“He did a lot of reminiscing. Life-flashing-before-his-eyes kind of thing. And he talked about dying.”
Camilla looked up and wiped at her eyes. “Was he afraid?”
“No.”
“The greatest adventure of all,” Nick said and lifted his glass as if in a toast.
“Oh, shut up,” Camilla snapped.
Her younger brother smiled indulgently. “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve thought I was on the verge of dying?”
“Do you have any idea how little I care at this moment?”
“What I’m getting at, Camilla, is that, when you look death in the eye, I mean when it’s right there in front of you, breathing into your face, it’s an extraordinary experience. Did he laugh, Cork?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
Nick nodded, as if that was exactly what he’d expected. “When you’re about to let go for good, there are moments of euphoria,” he said grandly. “I’ve seen it before.”
Alex didn’t seem to be paying any attention to what his brother was saying. He shook his head and muttered to himself, “What a waste.”
Cork found it interesting that Alex Jaeger hadn’t characterized Jubal’s death as tragic or devastating or any number of things that might have signaled a deep personal feeling about a terrible loss. He’d said “waste” instead, as if Jubal Little had been nothing to him but a highly valuable commodity.
“Is there anything else?” Cork asked, more than ready to go, because he was tired-of the day, the circumstances, and especially these people.
Alex put his drink on the liquor cabinet, crossed the room, and positioned himself threateningly near Cork. He said, “You didn’t kill Jubal?”
“Why would I?”
“We all have secrets. Some of them are probably worth killing for.”
Cork had had enough. “It’s been a rough day,” he said curtly. “I’m tired. I’m going home.”
“I’ll walk you to your car,” Camilla offered.
She stood and took his arm as if he was her escort at a ball, and they left the room. Behind him, Cork heard the sound of ice being dropped into a glass.
Outside, in the charcoal light of that dismal evening, they found Yates standing on the crushed limestone, looking up at the overcast. “Smells like winter,” he said. Then he said, “I miss Texas.” And finally he said, “Do you need me for anything else, Camilla?”
She shook her head. “Thank you, Kenny.”
He turned his big, dark face toward Cork, sizing him up, the way he might have appraised an opponent on the gridiron. He looked as if he wanted to say something. Instead, all he said was “Good night,” and left them alone and returned to the house.
From somewhere above the lake, but too deep in the approach of night to be seen, came the call of geese heading south. It was a sound Cork had heard a thousand times in his life, but at the moment, it struck him as profoundly sad, like the call of someone hopelessly lost and afraid.
“Camilla, does the name Rhiannon mean anything to you?”
She thought a moment. “No. Why?”
“When he was dying, Jubal mentioned it.”
She shook her head. “The only name that seemed important to him was… hers.” She leaned against the driver’s door of his Land Rover, so that Cork couldn’t have left immediately even if he’d wanted to. “Have you talked to her?”
Cork knew who she meant. “No.”
“Do me a favor?”
“Sure.”
“When you see her, tell her…”
Cork waited. Even in the gathering gloom, the tears that rolled down her cheeks were obvious and the hurt in her eyes unmistakable.
“Tell her I’m planning an elaborate funeral for Jubal. Everyone will be there. Everyone except her. Tell her that I’m not going to bury him up here either. I’m going to bury him in Saint Paul, next to the plot reserved for me. Tell her that she may have had him in this life, but he’ll be at my side for eternity.”
CHAPTER 16
C amilla’s parting comment put Cork in mind of burials, and as he drove away from Jubal Little’s home on Iron Lake, he recalled an incident at Donner Bigby’s funeral.
After Donner’s death, Cork told the investigators as much of the truth as he could. That he and Jubal had arrived after Bigby was well into his climb up Trickster’s Point. That Bigby had reached the top. That from below they’d watched him disappear from view. That the next thing Cork had heard was Bigby’s scream as he fell. That he didn’t see the fall or what might have caused it. That when they reached him, Bigby was already dead.
When Cy Borkman asked Cork what they were doing at Trickster’s Point in the first place, Cork told him that they’d come to confront Bigby about what had happened to Winona Crane, but Bigby had fallen before they had a chance to talk to him. Which was mostly true.
Jubal told the same story. It was uncomplicated, easy for them to stand by, and involved only one outright lie-that they both had stayed on the ground.
The whole sheriff’s department knew Cork well. His father had led them as sheriff, and they’d watched Cork grow from a baby. Aurora was a small community, and everyone knew Jubal, or at least knew his reputation as a fine athlete and natural leader. And everyone knew the kind of kid Donner Bigby had been, and most folks suspected that he was responsible for the brutal attack on Winona Crane. When it came down to scraping the bedrock of people’s belief, Cork and Jubal were good kids, and providence alone had delivered to Donner Bigby his just deserts.
Bigby’s father felt differently. Buzz Bigby was a man as huge as the trees he felled, and anyone who’d had occasion to run afoul of him knew there was a good deal in him to fear. Which was exactly the experience Cork had at Donner Bigby’s funeral.
He didn’t want to go, but his mother insisted. “He was your classmate,” she told him. “And I’ve known his mother all my life. I don’t care what he might have done when he was alive. That’s in God’s hands now.”
The service was well attended, which surprised Cork. In his mind, the whole world had disliked Donner Bigby. Afterward, those in attendance gathered in the community room in the basement of Zion Lutheran Church for a meal. The room had been set up with a big poster on which were glued photos of Bigby taken as he grew up, and Cork was yet again surprised when he saw visual proof that Donner Bigby might once have been something besides big and mean.
He recognized Mrs. Bigby from that fateful morning when he and Jubal had come knocking at her door, and as he stood with his mother in the basement, holding a plate of potato salad and sliced ham and black olives, he saw the woman look his way and then maneuver toward him through the large gathering.
“Hello, Alice,” Cork’s mother greeted her. “I’m so sorry about Donner.”
“Thank you, Colleen,” Mrs. Bigby said, then her eyes, blue and fragile as butterflies, settled on Cork. “I understand you stayed with Donner while your friend went for help.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Cork replied.
“Thank you. It’s a comfort knowing that he wasn’t alone.”
He was dead, Cork thought. Beyond alone. Or maybe as alone as you could ever get.
She hesitated, then asked, “He didn’t suffer?”
“No, ma’am, he couldn’t have. The fall killed him instantly.”
She nodded and looked down. “He was so often… unhappy.” She raised her head and stared at her husband on the other side of the big room, where he dominated in the way a redwood might stand out above all other trees. “He believed he had a lot to live up to.”
