“Yeah.”
“Good. I’ve got to take off for the clinic pretty soon, so after you eat your breakfast, I’d like you to take a tray to Cork. And keep an eye on him for me, okay? If he wants to put a little weight on that leg, let him, but nothing strenuous.”
She served him the blueberry pancakes and bacon. While he ate she finished getting herself ready. She kissed the top of his head on her way out. “Call if you need me.”
“I will.”
He looked up and smiled. Smiled so like his father that she flashed on Daniel in a way that felt like a hard blow to her heart.
“You okay, Mom?”
“Fine, Ren.” She gathered herself and turned to the door. “Be good. Be careful.”
“Always am.”
With a stab of fear she could do nothing about, she thought, Not always.
9
Cork stared at the exposed rafters above his bunk, solid pine logs honey-colored and varnished. They made him think of Jewell’s father, who’d built the cabins himself. He’d been a strong man, straightforward, with a comforting, easy humor that Cork would have thought of as Ojibwe, except that neither of Jewell’s parents was eager to acknowledge that part of their heritage. Both were of mixed blood-Irish on her mother’s side, Swedish on her father’s. They grew up in a time when being Indian only invited problems, so they put forward the white in their blood and turned away from Indian associations. It had been a bit of a sore point between Cork’s mother, who was proud of her Ojibwe heritage, and Jewell’s mother, who was not, but that didn’t keep them from loving each other as sisters should. Across a lot of summers, he’d visited the resort with his mother, creating history. It occurred to him, lying there nearly helpless, that that was much of what family was about. History. And from history came community. And community was something that spread out beyond itself, resulting in towns and nations. But it all began with family.
Family was why he was lying there with a hole in his leg. Because of the Jacobys, a family unraveled, and his own, a family he was trying desperately to protect. If he’d stayed in Evanston with Jo and the children, they would surely have been in harm’s way. Jacoby had put a half-million-dollar bounty on his head. Five hundred large. For that kind of money, there was a kind of man who wouldn’t hesitate to take out Cork’s whole family to get to him. Leaving them was the smart thing to do.
Wasn’t it?
An eye for an eye. That was the last thing Jacoby had said to him. The man was old, but he was the most dangerous kind of adversary: a guy with nothing to lose. His sons had been murdered and all his money could not change that. No telling the lengths he’d go to in his hunger for vengeance. The idea of a hit, Cork could handle. What worried him most was that Jacoby, in his craziness, might turn his anger toward Jo or the children. In which case, abandoning them might turn out to be the worst thing he could have done.
Cork hammered his fist against the mattress. Damn, what he wouldn’t give to be in the same room with the son of a bitch. Didn’t matter that Jacoby was old: Cork would have loved the chance to beat some sense into him. Instead he lay there helpless, battling two enemies he couldn’t lay a finger on: uncertainty and rage.
Christ, how fucked was that?
The door creaked. He glanced over, expecting Ren with breakfast. It wasn’t.
“Dina,” he said.
The woman who had saved his life on two separate occasions was not very tall. She stood five-four on tiptoe, weighed maybe 120 pounds. She had light brown hair, green eyes, and a face no less lovely than the best Hollywood had to offer. Her name was Dina Willner. She called herself a security consultant, a term that covered a lot of ground.
“Where’d you come from?” he asked. “I didn’t hear a car.”
She looked the cabin over carefully, stepped inside. “I parked in town and walked through the woods. Didn’t want anyone to see me coming here. Also, I wanted to be able to reconnoiter a little first.” She crossed to his bunk, looked down at him, shook her head. “Can’t leave you alone for a minute, can I? How’s the leg?”
“Healing. Or so my cousin, the vet, says.”
“Were you a good patient, and did you get a doggie biscuit?” Her eyes flicked toward the door. “I saw a woman drive away. Her?”
“Jewell, yeah.”
“Who else is here?”
“Her son.”
“Guests?”
“They don’t rent out the cabins anymore.”
“Shame. Nice place.” She went to the table, grabbed a chair, and placed it next to Cork’s bunk. “So, what’s the story?”
“I screwed up.”
“I figured. How?”
“After you left me in Evanston, I hitched a ride north, went up to Kenosha, Wisconsin. I wanted to make sure I was clear of any kind of net that Jacoby’s goons had thrown around the North Shore of Chicago. I checked into a fleabag motel there, place called the Lake Inn. First thing I did was use some of the money you gave me to get a set of wheels.”
“The shot-up, piss-colored Dart behind the shed?”
“That would be the one.”
“How’d it get shot up?”
“I’m coming to that.” He shifted and grimaced from the pain it caused his leg. “I called Jo at her sister’s place.”
“Big mistake.”
“I know. The phone must’ve been tapped.”
“I could have told you that.”
“Next time I’ll be sure to ask.”
“How long before the goons showed up?”
“They waited until dark. I’d gone out to get some dinner. They tried the hit as soon as I came back and got out of the car.”
“The motel lot?”
“Yeah, pretty public. The car got the worst of it, but I took a bullet in my leg.”
She shook her head. “Amateurs. But with half a million on your head, even my grandmother would be tempted.” She gave an admiring look. “You drove all the way here with a bullet hole through your leg? That’s a good eight hours.”
“I used my sweatshirt as a compress to stop the bleeding. After that it was a matter of gritting my teeth and hoping shock didn’t set in. Amazing what you can do when you’re motivated. Like running for your life.”
“Why didn’t you head back to Minnesota?”
“I figured they’d be watching for me there.”
“You’re probably right. Lucky you had family to fall back on up here.”
“My cousin doesn’t think so.”
“How soon before you can move?”
“I can move now, just not very far or very fast.”
“On my way into town, I saw a sign: Home of the Bobcats. 1980 Class C State Football Champions. A place like this is dead center in the middle of nowhere. You’re four hundred miles from Chicago. Who would think to look for you here? You might as well stay put.”
Cork wasn’t a hundred percent convinced. “With his money, Jacoby can throw a big net,” he said. “Tell me
