most have walked the Path of Souls. I do not know who knows and has not yet walked that path.”
“So only you and the dead know? Christ, Henry, that’s not true. Someone very much alive and kicking took that gun.” Cork rose and towered over the old man. “If you know who that is, Henry, for God sake tell me.”
But it was like throwing punches at the wind. The old Mide looked up at him and said quietly, “You are a man on a journey. And all the while you stand here, your feet are idle.”
Fire flared in Cork’s brain. “God damn it,” he said and spun away and headed toward the door.
Rainy followed him outside. “When you come again, if you ever do, will you bring something with you?”
“What?” he snapped at her.
“Manners.” She turned, went back inside, and shut the door.
His only food that day had been the oatmeal he’d ordered for breakfast at the Pinewood Broiler when he talked with Cy Borkman. He was starved, and he headed to Sam’s Place. He parked in the lot, went into the old Quonset hut, and apologized to Judy Madsen for having been absent all day. She glanced at his face, and what she saw there caused her obvious concern. “You look like you swallowed a cockroach. The kids and me, we’ve got this covered. You worry about your other business.”
Judy fixed him a Sam’s Super with the works and a large basket of fries. He took his meal in the rear of the Quonset hut.
Sam’s Super was the hallmark of Sam’s Place. It had been Sam Winter Moon’s pride. Sam had believed in a quality burger. He never used frozen patties. Every day, first thing in the morning, he took twenty pounds of lean ground beef and rolled it in his hands into quarter-pound balls, which, order by order, he placed on the hot grill, pressed flat with his spatula, and seared to juicy perfection. The patty was topped with good Wisconsin cheddar, freshly sliced tomato, a large frond of leaf lettuce, a thin slice of Walla Walla sweet onion, and Sam’s own special sauce, whose recipe was a closely guarded secret. Every time Cork bit into a Sam’s Super, he tasted a heaven of memories.
He was almost finished eating when his cell phone chirped. “O’Connor,” he answered.
“It’s Marsha Dross, Cork. We have a situation here. Can you come to my office right away?”
The instant he walked into Dross’s office, he could feel the tension in the air. Dross was at her desk. Rutledge was standing at the window. Ed Larson was sitting with Lou Haddad and his wife. All eyes swung toward Cork.
“Come in,” Dross said, rising. “You know Sheri?”
“Of course. How are you?” he asked.
Haddad’s wife smiled bravely, and her hand lifted a little in a halfhearted greeting.
“Sheri got a note,” Dross said. “Same message Lou and the others received, but with a twist.”
Dross indicated a sheet of paper on her desk. Cork walked over and took a look but didn’t touch. There was a trifold, just as there’d been with the others. The note had been printed on paper that Cork was pretty sure had no identifying watermark, and the same blood-dripping font—From Hell—had been used. The message was almost the same as before, but, as Dross had indicated, it was different and in a terrifying way:
“Just like her?” Cork said.
“We’re assuming it refers to Lauren Cavanaugh,” Ed Larson said. “Which is interesting. As far as we know, only those of us associated with the investigation knew that Lauren Cavanaugh was one of the victims in the mine.”
“Not true,” Cork said. “The person who put her there knew.”
“Exactly,” Larson said. “We’re taking this very seriously.”
“Where did you get this, Sheri?”
“It was under the windshield wiper of my car.”
“Have Max Cavanaugh or Genie Kufus received anything more?” Cork asked Dross.
“We contacted Cavanaugh at his house this afternoon. He’s got nothing more.”
“And Kufus?”
For a moment, they all appeared to be frozen, a tableau of awkward concern. Then Dross said, “She seems to be missing.”
SIXTEEN
Genie Kufus wasn’t at her hotel, nor was she answering her cell phone. Her car was gone. None of her team from the DOE knew where she was.
“When was the last time anyone saw her?” Cork asked.
“She met with her team over lunch, then she returned to her room to work. None of them have heard from her since, and none of them saw her leave the hotel.”
“Have you checked her room?”
“Of course,” Dross said. “She’s not there.”
“You went in?”
“Yes. With the manager.”
“Any sign of a struggle?”
“No.”
“Anything appear to be missing?”
“That’s hard to say without knowing what should be there.”
“You put out a BOLO?” Which was shorthand for Be on the Lookout.
Dross nodded. “She’s driving a rented cherry red Explorer. Not easy to miss.”
“You mind if I have a look at her hotel room?”
Dross shot glances toward Larson and Rutledge. They both gave nods. “Under the circumstances, I’m going to say okay. But I’d like to be there with you.”
“Of course.” Cork stood up and smiled at Haddad and his wife. “I think you should go somewhere safe. When was the last time you two took a vacation together?”
* * *
The room Genie Kufus occupied at the Four Seasons overlooked Iron Lake and the marina. It was a lovely view of white-masted sloops and powerboats set against dark blue water.
Dross said, “My guys have already been here, Cork. What are you looking for that they didn’t see?”
“I hope I’ll know it when I see it.”
He turned from the windows and scanned the room. Kufus was neat, well organized. Either she traveled a great deal and had the process down or this was who she was all the time. Nothing looked out of place, and that was helpful to Cork. He walked to the desk. Her laptop was closed. He opened it.
“Don’t turn that on,” Dross warned. “Until I’ve determined that she’s officially missing, we’re on thin ice just being here.”
She was right. Cork glanced through the documents that lay stacked next to the computer. They all appeared to be technical papers dealing with the mine and mining in general. He went to the closet. Dresses and slacks were hung with care; shoes had been set on the floor like soldiers in formation. He went to the dresser and opened the top drawer. Lingerie, scented with lilac from a little pouch of sachet. Which seemed odd for a woman in town on business. The rest of the drawers held other, less interesting, clothing: folded tops, sweaters, shorts.
He entered the bathroom, where he found the towels racked with measured precision. Not even an errant hair on the sink.
“Interesting,” he said.
“What?”
“Kufus is a swimmer, but I don’t see a bathing suit anywhere. Why don’t you call the front desk, make sure none of the staff saw her go out for a swim this afternoon.”
