the map on the wall behind the desk.
“He’s all yours, Sigurd,” Schanno said.
Thirty minutes later they were back in the living room. As Sigurd Nelson put on his coat, he said, “I’ll be able to tell you some more after I work on him tomorrow. But like I said, if it’s time of death you’re worried about right now, the judge hasn’t been dead more than four or five hours.”
“Thanks for coming, Sigurd,” Schanno told him.
“I’m sorry, Sandy,” the coroner said, offering his condolences. “But the judge.” He shook his head. “Who would’ve figured?” He opened the door and pushed into the storm.
Cork began to put on his own coat.
“Where you headed?” Schanno asked.
“Darla LeBeau’s.”
“Tell her I’ll have a man over soon. I’ll put a notice about the boy out on the NCIC computer.” Schanno took a deep, tired breath and looked at his watch.
“Call home and check on Arletta, Wally,” Cork suggested as he pulled on his gloves. “Home ought to be every man’s first concern.” He glanced at Sandy Parrant, whose face was drawn and colorless and who, for a politician, was unusually quiet. “Want a lift, Sandy?”
Parrant shook his head.
“I’m sorry,” Cork said.
“Yeah.” Parrant gave him a brief smile of thanks. But he was a man way on the other side of something terrible, and the look in his eyes came from far, far away.
7
Traditionally the Anishinaabe were a quiet people. Before the whites came, they lived in the silence of great woods and more often than not, the voices they heard were not human. The wind spoke. The water sang. All sound had purpose. When an Anishinaabe approached the wigwam of another, he respectfully made noise to announce his coming. Thunder, therefore, was the respectful way of the storm in announcing its approach. Spirit and purpose in all things. For all creation, respect.
The storm that bent the pine trees and the tamaracks, that drove the snow plows from the roads and froze and snapped the power lines was not an angry spirit. In its passage, it created chaos not because of anger but because it was so vast and powerful and those things it touched, especially those things human, were so small in comparison. In a way, it was like the bear that Cork had once hunted with Sam Winter Moon, huge and oblivious. If the storm, in fact, was responsible for the disappearance of the boy, Cork knew it was not a thing done maliciously. In his experience, only people acted out of pure malice.
When he finally reached Darla’s house, the porch light was on and he saw an ancient Kawasaki snowmobile parked near the steps. As he approached the machine, he knew without actually seeing that under the engine oil was staining the snow. He knew it because the machine belonged to Father Tom Griffin and was the oldest of its kind in Tamarack County. It always leaked oil.
He rang the bell, and a moment later Darla opened the door.
“Cork,” she said, and gave him a nervous look and stepped back.
The priest was beside her out of sight for a moment, but Cork could see his shadow on the wall, a tall, lanky silhouette. Then Tom Griffin stepped into view, a steadfast smile on his lips and a huge black patch over his left eye.
“Evening, Cork,” the priest said, and reached out to shake hands. He had a strong grip that he used gracefully to guide Cork out of the storm and into the house.
Tom Griffin was dressed in black and wearing his cleric’s collar, an unusual thing for the man. Except for formal occasions and when performing the formally religious duties of his position, the priest preferred to wear blue jeans and flannel shirts and hiking boots. He had come to Aurora a year and a half earlier to help the aging Father Kelsey manage St. Agnes and to minister to the Catholic parishioners who lived on the Iron Lake Reservation. He was nearing forty, a man of enormous goodwill and energy. In summer he could be seen cutting along the back roads of the reservation on a huge, old Kawasaki motorcycle. In winter, he generally used the Kawasaki snowmobile. As a result, he was affectionately known on the reservation as St. Kawasaki.
“I’m glad you called somebody, Darla,” Cork told her.
“You didn’t find him,” Darla said.
“Maybe you should sit down.”
“What is it?”
Cork looked to the priest for help.
“Maybe we should all sit down,” Tom Griffin suggested.
He led the way into the living room and sat on the arm of the sofa. Darla sat beside him. Cork settled on the radiator, reluctant to wet the furniture with the drip of the melting snow off his coat.
“Judge Parrant is dead,” Cork told them.
“The judge?” the priest said. “How?”
“It looks as if he killed himself. The sheriff’s there now. We couldn’t find any indication that Paul had been there, so this probably hasn’t got a thing to do with him.”
“I know that,” Darla said.
Cork looked at the priest, then back at Darla. “What’s going on?”
“I was out at the reservation this morning. We buried Vernon Blackwater, you know,” the priest said.
“So?”
“Word on the reservation is that Joe John is back.”
“Has anybody talked to him?” Cork asked.
“Not as far as I know.”
“Not even Wanda?”
“I was out there a little while ago. She hasn’t seen him or spoken to him, but she’s sure he’s around.”
“He’s got Paul?”
“Paul’s gone, Joe John’s back. I’d say that’s hardly coincidence, wouldn’t you?”
Cork felt relieved. At least it was Joe John. Not the storm or something worse. “The sheriff will want to know that,” he said.
“The sheriff?” Darla looked unhappy.
“He’s sending a man over here.”
“I don’t want any trouble,” she said.
“It’s Joe John,” the priest told Cork. “Can’t we do this without the law coming into it?”
“It’s out of my hands now,” Cork explained. He stood up. “It’s late. I’d best get going. I’ll stay in touch. And let me know if I can help in any way.”
“Thanks, Cork.” Darla managed a smile.
“Let me see you out,” the priest said.
As he put on his gloves at the door, Cork asked, “Lots of folks at Vernon Blackwater’s burial?”
“Most of the reservation. He was an important man.”
“He was a son of a bitch,” Cork said, drawing his cap out of his coat pocket.
“He was that, too,” the priest agreed.
“You were there when he died, weren’t you? Gave him last rites?”
“I did.”
Cork tugged the cap down over his ears. “Heard his final confession?”
“Yes.”
“That’s something I would’ve given my left nut to hear.”
“I’d think twice before giving away body parts, Cork,” the priest said with a smile and a quick gesture toward the patch over his eye.
Before he reached for the door, Cork asked the priest quietly, “Can I talk with you soon?”
