look a little like a Chia Pet. It was also on the wild side that morning, and Cork figured she’d overslept and was frantically trying to get the place ready for customers. He slid from the Land Rover, went to the Broiler door, and knocked on the glass. Heidi turned toward him, looked bewildered, pointed at her wristwatch, and shook her head. Cork beckoned her to him. He could tell she wasn’t happy to be interrupted, but she came and unlocked anyway.
“I don’t care how hungry you are,” she said, “I’m not putting in any orders before six.”
“This isn’t about eating, Heidi.”
“No? What’s it about then? And make it quick, Cork. I’m running late as it is.”
“The day before yesterday, the day Jubal Little was killed, when we came for breakfast, do you remember who else was here that morning?”
“Oh, Jesus. That was Saturday. You have any idea how many people come here for breakfast on a Saturday? You think I’m going to remember them all?”
“Just take a moment, Heidi. Relax and think. This was very early Saturday, first thing after you opened. Anybody come to mind?”
“Cork, I’ve got so much-”
“Please. It’s important.”
She took a breath and closed her eyes. Then she squeezed them together, as if it hurt her to think deeply. At last she said, “Gus Sorenson and Davey Klein and Mack McKenzie were at the counter. Two Greek omelets and one short stack with a side of link sausage. Cora Hubik was at table six. Eggs over easy and a waffle. Lester Bigby in booth three, right behind you and Jubal Little. Oatmeal and raisins. Jasper Davis in booth five. His usual-”
“Lester Bigby? He was here?”
“I just said he was. In the booth right behind you.”
“I don’t remember him.”
“You probably didn’t see his face. He’s usually got it hid behind a newspaper.”
“Bigby,” Cork said.
She mentioned two more names, but they weren’t anybody Cork had reason to be concerned about, especially after he’d learned that Lester Bigby had been there. He thanked Heidi and started away.
“Be back for breakfast?” she asked.
“I’ll probably have something at home.”
“Give that grandson of yours a big hug for me. And bring him in for a cinnamon roll sometime. On me, okay?”
“Will do, Heidi.”
Cork didn’t, in fact, go home. He drove north out of Aurora, along the lakeshore and back roads until he reached the double-trunk birch. Soft blue morning light was sifting through the tree branches as he set out along the path to Crow Point, and he realized the cloud cover that had hung heavy for days was gone, and the sun would break against a clear heaven. That idea alone lifted his spirits.
The sky had turned the color of a peach when he stepped from the trees and entered the meadow at the end of the point. He saw no smoke rising from the stovepipe on either of the cabins. He walked to Rainy’s door, knocked lightly, and opened it.
“Rainy?” he called softly.
“Cork?” She rose in bed, propped herself on an elbow, and gave him a quizzical look.
“Would you like some company?”
She smiled and lifted the blanket for him. “I’d love some.”
Later, they lay together, a braiding of arms and legs and moist flesh.
“I don’t know what brought this on, but I’m glad it did,” Rainy said in a breathless whisper.
“I spoke with Camilla Little last night, and then tried to see Winona Crane. They both seem to me to be crippled women. It’s helped me realize how lucky I am to have you in my life, and I just wanted you to know that I know that.”
In reply, she kissed his shoulder gently.
He said, “Some people, love just seems to sweep them up like a big wave, and then leave them stranded. I think that’s the way it was with Winona and Camilla where Jubal was concerned.”
“What about you?” Rainy said. “From what you’ve told me, Jubal left you kind of stranded, too.”
Cork rolled onto his back and stared up at the boards of the ceiling. Rainy put her hand on his chest over his heart.
“He wasn’t always like that,” Cork said. “It wasn’t always all about Jubal.”
After Jubal left for college, Cork didn’t see him for several years. Summers, Jubal worked in Cedar Falls at jobs arranged for him by the Athletic Department. They communicated occasionally through letters, but neither of them was particularly responsible in that way. It wasn’t difficult for Cork to keep track of Jubal’s football career, however. The University of Northern Iowa’s team was Jubal. He became the starting quarterback in his freshman year, and in every year thereafter, he set new school records and new conference records. Although he played for a small school in a midwestern state that most of America associated with dumb cows and tall corn, Jubal’s exploits excited national attention. Because of his Minnesota roots, he was often featured in the sports columns of the newspapers in the Twin Cities. His senior year warranted a full two-page article in Sports Illustrated, and that same year, he was profiled in Time. Part of it, of course, was his incredible athletic ability, but part of it was his unique history. The summer before his senior year, Jubal’s father died, stabbed to death in the prison yard at Deer Lodge. Because of who Jubal was, the incident became a national story. By then, the sentiment in America had changed and being Indian was a unique, even honorable thing. Once the truth was known, Jubal seemed to embrace his heritage. On the football field that final year-and in the pros afterward, for a while-he took to calling himself the Wild Warrior and let his hair grow long. Off the football field, he often wore a beaded headband and sometimes a feather. He didn’t return to Aurora until the following spring, when his mother died, and by then Cork was long gone, off to Chicago, training to wear the blue uniform of a cop. Cork didn’t learn about Jubal’s mother until later. When he did, he sent a letter of condolence, which Jubal never answered. Cork understood. Gradually over the years, he and Jubal, like most high school friends, had eased into their adult lives and had drifted apart.
It was Willie Crane who brought them together again. It happened in the spring.
Cork worked third-shift patrol, the late shift, and had just arrived home at eight a.m., ready to get some shut-eye, when his telephone rang.
“O’Connor,” he answered.
“Hello, Cork. It’s Willie Crane.” LoCor. IsWillieCrane.
“Willie? My God, it’s been forever. How are you?”
“Okay. I’m in Chicago. I was wondering if I could see you.”
It had been a long time since Cork had heard his voice, but in the interim, Willie had improved his speech a little, and Cork had no trouble understanding the words.
“Sure, Willie. How long are you in town?”
“Not long, I hope. It kind of depends on you.”
“Why?”
“When we talk, you’ll understand. It’s important. It’s about Winona.”
“What about her?”
“I’d rather talk in person.”
“All right. How about breakfast right now?”
Willie was staying at the Congress Hotel on Michigan Avenue, and Cork met him there. He still walked with the shuffling gait Cork remembered well, but even that seemed to have improved a little. They sat at a table near a window that looked east toward Grant Park. Cork hadn’t seen Willie in almost six years. Winona’s brother had grown tall and lean and handsome. Cork had heard that Willie was making a name for himself as a wildlife photographer and a nature writer. Anyone looking at Willie who didn’t know him would have been surprised. But from very early, Cork had seen the strength that was at the heart of Willie Crane.
“I hear you’re doing well,” Cork told him. Willie looked surprised, and Cork explained, “The rez telegraph reaches all the way to Chicago.”
“I’ve worked hard. And I love what I do. You, too, I bet. I’m not surprised at all that you’re a cop. Just that
