“But her vision wasn’t fulfilled,” Rainy pointed out. “Jubal Little died before he reached the top.”
The old man shrugged. “A vision is not necessarily what will be. It is more like a light showing the way toward what could be. And sometimes it is a warning.”
Meloux’s old dog, Walleye, got up from the corner of the cabin where he’d been lying with his head cradled on his paws. He came to the table, to Rainy, who scratched his head. Then she frowned at Cork. “What did you mean when you said that Winona had become a liability to Jubal?”
“He was going to be in the public eye in such a way that everything he did would be watched. His relationship with Winona would be too risky. If it’s true that he had his eye ultimately on the presidency-and knowing Jubal, that’s exactly where his ambition would push him-he had to make sure that he appeared to be squeaky clean.”
Rainy didn’t look convinced. “If all her life Winona’s known that Jubal would have to abandon her, for the mountaintop, as you put it, why believe that she killed him just as he was poising himself to get there?”
On his fingers, Cork counted off the reasons. “One: Sam Winter Moon taught her to bow-hunt and still-stalk. Two: She knows the area around Trickster’s Point well. And three: I tend to agree with the guy who said that hell has no fury like a woman scorned.”
“I’m going to ignore for the moment the sexist nature of that last comment and repeat what Uncle Henry told you, that hate isn’t the other side of love. That would be fear. So if Winona Crane killed Jubal Little, what was she afraid of?”
Cork shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m really just thinking out loud.”
Meloux put an old hand in the center of the table, his fingers spread like the points of a star. “Does your heart, Corcoran O’Connor, agree with the way your head is trying to lead you?”
“No,” Cork had to admit. He sat back, feeling defeated again. “I’m flailing here, Henry.”
“Did you come hoping for advice? Or did you come hoping for something else?”
“I was wondering if you might be willing to talk to Winona.”
Meloux fell silent as he considered Cork’s request. Walleye circled the table and nudged his old head under the Mide’s right hand, and Meloux idly stroked the dog’s yellow fur.
“If she comes to me, I will talk to her,” he finally agreed. “But my purpose will be to help her spirit heal, if that is what she wants, not to help you put her in the hands of the police.”
“Fair enough, Henry,” Cork said, and he rose to leave. “Migwech.”
Rainy walked him across the meadow to where the trail entered the trees. Morning had arrived fully, but because clouds sealed the entire dome of the sky, there was no sun.
“Do you think you can convince Winona to talk to Uncle Henry?” she asked.
“If I can find her. She’s gone into hiding again.”
She smiled at him and reached out to touch his cheek. “Do you know what Uncle Henry says about you?”
“No, tell me.”
“He says you’re like a dog who can’t remember where he’s buried his bone. You just keep digging until you find it.”
“Pretty pathetic, huh?”
“I don’t think so at all.”
She kissed him just as his cell phone began to ring. He pulled it from his belt holder and saw that it was Ed Larson calling.
“This is Cork. What’s up, Ed?”
Larson said, “You might want to come down to the sheriff’s department, Cork. We just brought in Isaiah Broom. Holter’s insisting we arrest him for the murder of Jubal Little.”
CHAPTER 32
“We showed up at his door,” Holter said. “Captain Larson and myself. We wanted to get to him early, but just to talk to him. He took one look at us and said, ‘I killed him.’ It was that simple.”
That simple, Cork thought. He wanted to say, Come on, Holter, nothing’s that simple, but he held his tongue.
They sat in the office of Sheriff Marsha Dross. They all had mugs of coffee, and someone had put a plate of doughnut holes on Dross’s desk. Nobody was eating them. Cork thought the feel in the room was different from the excitement that should have been there if they really believed they were going to be able to close the case.
“Have you questioned him yet?”
Larson shook his head. “He asked to have his attorney present.”
Cork saw the dismal look on Holter’s face. “Wouldn’t happen to be Leon Papakee, would it, Agent Holter?” he asked.
“It is,” the BCA agent replied coolly. “He’s on his way. Should be here soon.”
“So what do you think?” Cork asked of them all in general.
Dross said, “We’re reserving judgment, but we’d be interested in what you think.”
Cork lifted his mug. The smell of the coffee was good and strong, and he figured Dross had made it herself. He sipped and considered the question, then replied, “I think Broom is the kind of man who could have done this kind of thing, but I don’t think he’s the kind of man who would hand himself over to you gift-wrapped.”
Holter said, “Unless he plans to use this whole tragic situation as a political forum of some kind.”
“I could see him doing that,” Cork said. “What about Lester Bigby?”
Holter looked surprised at the apparent jump in topic. “What about him?”
“Did you talk to him?”
“Yes. He wasn’t happy about it, but he was cooperative. He showed us his hunting bow, his arrows. Very nice, but very commercial. Nothing homemade. Nothing like the arrow that killed Jubal Little.”
“As I explained to you once before, Agent Holter, I don’t lock my doors. I still think he could have taken one of mine.”
“You don’t really believe that, do you?”
“Did you get his fingerprints to match against the ones on the arrow that killed your John Doe on the ridge?”
“I didn’t believe it to be necessary at this point.”
“Did you at least ask him where he was last Saturday?”
“We did. He was out all day, at that resort property of his on Crown Lake.”
“Interesting. He told his wife he was going to spend the day with his father.”
“Time enough for both, I suppose.”
“His father says he wasn’t there at all.”
“Look, what difference does it make? We have in custody the man who admits to the murder.”
“Yeah, a guy who normally wouldn’t say boo to the cops, and without even being prompted insists, ‘Cuff me.’ You really buy that, Holter?”
“Jesus, O’Connor. You were the one who suggested we take a good look at Broom. Now you’re saying we made a mistake? Give me a break.”
Larson intervened evenly. “For now, it’s the best lead we have, Cork. We’re not going to send an innocent man to jail, you know that.”
“Do I? I was looking pretty good to you there for a while.”
“Maybe you still are,” Larson said. “Go on home. We’ll be in touch.”
Cork stood up to leave. As he put his half-empty coffee mug on Dross’s desk, the sheriff asked, “Just for the sake of argument, why would Broom lie about something like this?”
Love, Cork wanted to tell her. Instead he said, “Maybe it’s like Holter says. Isaiah’s got some political points to make, and he just wants the spotlight.”
“Risky,” Dross said.
“If you’re born Indian, your whole life is about risk,” Cork replied, and he left.
