Johnson’s dusty Jeep was parked next to Stokely’s big Dodge Ram. He found Stokely’s keys in the ignition. He unlocked the tailgate but hesitated before lifting the rear window of the camper shell.
When he stepped from the house, the others were waiting, their shadowed faces tensed for the worst.
“Nothing,” he said, to their great relief. “No Charlie.”
As they walked to their vehicles, Cork breathed deeply the autumn-scented air, cool off the lake, cleansing his nose and mouth and throat of the death smell that filled the house. He thought about Charlie and believed there was still plenty of room for hope.
Hodder put Johnson in the back of his Cherokee, and the newspaperman sat there, bent forward a little like a wilted plant.
“I’ve got to take care of this,” the constable told the others. “One possibility with Charlie is that she’s broken into a summer cabin and is hiding. After I turn Gary over, I’ll make a swing and check all the ones I think are likely. Terry Olafsson’s going to want to talk to you, so make yourselves available.”
“Ned.” Jewell moved close to him. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. This is all so crazy, Jewell.”
“When things are settled, I’d love to sit down over dinner and talk.”
“I’d like that, too.”
He smiled briefly, then turned to his duty.
“Good man, that,” Cork noted as the Cherokee pulled away.
“I know,” Jewell said. She let out a deep breath. “Ren’s probably worried. We should get home. Who knows, maybe Charlie’s showed up.”
Dina’s cell phone chirped. She pulled it from the purse she’d left in the Pathfinder.
“Willner,” she answered. While she listened, her face darkened. “Okay, Kenny. Thanks.” She looked at Cork. “Lou Jacoby’s passed a message to you through my people. He says, ‘Eye for an eye. Son for a son.’ ”
For a long, stunned moment, Cork couldn’t breathe. “He’s going after Stevie,” he finally said. “The bastard’s going after my son. Give me that phone.”
Cork punched in the number for Rose and Mal at the duplex in Evanston. Jo answered.
“Cork?” she said. Her voice was flooded with relief. “You’re all right.”
“Jo, where’s Stevie? Is he there with you?”
“He went with Rose and the girls to a movie. I hoped it might get their minds off worrying about you for a while. Why?”
“Which movie? Where?”
“Cork, what’s going on?”
“Do you know which movie theater, Jo?”
“Yes.”
“Get him out and get him home. Then you and the kids lock yourselves in Rose’s place until I get there. Do you understand?”
“What is it?”
“Lou Jacoby might try to hurt Stevie because he can’t get to me.”
“Oh God.”
“Find him, and when you’re back at the duplex, call me.” He gave her Dina’s cell phone number. “Get our son, Jo.”
He ended the call.
“What’s Jacoby’s number?” he asked Dina, who would know because she’d worked for Jacoby in the past. He punched in the number she gave him. An old, modulated voice answered, which Cork recognized as Evers, the houseman.
“Give me Jacoby,” Cork said.
“Mr. Jacoby is unavailable.”
“Tell him it’s O’Connor. He’ll make himself available.”
“I’m sorry, sir-”
“Tell him, Evers. Tell him I’m coming and I’m going to kill him. And if you don’t tell him, I’m going to kill you, too.”
“Cork, let me.” Dina spoke firmly and held out her hand. “Evers will listen to me.”
He slapped the phone into her palm.
“Evers, it’s Dina Willner. Lou will want to talk to us.” She listened a moment. “Thank you.” She gave Cork the cell phone.
He waited, a fire raging in his gut, climbing into his chest, burning his throat. Then Jacoby spoke at the other end. “I’m listening.”
“Listen good, you son of a bitch. You touch my son, I’ll not only kill you, I’ll kill everything you ever loved.”
“Everything I love is already dead, O’Connor. You saw to that.”
“It wasn’t me, you blind fuck. It was your daughter-in-law and Salguero. The cops are ready to cuff them both. Leave my son out of this.”
“You can make that happen. You know what I want.”
“I’m on my way, all right. I’m coming down from Marquette, Michigan. Give me that time and I’ll give you me. I swear it.”
The line went silent, but Cork knew Jacoby was still there.
“You have until morning,” Jacoby said. He hung up.
Cork made one more call, this one to Boomer Grabowski, a friend and ex-cop in Chicago, a guy as tough as they came. Boomer told him no sweat. He’d get up to Evanston right away, stay with the family until Cork got there. Did Cork want any help dealing with Jacoby?
“Thanks, Boomer. I’ll take care of him myself.”
“What’s the plan?” Dina asked.
“Jacoby gave me until morning,” Cork said. “We get Jewell back to the cabins, then I’m leaving.”
“I’m sorry, Cork,” Jewell said.
“Let’s just go.”
He limped to the Pathfinder, saying a silent prayer. At the same time, he imagined himself pumping round after round into Lou Jacoby until that withered old body lay good and dead in a lake of its own warm blood.
47
Ren hung by his arms from a tree branch. His wrists had been duct-taped together, then he’d been lifted and hung up like a side of beef. A strip of tape sealed his mouth.
“Insurance,” the man had said in the cabin. He tried to sound friendly and he smiled a lot, but the gun in his hand spoke differently to Ren.
“Where’s O’Connor gone?” he’d asked.
Ren told him he didn’t know.
“Any idea when he’ll be back?”
Ren shook his head.
That was when the man produced the roll of duct tape. “Relax, kid, you’re just my insurance if things go south.”
He’d marched Ren outside into the trees, hung him up, and sealed his mouth. He had already set up a scoped rifle on a tripod low to the ground, the barrel pointed toward the cabins. He lay down, checked the scope, and made an adjustment. Then he sat up and looked no more at Ren.
He wasn’t anything like Ren had imagined a hit man to be. He had a bald spot on the top of his head over which he’d combed a few strands of mouse-brown hair. He wore wire-rimmed spectacles that he slipped to the top of his head whenever he sighted through the scope. He was dressed in a brown corduroy sport coat with a tan turtleneck beneath, blue jeans, white sneakers. From a stained white paper bag near his feet came the smell of
