“Nine.”
The boy opened one of the comic books, then flipped back a page of the sketchbook. He selected a pencil, paused a moment, and began to draw.
“Where’s your mom?”
“She got a call. An elk ranch west of Marquette. Some kind of emergency.”
“And she asked you to sit with me again, is that it? Thanks.”
The boy remained intent on his drawing.
“What are you doing?” Cork asked.
“Nothing.”
“How do you know when you’re finished?”
The boy hesitated, thought that over, decided to smile.
“Did your mom tell you about me?”
“Not much.”
“You’ve got questions, I imagine.”
The boy finally looked up.
“You deserve answers,” Cork said.
Ren tapped the pencil top on the table a few times. “Who are you?”
“Your mother’s cousin. You visited my house in Minnesota once with your folks. You must have been seven or eight then. Do you remember?”
“I remember you arrested Dad.”
“I thought you might.”
“Made Mom mad, but it was a story Dad used to like to tell.” He thought a moment. “I remember two girls, older than me. One was blond and really pretty.”
“That would be Jenny.”
“The other one could play baseball as good as Charlie.”
“And that would be Anne. They’re both in high school. You probably don’t remember Stevie. He was just a baby. He’s seven now.”
The boy looked unsatisfied. “That’s not exactly what I meant.”
“You meant who am I that somebody would want me dead?”
“Yeah, that.”
Cork worked on sitting up. Despite the painkiller Jewell had given him, his leg throbbed. He edged his way upright with his back against the wall. Finally he could look at the boy eye to eye.
“I’m Corcoran Liam O’Connor, sheriff of Tamarack County, Minnesota.”
“Oh. A cop.” As if, of course, that was all he needed to write Cork off.
Cork went on. “I was shot because a rich man has put a bounty on my head. Half a million dollars, as I understand it.”
Ren’s eyes opened like a couple of sunflowers. “Why?”
“He thinks I killed his son.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Will he come looking for you here?” He seemed less worried than curious.
Cork shifted his position a little, hoping to ease the pain in his leg. It didn’t work. “Men like him don’t soil their hands with the actual dirty work. That’s the reason for the bounty.”
Ren worked this over in his thinking, then his face went slack again. “So you’re the police.”
“You hold that against me?”
“You know how my father died?”
“I know.”
“The police murdered him.”
“Most police aren’t like that.” He tried to judge how the boy received his words, but Ren was a blank slate. “It’s hard for you, I know. I lost my father when I was your age.”
Again, a flicker of interest in Ren’s dark eyes. “Yeah?”
“He was the sheriff of Tamarack County, too. He was killed doing his duty, protecting people.”
“How?”
“Some men tried to rob the bank in town. My dad and two deputies responded. There was shooting. In the middle of it, a deaf old woman walked onto the street right into the line of fire. My father ran out to pull her to safety, took a bullet that probably would have hit her. He died on the operating table.”
“You’re trying to tell me all cops aren’t bad.”
“No. Just telling you about my father and me. I still miss him.”
Ren studied the sketch he’d begun in his pad. “What do you do when you miss him?”
“Try to remember that he’s never completely gone. He’s here.” Cork touched his head. “And he’s here.” He touched his heart. “Sometimes when I’m not sure what’s right, I find myself thinking, What would Dad have done? ”
“Me, too,” Ren said.
“What do you do when you miss him?”
“What he taught me to do. Draw.”
“You’re an artist, too?”
“Not like him.”
“What are you working on?”
“It’s just a comic book.”
“You like comic books?”
Ren nodded.
“Me, too.”
“Yeah?”
“I used to anyway. I always knew when the new issues were due to arrive at the drug store and I’d head there right after school. I was a Marvel fan. The Fantastic Four were my favorites. They still around?”
“Yes.”
“Who do you like?”
“The Silver Surfer’s pretty awesome. I like Hellboy, too.”
“The comic book you’re working on, does it have a superhero?”
“His name’s Jack Little Wolf. But he’s really the reincarnation of a famous warrior named White Eagle.”
“What’s he like?”
“Jack’s an artist, kind of a quiet guy. White Eagle’s this awesome dude. He calls up the forces of nature. You know, wind and lightning, that stuff. Also animals. He’s, like, very psychic with animals. But he doesn’t realize he does all this. He has these blackouts and he doesn’t remember.”
“Disconnected from who he really is?”
“Right.”
“What triggers the blackouts?”
“Evil. He can sense it. He, you know, begins to tingle and stuff.”
“Lucky him. Been times I could have used that myself. May I see?”
“I don’t really show it to anybody.”
“That’s cool.” Cork nodded toward Ren’s left. “What’s the white thing?”
Ren held up the hard lump. “A plaster cast of a cougar track I found outside.”
“A cougar? Here? You’re sure? Maybe it’s a bobcat.”
Ren stood and brought the casting to the bunk. “Too big for a bobcat. This one’s almost four inches across. And see the second toe, how it’s longer than the others? That’s like our index finger. It’s one of the characteristics of the cougar’s forepaw. I looked it up.”
“You have a dog, Ren?”
“No.”
“Cats?”
