ran the beam of the flashlight more carefully over the small room. When the light fell on the floor beneath the claw- footed bathtub, Cork caught another glimpse of crimson.
He knelt and looked more closely. It was a thin rivulet, a few inches long. He touched it and confirmed that it had long ago dried. He swept the whole area under the tub with the light but could see nothing more. He went down on his hands and knees and carefully examined the rest of the bathroom floor, which was hardwood. In a tiny seam where the old wood had shrunk and separated, he found another gathering of what appeared to him to be dried blood.
He stood up and considered, and what he thought was that someone had bled here, bled quite a lot, and then someone-a different someone? — had tried to clean up all that blood. Whether for the sake of cleanliness or to get rid of evidence he didn’t know.
A scream came from outside, and Cork spun, thinking, in that instant, that he’d warned Camilla against the wrong kinds of animals. He ran through the house, out the door, and found Camilla in the Land Rover with the doors locked. When she saw him, she lowered her window.
“Someone,” she said. “There.” She pointed to the side of the garage, and Cork shot the beam of his flashlight in that direction. It illuminated the garbage bin, and a fat raccoon with his little paws full of fish bones. His eyes glittered in the light, and he stared at them as if they, not he, were the intruders.
“Sorry,” Camilla said.
“That’s all right.” Cork decided his visit to the house was at an end for the moment. He slid into the driver’s seat.
Camilla asked, “Well?”
He considered telling her what he’d found but, because he didn’t know yet what it meant, decided discretion was best.
“Nothing,” he replied.
When they arrived back at the courthouse, the Escalade wasn’t the only vehicle waiting for them. A gray Mercedes SUV had parked behind it. Cork pulled to the curb under the streetlamp in front of the Escalade and got out. As he walked to the passenger side to open the door for Camilla, Yates left his vehicle, and two figures emerged from the Mercedes. They all converged on Cork.
Nick Jaeger held back a discreet distance, but Alex thrust his face to within inches of Cork’s. “Jesus Christ, O’Connor, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Before Cork had a chance to respond, Camilla Little stepped out and said, “I asked him to do me a favor, Alex. He was just honoring my request.”
Yates, who stood very near to her, said, “Sorry, Mrs. Little. They just showed up.”
“That’s okay, Kenny.”
Alex forgot about being upset for a moment. “You saw her?”
“No,” Camilla replied. Then added, “I’d rather not talk about it.”
“We’ll discuss it, but not here.” He turned his attention to Cork again. In the harsh light of the streetlamp, the scar lines on his face were like worms embedded under the skin. “After what happened to you this afternoon, I can’t believe you’d put my sister at risk this way. And you”-to Yates-“you’re supposed to protect her.”
“I’m also supposed to respect her wishes.”
“In this situation, that kind of respect could have got her killed.”
“She’s your sister. You try arguing with her.”
“And you try finding a job after I fire you.”
“With all due respect, I work for the Littles.”
Alex ignored the remark and addressed his sister once again: “You’re coming with us. We have things to talk about.”
He tried to take hold of Camilla, but Yates clamped a huge and powerful hand on his arm, cutting short the man’s reach.
“Is that what you want, Mrs. Little?” Yates said.
“It’s fine, Kenny.”
Yates released his grip on Alex Jaeger’s arm but with reluctance, it was clear. He stood beside Cork, watching silently as Camilla Little was taken away by her brothers. Cork glanced at his face and saw concern there. And something more, maybe?
“She’ll be okay,” Cork said. “They’re family.”
Yates seemed unimpressed. “Jubal hired me to protect her from the crazies out there. You ask me, what she most needs protecting from is that family of hers. Crazy as peach orchard pigs.”
“Peach orchard pigs? What’s that mean, Kenny?”
“I don’t know exactly. Just something we say in Texas.”
“Jubal married into that family with his eyes wide open.”
“Yeah, I asked him once why he put up with their smug white liberalism and their relentless political maneuvering. He told me that when he played professional ball, even though he didn’t particularly like some of his teammates, he understood that the only way he’d ever make it to the Super Bowl was playing on a team.”
“The Super Bowl?”
“A metaphor,” Yates said and looked at Cork as if he were an idiot. “For the presidency. Jubal had his sights set on the White House.” Yates stared down the street, where the taillights of the Mercedes were like two eyes glaring at him from the dark. “She’d have made a hell of a First Lady,” he said.
He arrived home in the late dark. The patio door was locked, so Cork used his key to come in through the side door. He crept into the kitchen, and Trixie got up from where she lay sleeping under the dining room table and came to greet him.
“Hey, girl,” he said quietly and petted her with one hand while she licked his other.
The house was dark except for a single lamp in the living room, where he found Cy Borkman snoring on the sofa, a crocheted afghan thrown over him. He shook his friend gently, and Borkman awoke.
“I’ll take the next watch, Cy,” Cork said. “Thanks, buddy.”
Borkman, a big man, particularly around his middle, yawned and stretched and eased himself up. “Everything go okay?”
“Yeah, Cy. Just fine. And it helped not worrying about my family.”
“You need me again, you just call.”
“I will, Cy. Thanks.”
Borkman took his jacket from the coat tree near the front door and left.
Upstairs, a soft crying began. Cork heard steps in the hallway and then Jenny’s voice gently offering comfort. In a minute, the house was quiet once more. He caught again the sound of Jenny’s light tread in the hallway, but instead of entering her bedroom, she came downstairs.
“Hi, kiddo.” Cork spoke softly so that he wouldn’t startle her.
“I thought I heard you come in. Did Cy go home?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s a good man. Waaboo loves him.”
“Waaboo loves everyone.”
“Long day,” she said. “Any luck?”
“Luck?”
“Clearing your name. Getting yourself out from under the cloud of suspicion.”
Cork gave her a brief smile. “You sound like a writer of bad mystery stories. Let’s go into the kitchen, and I’ll fill you in.”
He pulled the curtain over the sink and turned on the hood light above the stove, intentionally keeping the room dimly lit. He poured himself a glass of milk, took a couple of chocolate chip cookies from the cookie jar, and sat with his daughter at the kitchen table.
“Rainy called,” she told him. “She and Henry heard about the deer slug through your windshield. She was worried. She tried your cell, but you didn’t answer.”
Cork pulled his phone from the holder on his belt. “Damn battery’s dead. You told her I’m all right?”
