47
Cork sat at the kitchen table facing the back door. He wore his coat and his stocking cap, but he’d taken off his gloves and they lay crumpled in front of him on the table. It was warm in the cabin, but that wasn’t why he’d removed his gloves.
The back door swung open and Parrant brought Jo in. Cork looked at her bound wrists, the tape across her mouth, and the familiar revolver in Parrant’s hand.
“Going to kill the whole county?” he asked.
“If I have to.”
“Starting with us,” Cork concluded.
“That depends,” Sandy replied.
“We both know it doesn’t.” He addressed Jo, “You okay?”
She nodded.
“We have a lot of talking to do before I decide on anything,” Parrant said.
“Bullshit. You’ve already decided.”
Parrant put the revolver to Jo’s temple. “I want to know one thing. Does anyone else know about the negatives?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“You expect me to answer that? It would be like signing a death warrant.”
“Not necessarily,” Parrant said. “Some people can be bought. Most people in fact. Or they can be scared easily enough. Who else knows?”
“I lied,” Cork told him. “No one else knows.”
“I don’t believe you.” Parrant rubbed at his nose, thinking. “Tell you what I’m going to do. From now on, every time I get an answer I don’t believe-” He put his arm around Jo to hold her and he pointed the barrel of the. 38 at her foot. “-I’ll put a bullet through one of Jo’s extremities.”
“You’d really do that?”
“Maybe. Maybe I’m lying. But think about it. What have I got to lose? A man who aspires to the White House ought to be able to be ruthless if the situation demands. So, what do you think? Will I really do it?”
Parrant’s eyes were quite clear and unblinking as a snake’s. “Let’s begin again,” he said. “Did you tell anyone else about the negatives?”
“No.”
“Did you talk to anyone else about your suspicions of me?”
“No.”
The sound of the gunshot made Cork jerk as if he’d been struck by the bullet. Jo tried to yank free, almost separating from Parrant as she screamed into the duct tape. From under the table, where it had lain cradled on his lap, Cork swung the Winchester. The safety was off, a cartridge chambered. For the briefest instant he had a shot at Parrant. Not a clear shot, however, for Parrant was struggling to pull Jo back. Cork hesitated. That was all Sandy Parrant needed.
“Drop it!” he shouted at Cork, jamming the revolver into the back of Jo’s head. “She’s not hit. But I’ll kill her, I swear to God.”
Cork saw that although Jo stood tottering, she was unharmed. He lowered the rifle to the floor.
“Brinkmanship, O’Connor,” Parrant explained with a galling note of triumph. “A game I’m rather good at. John Kennedy was a fucking amateur.” Parrant resettled his grasp on Jo, wrapped his arm around her, and once again aimed the gun at her foot. “Next time, I promise you, I won’t miss. Once more, did you tell anyone about the negatives?”
“Schanno.”
“When?”
“I saw him today. We discussed GameTech.”
“Schanno.” Parrant considered this and didn’t appear too upset. “I’ve got things on him. I can get to him.”
“I think you underestimate the man,” Cork said.
“No one else knows about the negatives?”
“No one.”
“Did you discuss your suspicions about me with anyone?”
“The priest.”
“Tom Griffin? In confession?”
“I haven’t made a confession in years.”
Parrant took a deep breath and thought that one over.
“He’s free to talk,” Cork reminded him. “Maybe he already has. You may end up having to kill all of Aurora, Sandy.”
“But he doesn’t know about the negatives?”
“Like I said, no one besides Schanno knows.”
Parrant glanced down as if preparing to fire at Jo’s foot. “I think you’re lying.”
“How can I prove I’m not?” Cork asked quickly. “Look, I’ve already put two men’s lives in danger. What will satisfy you?”
Parrant reached into the pocket of his coat and brought out a jackknife. He carefully extended the blade and moved it toward Jo’s back.
“Christ no, Sandy!” Cork half rose from his chair.
Parrant cut Jo’s wrists free. “Take the tape off,” he told her.
She obeyed and let the pieces from her wrists and mouth drop to the floor. “I’m sorry,” she told Cork.
“It’s okay.”
“Over there beside him,” Sandy said. He shoved her toward Cork, then bent and picked up the loose pieces of tape and put them in his pocket. He took out the roll of duct tape and tossed it to Cork. “Tape her wrists,” he ordered.
Jo looked confused, then understood. “Fingerprints. You want Cork’s fingerprints on the tape.”
“So it looks like I bound and killed you,” Cork finished.
“You’d have to be distraught,” Jo went on. “But distraught over what?”
Parrant reached inside his coat and brought out folded photographs. He tossed them onto the table. “Pick them up,” he instructed Cork.
Cork lifted the pictures. They were photos of Molly and him embracing by the sauna. They’d been taken at night with a night vision lens from somewhere out on the water. Harlan Lytton’s handiwork for sure.
“These are the ones he showed you?” Cork asked Jo.
“Yes.”
“And now they’re covered with your fingerprints, too,” Parrant said with satisfaction.
“My gun, my fingerprints on the tape and the pictures.” Cork nodded as if he admired the thoroughness. “We argue over my dead lover. I freak, kill Jo, and then what, Sandy? I commit suicide? Or do I just disappear like Joe John LeBeau?”
“Just tape her,” Parrant said.
“What do we do, Cork?” Jo asked.
“You do what I say,” Parrant threatened.
“Or what?” Cork asked. “You’re going to kill us anyway.”
The tea kettle on Molly’s stove suddenly jumped and skittered across the burner. Startled, Parrant swung the revolver that way and let off a round that buried itself in the wall. “What the hell?”
“Windigo,” Cork said. “You know what a Windigo is, don’t you, Sandy?”
“A fucking fairy tale.”
“It wasn’t a fairy tale made that pot jump around,” Cork said.
The wind rose outside. The windowpane over the sink rattled. From the dark of the night surrounding the
