Rutledge put his hands in his pockets, hunched his shoulders. “He went to a lot of trouble and didn’t get what he wanted. No, I don’t think it’s over.”
Cork looked up and down the empty street. “Then it is a war. What do we do in the meantime?”
“Follow up on the tire castings and see what ballistics can tell us about the weapon.” He saw Cork scrutinizing the neighborhood. “Worried?”
“He drew me out where there wouldn’t be witnesses. I don’t think he’ll try anything here.”
“Even so, it might be best to confine yourself to your office for a while. No rural calls.”
“I’m not going to hide, Simon.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I won’t be stupid.”
“All right.” Rutledge started down the porch steps. “I’ll be in touch.”
Cork watched the agent get into his car and drive away. Night was pressing hard against the last stubborn light of day. He stood a few minutes longer on the front porch, peering deeply into the places where night and shadow already met. He turned his back to the street, felt a prickle run the length of his spine, the brief anticipation of a bullet, then he stepped inside.
8
He was following his father through a stretch of pine woods he didn’t recognize, following him at a distance. Liam O’Connor loped ahead, a giant of a man, putting more and more distance between himself and his son with each stride. He broke through shafts of sunlight, flashing brilliant for a moment, all gold. In the next instant he dropped into shadow. Cork tried to call out to him, to bring him back, but his jaw felt rusted shut, and all he could push through his lips was a desperate, incoherent moan. He struggled to run faster, to catch up so that he could throw his arms around his father and hold him forever. From somewhere in the pine boughs above came the harsh taunts of crows. He realized that everything around him had been perfectly still until the birds shattered the silence, and he became afraid. The cawing turned into the rattle of gunfire, and he saw that it was not his father he was chasing but Marsha Dross. As he watched, blood bloomed on the blouse of her uniform and she fell. Cork fought to free his legs, which had sunk deep into a bed of pine needles that held him like quicksand. The gunfire again became the cawing of the birds, and the cawing became the ringing of the phone in his bedroom as he pulled himself awake.
“Sheriff?”
“Yeah.”
“Sheriff, it’s Bos.”
Cork registered that it was Boston Swain, the night dispatcher.
“You awake?”
“I’m here. What time is it?”
“Three A.M. You’re sure you’re awake.”
Cork wiped away tears but was quite sure he was awake. “What is it, Bos?”
“Sheriff.” She paused a moment, perhaps waiting for Cork to affirm that his eyes were open. “It looks like we’ve got a homicide.”
He’d gone to bed to a clear sky and a moon heading toward full, and he’d thought by morning there would be frost. Clouds had moved in during the night, however, and kept the temperature up. As Cork headed away from home, a light precipitation began to fall, more mist than rain, coating everything with a wet sheen. The wipers of his old Bronco groaned intermittently across the windshield, the headlights shimmered off glazed asphalt, and the tires hissed as they rolled. The road to the overlook at Mercy Falls wound through dripping forests that, in the dark morning hours, seemed primordial and menacing.
There were two parking lots for the overlook at Mercy Falls. The first lot was for the picnic shelter and the restroom blockhouse. The second lot, a hundred yards up the hill and hidden by a thick stand of aspen, was nearer to the falls but had no facilities. The lower lot was empty; in the upper parking lot Cork found three vehicles. Two were department cruisers. The other was a silver Lexus SUV with an Avis sticker on the bumper. Nearby, heard but unseen, Mercy Creek gushed through a narrows in slate-gray bedrock before tumbling one hundred feet into a small pool. The falls overlook was a favorite place for sightseers during the day. Officially, it closed at sunset, but at night it was a popular spot for couples to do what couples in parked cars had always done in dark, beautiful places. The deputies on night patrol would swing by occasionally, often enough to keep the local kids guessing.
The two cruisers had been positioned so that their headlights blasted over the SUV from either side. Cork parked in back of the Lexus and left the Bronco’s headlights on. Morgan and Schilling stood in the mist, their jackets zipped against the damp chill.
“Watch your step,” Morgan said as Cork approached.
Cork looked down and skirted a small puddle of vomit, yellow-white on the wet pavement.
Schilling looked pale and shaken. “On the ground, in front.” He nodded toward the Lexus.
The man lay on his back. A Cubs ball cap was pulled down over the top half of his face, obscuring his eyes. His mouth was open in an unending yawn. Long splashes of blood, almost black now from clotting, clung to his cheeks like leeches. His shirt, a button-down light-blue oxford, was a stained, shredded mess, getting damp from the mist. His pants and black briefs had been yanked down around his ankles. His knees were spread wide, and his crotch and inner thighs looked as if someone had taken a big brush, dipped it in a bucket of blood, and painted his skin.
Schilling said behind him, “They didn’t just kill him, Cork. They castrated him, too.”
“You found him?”
“Yeah.” Schilling blew into his hands and shifted on his feet as if he were freezing.
“You touch anything?”
“I checked him for a pulse, that’s it.”
Cork looked back at the puddle of vomit. “His?”
“Mine,” Schilling said. “Sorry.”
“How’re you feeling now?”
“I’ve been better.”
“Okay. Nothing gets touched until Ed gets here. In the meantime, Howard,” he said to Morgan, “I want you to get on the radio and run the plate, make sure it’s a rental. Then let’s contact Avis and find out who rented it.”
Morgan nodded and headed to his cruiser.
“What about me?” Schilling said.
Cork considered the body and the ground around it becoming wet as the mist grew heavy, turning to a light rain. He didn’t want to disturb the scene, but he also didn’t want the rain to wash away evidence.
“Pull your cruiser around in front, Nate, and park with your grille facing the grille of the SUV. Stay back from the body a good ten feet. Leave your headlights on.”
While Schilling maneuvered his vehicle, Cork grabbed a ground cloth and length of nylon rope from his Bronco. With his pocketknife, he cut four cords from the rope, each a couple feet long. When Schilling got out of his cruiser, Cork handed him one end of the ground cloth.
“Tie the corners to your grille. I’ll tie the other end to the SUV.”
When they were done, the ground cloth provided a shelter that kept the rain from falling directly on the crime scene.
“Now what?” Schilling asked.
“Wait for me in my Bronco. I’ll be there in a minute.”
Cork went to Morgan’s cruiser and spoke to his deputy through the open window. “How’s it going?”
“Bos is making the call now. Captain Larson’s on his way. Should be here pretty quick.”
“Stay with it. I’m going to talk to Schilling.”
