“Sometimes, Cork, when we see someone fall in our dreams, it may have to do with our own belief that we’re lacking an essential quality they possess or that we’ve let them down somehow.”
“But it was Jo I lost, not my father.”
“Do you believe your father would have saved Jo?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“Just a question. But I think it’s a relevant one, considering when the nightmares began.”
“Nobody could have saved Jo.”
“You sound a little angry.”
“There’s a lot going on. I’m kind of wound up.”
“I understand.”
She waited and watched him, and when she didn’t offer anything further, he blurted, “Look, it’s not about Jo, okay?”
“If you say so.”
He pulled himself back, tried to quell his inexplicable anger, and said, “So what else could it be about?”
“It’s possible the nightmare has to do with something very particular, something you don’t remember from that time you can’t recall.”
“If it is, what do we do about it?”
“The truth is that nothing is ever lost. It’s all in there somewhere,” she said, tapping her head. “It could take a long time to crack that nut, Cork, but I’m willing to help you try. If you call my office tomorrow, I’ll see when I can work you in.”
“A long time?” Cork closed his eyes and rubbed his throbbing temples. “I’ll think about it. Do I still have time on this hour?”
“Sure.”
“What do you know about psychopathy?”
“That depends on what you’re interested in.”
“Can it be inherited?”
“There’s a lot of research that points toward a genetic component.”
“People can be born bad?”
“ ‘Bad’ is a judgmental term. But I believe people may be born without a conscience, yes. Environment also plays an important part in shaping psychopathic behavior. What you’re talking about is generally referred to these days as dissocial or antisocial personality disorder, and psychopaths are generally referred to as antisocial personalities.”
“A rose by any other name,” Cork said. “They’re good at hiding who they really are, right? Like Ted Bundy?”
“They can be very good. They’re often bright, and although they don’t feel remorse or guilt or empathy the way most people do, they know how to mask that. There have been a number of famous cases in which serial killers were able to hide their activities from wives or husbands or parents. But just because someone might be diagnosed with this disorder, that doesn’t mean they’re dangerous like Ted Bundy was dangerous. These traits can make them very successful in competitive environments, like business or politics.”
“Are you saying our politicians are psychopaths?”
She smiled. “Some of them, probably. As were some of the great robber barons and industrialists, certainly.”
“But they didn’t kill people, at least not outright, not like Bundy or John Wayne Gacy. What makes someone do that?”
“We’re outside my comfort zone of knowledge here, Cork. If you’d like, I’ll do a little research on the subject. I know a couple of colleagues who are better versed in psychopathic behavior than I am. I’ll be glad to talk to them.”
“Thanks, Faith.” He stood up, prepared to leave.
“You’ll call tomorrow, make an appointment?”
“I’ll think about it seriously.”
But what he was really thinking was that he needed answers sooner than Faith Gray was going to be able to supply them.
It was still raining when he got home. As Cork stepped from the garage, Trixie poked her nose out the door of her doghouse and woofed. He freed her and let her in the house, gave her a fresh bowl of food and fresh water, took some Tylenol for himself, went out to the front porch, and sat on the swing. A few moments later, Trixie scratched at the screen, and Cork let her out so that she could join him.
They sat together while rain made everything that was illuminated by the streetlamps look liquid. The swing had been an important part of Cork’s life. He and Jo used to sit in it after the kids had finally gone to bed, and they’d talked about the things that parents and married people and longtime lovers discuss in quiet voices meant not to be overheard. He missed that. Missed Jo. Although his deep grieving had long ago ended, he still sometimes found himself feeling terribly sad and abandoned. His children were gone, establishing their own lives, and that was only natural. But where did it leave him? What was the road ahead for a man who was no longer a husband and was a father mostly at a distance?
Thinking of all these things brought him back to the question Faith Gray had posed earlier:
“So who am I pissed at?” he asked aloud, putting the question to Trixie, who only looked up at him with her brown eyes and then nudged his hand to be petted.
At long last, Cork went back inside and headed upstairs to bed, where his only company for a long time had been his nightmares.
THIRTY-FOUR
Cork slept surprisingly well and woke with several ideas rolling around in his head, knocking together like ball bearings. He was eager to get some of them out of there.
His first stop that morning was the sheriff’s department. Marsha Dross was at her desk, sipping from a big coffee mug. She had a thick folder open in front of her and was so intent on what it held that she didn’t notice Cork’s arrival. His “Good morning” startled her, and she spilled coffee over the documents and swore. She looked for something to wipe up the mess, had nothing at hand and, when Cork offered a clean handkerchief, accepted it, almost grudgingly.
“Sorry,” he said.
“I didn’t expect to see you so early.” She handed his handkerchief back, damp and stained.
“You look like you could use a couple more hours of sleep.”
“I could use some sleep period,” she said.
“A case like this, a lot of monkeys on your back, I imagine.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
“I sat in that chair for seven years. Believe me, I do.”
“Oh, is that so?” She stood up and leaned toward him, not in a friendly way. “You ever have an old serial killing and new murder dovetail? You ever have the newspapers call the department, and I quote, ‘rural and rudimentary’? You ever had the entire board of commissioners visit you at ten P.M. on a Friday night to insist that you do more to, and I quote again, ‘resolve this unfortunate situation before Tamarack County becomes the new Amityville Horror’?”
“Not really,” Cork said. “Guess I must’ve been a better sheriff, huh?”
