d been away on a long trip.
He stowed his gun belt on the top shelf of his bedroom closet and put his revolver in the lockbox there. He took off his uniform, donned jeans and a yellow chamois shirt, and came down to dinner looking like a man who might be doing anything for a living. Except that he had stitches closing the lobe of his left ear where a bullet had narrowly missed piercing his skull. They talked about what happened. The children asked about Marsha, whom they all liked, and they were glad she would recover. As soon as he could, Cork moved them on to other topics.
“Get any great college offers today?” he said to Jenny as he wedged off a piece of the meat loaf with his fork.
She’d taken her SATs early and had done extremely well, scoring in the ninety-fifth percentile. For several months, she’d been considering the schools to which she would make application, and had narrowed her choices to Northwestern, Stanford, and Columbia, none of which the O’Connors could afford outright. They’d filed a statement of financial need, and knew that much of the final decision of a college would rest on what kind of aid Jenny was offered. She was a straight-A student with a lot of extracurricular activities and honors. Through a state-sponsored program, she’d already taken a number of college-level courses at Aurora Community College and aced every one. On top of it all, she was part Ojibwe. According to her high school counselor, all of these things made her an attractive candidate.
It was Northwestern that Jenny talked about most.
“No, but Mom and I talked some more about going to Evanston to check out Northwestern’s campus.”
“Sounds like a wise idea.” Then he said, “Some more’?”
Jo said, “We’ve been talking about a short trip to Evanston for a while.”
Cork paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Really?”
“We told you, Dad. Don’t you remember?”
“Sure.” Although at the moment, he didn’t. “When?”
“That’s one of the things we need to discuss,” Jo said.
Stevie, who was seven, put down his glass of milk. He had a white mustache on his upper lip. “I told Roger Turppa that I had a sister in the twelfth grade and he said I was a liar “cuz school doesn’t go that high.”
“It might not for Roger Turppa, if he’s anything like his dad,” Cork said.
“Evanston’s not that far from South Bend,” Annie said.
Everyone knew Annie wanted to go to Notre Dame. There’d never been any doubt. Although only a sophomore, she was already determined to secure an athletic scholarship in softball, and when Annie set her mind on something it usually came to pass.
“We’ll talk about Northwestern-and Notre Dame-later,” Jo said. “When your father’s not so tired.”
After dinner, Jo washed the dishes, Cork dried. He was just hanging up the dish towel when the front doorbell rang.
“Dad,” Annie called from the living room. “It’s for you.”
Simon Rutledge stood at the door, his hands folded patiently in front of him, smiling as he watched Cork come from the kitchen.
“Smells good,” Rutledge said.
“The kids fixed meat loaf.”
“The kids?” Rutledge laughed. “Mine can’t even follow a recipe for ice water. Let’s talk outside, okay?”
Cork stepped onto the porch and closed the door. It was a blue twilight with a few clouds in the west lit with a faint rose glow. The air was cooling rapidly, and by morning, Cork figured, there’d be frost. Gooseberry Lane was empty, but the houses along the street were lit by warm lights from within. During summer, when the evenings seemed to stretch into forever, he loved to sit with Jo in the porch swing and watch Stevie play with the other kids on the block, their laughter a perfect ending to the day. He didn’t have that feeling now.
“I didn’t get a lot on the rez,” Rutledge said.
“I figured.”
“People seem pretty well split in how they think of you.”
“They always have been.” Cork put his hands on the porch railing and leaned against it lightly. “You know anything about my family, Simon?”
“Nope. Only know you.”
“My grandfather was a teacher, opened a school on the reservation in a time when most Ojibwe kids got sent away to government schools. The BIA’s approach was to do its best to rub out the Indian in Indians. My grandfather had friends on the rez and also in politics and he was able to keep a lot of children from being taken from their families. Know why he did that?”
“He appreciated the culture?”
“He was in love. With my Grandma Dilsey, who convinced him to do the right thing. He was a decent man, but it was my grandmother who guided his heart. People on the rez respected my grandfather but they loved Grandma Dilsey.
“My mother chose to marry a white man, too. And a law enforcement officer, to boot. My father was a man of strong beliefs. He tried to be fair, and I think he did a pretty good job of it, but not everybody saw it that way. A lot of white folks called him a squaw man behind his back, like they did my grandfather. The Anishinaabeg called him odeimin. Know what that means?”
Rutledge shook his head.
“Strawberry.”
“Because of his sweet disposition?”
“His ruddy Irish complexion. Now here I am, a little Indian and a lot of Irish. When folks, white or Shinnob, don’t like what I’m doing, often as not they blame it on my blood.” Cork glanced at Rutledge who was looking at the sky. “You find anyone who seemed pissed enough to shoot me dead?”
“You know the Ojibwe. For all the emotion they showed, I might as well have been talking to sticks. Nothing they told me was very useful.” He yawned. It had been a long day for him, too. “We’ve got an agent in St. Paul who’s going to St. Joseph’s Hospital tomorrow to interview Lydell Cramer. We’ll see what he has to say for himself.”
Cork heard the dismissive tone of his voice. “But?”
“I’ve got to tell you, the Indian connection seems pretty strong. Whoever the shooter was, he knew the territory, knew the Tibodeaus’ schedule, and knew it would most likely be you who responded to the call.”
“Could mean it’s just someone who’s a good strategist.”
“You make it sound like a war.”
“I don’t think it’s over. Do you?” Cork said.
