Giiwanaadizi, nishiime.” She’s crazy, little brother.
When Marais Grand had been a star on television, the town council had voted to put up a sign at the town limits declaring it the HOME OF MARAIS GRAND. Ten years after her death, when annexed land extended the town limits, the old sign, full of rusted holes from a. 22 target pistol, had been removed.
Cork continued his run, veering from Center Street where it became once again the state highway, and following a county road that paralleled the lake. He was a mile or so outside of town when a black Lincoln Town Car drew alongside him and the charcoal-tinted rear window slid silently down.
“O’Connor?”
The man whose face filled the frame of the car window looked to be in his late twenties, maybe early thirties. He had thick black hair, a rich man’s tan. His left ear had been pierced, and he wore what appeared to be a diamond stud. Cork had never before set eyes on him.
“Yeah?” Cork put his hands on his hips and stood at the side of the road, breathing hard.
“Mind getting in?” the tanned man said with a smile. He had very white teeth. Although they were unnaturally even, the smile they formed seemed easy and genuine. However, Cork’s mother had taught him early the danger of getting into a stranger’s car. It was a rule that had stood him in good stead for over forty years. He didn’t see a particularly compelling reason to disregard it now.
“I’m in the middle of something here,” he pointed out.
“I’d like to talk to you about Shiloh,” the man said.
That was one pretty compelling reason. Then through the window of the Lincoln, the man aimed a very large handgun right at Cork’s nose. That made two pretty compelling reasons. The door swung open and Cork got in.
The other man in the car, the one behind the wheel, appeared to be in his midthirties, blond, a neck full of more muscle than most people had in their whole bodies. Cork thought he could outrun the big man if he had to, but if the guy ever caught him, he’d take Cork apart like his bones were nothing but soda straws.
The handsome man smiled and put the gun on the seat between them.
“Sorry. This is really a friendly visit,” he said. “I just had to get your full attention. This won’t take long; then you can finish your run.”
“You said you wanted to talk about Shiloh.” Cork glanced at the gun. He could have reached for it easily enough, but he decided he wanted to hear what the man had to say.
“There are some things you need to know. For your own good.” The handsome man tapped the driver’s shoulder. “Take off, Joey. We don’t want to attract attention.”
Good luck, Cork thought. In Aurora, a Lincoln Town Car would be as inconspicuous as a nun in a G- string.
Joey drove north along the lake.
The man in back was clean-shaven and smelled of a good, subtle aftershave. He wore calfskin boots, tight jeans, a red chamois shirt under a dark green sweater.
“My name is Angelo Benedetti. You probably already know my family’s name. You spoke with the FBI about us? Last night, I believe.”
“And if I did?”
“Then they told you a lot of lies, mostly about my father.”
“Vincent Benedetti?” Cork said. “What kind of lies do you believe they told me?”
“That my father killed Shiloh’s mother. Look, they’ve been after my father, my family, a long time. Isn’t that right, Joey?”
“Long time,” Joey said into the rearview mirror.
“They never get anything, but that doesn’t stop them,” Benedetti said. “They’re like flies. They hang around and make a nuisance of themselves.”
“If they’re only a nuisance, why are you here?”
“To help you. And to help Shiloh.”
“Yeah,” Joey said, turning his thick neck and speaking over his shoulder, “you’re in deep shit.”
“Shut up, Joey.” He lightly slapped the back of Joey’s head.
“Sure thing, Angelo.”
“The feds told you about Libbie Dobson, I’ll bet.” Benedetti waited for Cork to confirm but went on when Cork only stared at him. “I’ll bet they didn’t tell you about Dr. Sutpen. Shiloh’s psychiatrist.”
“What about her?”
In the front seat, Joey made a noise, a boy noise, the kind Cork often heard from Stevie in his play when he pretended something was exploding. Joey laughed to himself.
“She’s dead.” Benedetti allowed a dramatic moment before he went on. “Killed in a gas explosion at her Palm Springs office that burned the place down and destroyed all client records. Authorities are listing it officially as accidental.”
Joey swung the car into a turnaround and headed back in the direction from which they’d come.
“You don’t think it was an accident,” Cork said.
“Highly coincidental, don’t you think? I don’t know about you, Cork, but I don’t believe in coincidence.”
“Only my friends call me Cork.”
“That’s what I’m here to tell you. In this, you won’t know who your friends are.”
“You claim the FBI lied to me. Why would they?”
“My father believes they’re protecting someone. Someone big.”
“Who?”
“He doesn’t know. He believes whoever it is, they were responsible for the murder of Shiloh’s mother. Back then, Marais Grand had a powerful friend, someone who pulled a lot of strings for her. My father never knew who it was, but he thinks Marais was killed to keep that friendship from being exposed. Now they’re trying to kill Shiloh.”
“Why?”
“Come on, Cork. The feds filled you in on that part. Shiloh’s shrink helped her remember things about the night her mother was killed.” Benedetti held up his hands in easy guilt. “It’s not hard to find these things out. Cops are civil servants and terribly underpaid.”
“Why isn’t your father here taking care of this business himself?”
“He’s not a well man. The flight here was hard on him. He’s resting. But my words are his.”
Cork looked straight into Benedetti’s eyes. They were green with flecks of gold. Women no doubt found them compelling. “Elizabeth Dobson was probably killed because someone wanted the letters she’d received from Shiloh. Some more letters from Shiloh were stolen last night.”
Benedetti didn’t flinch at all. “I’m not going to lie to you, Cork. Yeah, I know people who know how to steal. I know people who can set fires that look like accidents. I know people who kill as easily as you or I brush our teeth. But then, so does the FBI.”
Cork looked away from Benedetti, watched the placid morning surface of Iron Lake glide past. “Why should I believe you?”
Benedetti folded his hands to his lips as if he were praying. In the moment of silence inside the big Lincoln, Cork heard the snap of bubble gum from Joey up front.
“I hear you’re that rare bird, Cork-an honest man.
They say you have Integrity. If the FBI goes into those woods after Shiloh, she won’t come out alive. You’re her only hope as far as I can see. Even if you don’t believe me, what harm can it do to help her?”
“Help her how?”
“Go in and bring her out before the FBI can get to her. That’s all. No other strings attached. If you do this, my father will pay you fifty thousand dollars.”
“Fifty thousand dollars.” Cork let his surprise show. “What’s his interest?”
“If Shiloh does remember who killed her mother,” Benedetti said, “my father wants to know the name.”
“There’s one problem. I don’t know where she is,” Cork said.
Benedetti lifted his hand as if to silence Cork’s objection. “If everything I’ve heard about you is true, you will.” He reached under his sweater and drew out a card from the pocket of his shirt. “Joey, a pen.”
Joey handed a gold ballpoint over the seat. Benedetti wrote on the back of the card, then handed the card to
