buttoning as she went. She was also laughing hysterically.
At the shelter, they finally stopped, breathless.
“Dude, what did I tell you? Totally awesome.” She hit his arm with her fist, hard. “You are such a wuss. Know what? I feel like getting high.”
She grabbed the flashlight from Ren and leaped onto the picnic table in the shelter. She shined the light along the rafter and pulled down the cigar box bound with a rubber band.
“Here.” She handed the box to Ren. “Roll a spliff. I’m too electric.”
Ren sat down on the cement table and opened the box. He took out the Baggie of weed and the papers.
“Dude, what do you think was up down there?” She paced, as if walking off the rush.
“I told you. It was Pressie. That was his eye of fire. You better be careful. He’s seen you. He knows you. He’ll come for you.”
Charlie howled, not a laugh but an actual howl like a wolf. She was full of the old Charlie energy, and Ren was glad to see it. He became intent on the work of his hands.
“Dude, kill the light.”
The quiet intensity of her voice made Ren look up. Charlie stood still, facing downriver toward the lake.
“Turn the light off,” she said, a little desperately this time.
Ren obeyed. He stared where she stared, and then he saw what she saw. A beam of light scanning its way up the path they’d just followed.
“Jesus, you really pissed somebody off.”
“Pressie?” There was still a touch of devilment in her voice.
“Let’s get out of here,” Ren said.
“I hear you.”
He threw everything back into the cigar box, slipped the rubber band in place, and stood on the tabletop, reaching toward the rafter. He thought he had it in place, but when he let go, the box fell to the ground.
“Come on,” Charlie growled.
The light was less than fifty yards down the path. Ren kicked the box under a pile of leaves in a corner of the shelter and ran for his bike. Charlie was already mounted.
They heard the heavy footfall of boots pounding rapidly toward them on the path. They shot off, pedaling hard for the main road. When they reached the bridge, they finally risked a look back. The light was gone.
“Guess nobody ever mooned them before,” Ren said.
“Screw ‘em if they can’t take a joke.”
“Want to come home with me?”
“Naw, my old man’s probably asleep by now. I’ll be okay.”
“Take the bike.”
“Okay.” She didn’t move. “Ren?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for…you know.”
“Sure.”
He watched her head into town, and felt something immeasurably sad in seeing her go, knowing what she was heading home to.
Ren’s father was dead, but despite what people said, he’d never been a drunk, nor had he ever laid a hand on his son. Even in death, he’d left something precious behind for Ren.
If Charlie’s old man were to die, all he’d leave behind was an empty bottle and a huge sigh of relief.
8
Jewell woke early and lay in bed, staring at the ceiling while big tears rolled down the sides of her face. Sunday mornings were still hard, maybe always would be. Often on Sunday mornings, she’d awakened to Daniel slipping quietly from the bed. He would go to the bathroom, shave, brush his teeth, run a comb through his long black hair, and come back to bed smelling of aftershave. He’d press himself gently against her, nuzzle the nape of her neck, cup her breast. Usually she was already awake, but she liked to pretend she was still sleeping, let him believe he had to wake her, coax her to his pleasure. But, oh, it was her pleasure, too. She looked forward to those mornings that began with lovemaking. She adored being loved by her husband, and she loved him fiercely in return.
She had never much considered the other side of love, thinking vaguely that if love were gone, what was left was sadness or perhaps simply emptiness. It surprised her to find there was no emptiness, that many emotions rushed in to fill her heart along with the sadness. Self-pity. Bitterness. Anger. Sometimes even hate.
Sunday mornings, it was often loneliness, and that’s what held her in its grip as she lay crying silently, dreading the day.
At last she drew back the covers and planted her feet on the floor. Once summer was past, the floorboards were cold. Her father, who’d built all the cabins himself, didn’t believe in carpeting. Although many rooms had an area rug, hand-loomed or -braided, to add a splash of color, mostly the floors were left bare to show off the beautiful grain of the polished maple.
In the kitchen, she began coffee dripping, then sat down at the table and lit a cigarette. She’d given up smoking when she was pregnant with Ren; she’d gone back to it after Daniel was murdered. Mornings, she often sat like this, alone with a cigarette and her coffee, waiting for the dawn.
She’d always been an early riser, but it seemed that no matter how early she got up Daniel was up before her, the coffee made, the good aroma filling the cabin along with her husband’s whistling, which was generally cheerful and a little off-key. She’d find him in the kitchen at work on breakfast making blueberry pancakes or waffles, of which he was duly proud. His specialty, though, was omelets with wild rice and Gouda cheese.
Now breakfasts were usually cold cereal and juice.
The walkie-talkie on the kitchen counter crackled to life.
“This is Cork. Anybody there?”
Jewell held off for a few seconds, taking her time putting out her cigarette, savoring just a bit longer the feel of her aloneness before picking up the unit to reply. “Go ahead.”
“Sorry to bother you, Jewell. I saw a light on. This is a little embarrassing but my bedpan’s full.”
“I’ll be right there.”
She threw on a robe and slippers, picked up her medical bag, and headed to Cabin 3. Cork was sitting up, the curtains above his bunk opened to the gray light of early morning.
“I’d have emptied it myself,” he said, “but I’m plugged into this damned IV.”
“If you think you can walk a little, I’ll put you on an oral antibiotic.” She emptied the bedpan, washed her hands, then removed the IV needle. She took his pulse and checked the bag that collected the drainage from the wound in his thigh.
“You seem to be healing nicely,” she said.
“My saving grace: I heal good.”
“Hungry?”
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
“I’ll bring you some breakfast.” She looked down at him and made no move to leave. “But first I want to know exactly what’s going on. I want to know names: who shot you and why. And at the end, I want to be convinced that there’s no way Ren and I could be in any danger.”
“It’s complicated,” Cork said.
“Give it a try.”
“Pull up a chair then.”
When she was seated next to the bunk, she said, “Go ahead.”
“It began ten days ago,” Cork told her. “Someone ambushed me on the Iron Lake Reservation outside Aurora. I lost a piece of my earlobe. One of my deputies was badly wounded. A couple of days later a businessman from Chicago was brutally murdered at a place called Mercy Falls, not far from town. His name was Eddie Jacoby, and he
