Vermilion Drift

haven’t figured out what exactly. She knows some things, she hedges on others, and to some of my questions she gave the wrong answer.”

“Like what?”

“Her story is that when she confronted Cavanaugh the woman went berserk. Began throwing things. Stillday moved to avoid one of the items and the gun went off. I asked her how far away from Cavanaugh she was at that point. She said a few feet. But according to the medical examiner, the powder burn indicates the shot was fired point-blank. Another thing. I asked her about the murder weapon, the thirty-eight she claims she’s had forever. I asked her if she ever cleaned the weapon. She said she did. I asked her how she went about it. She couldn’t answer.”

“What did she have to say about getting rid of the body?”

“You’ve been thinking about that, too?” Rutledge smiled, as if it made perfect sense to him. “Her story is that she panicked, drove back to the rez, thought better of it, and came back to the center to clean things up and get rid of the body. I asked her how she managed to drive her truck, with Cavanaugh’s body wrapped in a tarp, out to the rez and also get Cavanaugh’s car out there. She wouldn’t answer me. She’s a tough lady, but I saw worry on her face, Cork.”

“What did she say about the Vermilion Drift and the bodies there?”

“Absolutely nothing. When I tried to take the questioning in the direction of the Vanishings, she clammed up. Her attorney wouldn’t let her answer any questions about the old killings. I got the feeling that, even if Oliver Bledsoe hadn’t been present, Hattie Stillday would have told me squat about what happened over forty years ago. Is it possible she threw in with Broom back then?”

“Absolutely not, Simon. Hattie lost a child to the Vanishings. If it was Indigo Broom behind those killings, and I’m almost positive it was, the business Hattie had with him was a different kind of business entirely.”

Rutledge stared at Cork for a moment. “You said Broom was burned along with his cabin. An accident?”

Cork shook his head. “I’d say justice.”

The two men both stared toward the sunset, where the sky was going red.

“Simon, Hattie insists that she had nothing to do with the second set of threatening notes. Do you believe her?”

“Yeah, I do. Why would she confess to the killing but lie about that?”

“You know what it means?”

Simon’s face was a red mask reflecting the vermilion sky. “It means we’re still in the dark in a lot of ways.”

“And,” Cork added, “it means people associated with Vermilion One might still be in harm’s way.”

THIRTY-THREE

After Rutledge had gone, Cork got out the box given to him by Millie Joseph that contained his mother’s journals. Since his conversation with Cy Borkman that afternoon, he’d been chewing on questions for which he had no answer. Had Borkman read the situation right? Had his father really been involved with another woman? If so, could that woman have been Monique Cavanaugh? Did his mother know?

He took the box to the patio and, in the warm blue of summer twilight, sat down and began to read.

January 1, 1965

We didn’t celebrate the beginning of this new year. We have no reason to celebrate. My husband is dead. My niece is dead, killed by a madwoman and an Ojibwe majimanidoo. And we who are left abide with our guilt, an uncomfortable companion in all our hours. I miss Liam so much. I will miss him forever.

His mother had known about Monique Cavanaugh’s involvement in the Vanishings, and something had happened in all that terrible, chaotic time that left her with guilt, an uncomfortable companion in all our hours. Was it something to do with Monique Cavanaugh’s death? Was it guilt over having driven her husband away, driven him into another woman’s arms? Guilt because there’d been no reconciliation before he died? But the guilt was some kind of collective guilt as well: . . . we who are left. Had she meant Cork, who, according to Borkman, had been party to driving his father away? Or had she meant someone else?

He read entry after entry with no indication of remonstration against his father for unfaithfulness. Yet Borkman had been certain of the infidelity, uncertain only of the true identity of the woman his father had picked up at Jacque’s.

Cork closed his eyes, trying hard to remember those days. He blanked. He recalled clearly the hospital vigil he’d kept with his mother while Liam O’Connor lay dying, but before that so much was missing, which was something he’d never really thought about before. Memories were always spotty at best, snapshots put together to create the sense of a more detailed whole. But the summer of 1964 was different. It wasn’t just that there were no snapshots; it was a sense that, like those missing pages of his mother’s journal, something important had been torn out.

It was nearly dark when he put the journals back into the box and went inside. He took the Rolodex from the desk in his office and flipped to a number he hadn’t called in quite a while. He got voice messaging.

“This is Dr. Gray. I can’t take your call at the moment. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

Cork waited for the beep. “Faith, it’s Cork O’Connor. I know you get this all the time, but here goes. I need your help and I need it now.”

A summer storm moved in after dark, bringing a steady rain. Cork was preparing a night deposit slip at Sam’s Place when Dr. Faith Gray returned his call. It was 10:45 P.M.

“You sounded pretty desperate,” she said. “Are you all right?”

“Not really.”

“I’m at home if it’s an emergency.”

“I’d appreciate talking to you.”

“Come on over. I’ll leave the porch light on.”

Faith Gray lived four blocks from the O’Connor house, in a rambler painted light blue with yellow trim. She was a quirky homeowner, with no particular love of lawns. Her property was given over to hostas and planter boxes and rickety-looking trellis affairs without any apparent master plan. Sun catchers and medallions and odd, glittery bits hung on ribbons from the low branches of her trees. Here and there she’d stuck signs amid the foliage. The signs changed from time to time, depending upon the political season and the affairs of the world beyond Aurora, but they tended to praise peace and advocate justice and, in general, exhort people to follow a reasonable and compassionate path through the minefield of life.

Her porch light was on, as promised, and when Cork came out of the rain and mounted the front steps, she was already waiting at the door.

“Come in,” she said with a gracious smile.

She was tall, solid, big-boned, with lovely, long gray hair, a plain, angular face, and eyes the welcoming green of ivy leaves. “I’m having chamomile tea. Would you like some?”

“No thanks.”

“Suit yourself. Have a seat.”

Her living room contained almost as much foliage as her yard, and Cork took an easy chair next to a healthy rubber tree plant.

“You look nice,” he said.

She sat on the sofa, which was backed by a shelf of ferns. “A date.”

“Do I know her?”

“This is about you,” she said. “Talk to me.”

“I need to remember some things, Faith.”