silver.
She didn’t know John LePere was watching. She probably didn’t even know he existed. And she could not possibly have known why, as he stared at her from the darkness, he unconsciously balled his hands into tight, bloodless fists as if he clenched in them something he was determined to hold on to, something invisible to anyone but him.
14
JO WAS AWAKE long after Cork lay sleeping beside her. She watched moonlight gather on the windowsill and spill into the room. The minutes of the alarm clock on the nightstand crept by like a procession of condemned men. At midnight, she slid from the bed and stood at the window, staring into the night. The branches and leaves of the big maple in the front yard shattered the light from the street lamp in a disturbing way, and the quiet of the night felt suffocating. She went to the rocker in the corner and sat down. When Stevie was a baby, Jo had spent many nights rocking him there. Cork had taken his turns, too, losing sleep as they dealt with ear infections, upset tummies, and nightmares. She didn’t miss those sleepless nights, but she grieved their simplicity, when the comfort of holding was all it took to set things right. She wanted to do that now. Just hold Cork, and have him hold her, and in that simple way make everything all right.
He’d come home late with Stevie asleep in his arms, and he’d explained that they’d hiked through the woods to visit Meloux.
All this time? she’d asked.
He went on, explaining that they’d also visited Harold Loomis, and he related his talk with the night watchman. When he finished, he looked at her as if he expected praise because he’d solved the mystery of Charlie Warren at the mill.
Instead she’d asked, What do you think you’re doing, Cork? She hadn’t meant her voice to be so cold, but it froze the happy look in his eyes and killed the smile on his lips.
She closed her eyes and heard her words again.
“Jesus, Jo,” she whispered miserably. “What were you thinking?”
She felt sick with regret. She knew she had no one to blame but herself and no reason for the coldness except her own fear.
She leaned across the moonlit room and spoke softly, “Cork, I’m so sorry.”
She wished that instead of chiding him, she’d been able to tell him how afraid she was, how everything still felt so fragile between them. The truth was that she didn’t trust it was love that held their marriage together. She couldn’t believe that after such grave pain as they’d given one another love could ever grow strong again.
That evening, with Stevie in his arms, Cork had only confirmed what she’d already guessed. He missed being a cop. For a long time, she’d sensed he was restless. She hadn’t been sure what it was until the bombing at Lindstrom’s mill had brought it into the open. It was so obvious now. She wanted to be able to support him if he chose to run for sheriff, but the prospect of an election concerned her, for selfish reasons.
More than a decade before when she’d come with Cork back to his hometown, she was the first woman to hang an attorney’s shingle in Tamarack County. She’d struggled long and hard against a lot of prejudices directed at her as a woman and an outsider. She’d succeeded in establishing a good practice and an unimpeachable legal reputation, but it hadn’t been without some cost. Because she’d often taken on clients no other attorney in the county would touch-among them, the Iron Lake Ojibwe-she frequently found herself at odds with the prevailing sentiments in Aurora. Although she felt respected, she also felt that most people held her at a distance, just waiting for the day when she’d screw up royally. What no one knew-no one except Cork-was that she’d already blown it big time. There was a long black moment in her history in Aurora, but she’d been able to hide it for almost two years. She was afraid an election, especially a bitter one, might dredge up that history for public display. In another, larger place, her mistakes would be little more than a footnote in the news. In a place like Aurora, they could wash her life away. She and Cork never spoke about that part of their lives, their separation and what had precipitated it. They had-by tacit mutual consent, Jo believed-agreed to move on and let the past be buried. She was afraid that if Aurora knew the whole of her history, she and Cork would be forced to face the past straight-on. Under such scrutiny, could any marriage long survive?
All these things she wanted to tell Cork, but she was afraid to begin a conversation whose end she couldn’t foresee.
She left the rocker, walked around the bed, and knelt near her husband. He was such a good man, so different from any other she’d ever known. Softer in a lot of ways. When she’d first met him, he’d been a cop on Chicago’s South Side. He’d seen more than his share of brutal things, yet there was something good and beautiful at the heart of him that hadn’t been touched by the brutality. Whenever she’d looked into his eyes, it was as if she could see all the way down to that beautiful heart.
His eyes were closed now, his breathing a little irregular. He turned, mumbled in his dreaming. Jo reached out and touched his cheek. In a voice so soft he could not possibly have heard, she promised, “I’ll try, Cork. I swear to you, I’ll try.”
15
HE DREAMED OF HIS BROTHER alone in the hold of the Teasdale, swaying in deep currents as if he were dancing in an empty ballroom, and John LePere, when he woke, found himself weeping. He didn’t give himself over to the fresh grief the dream brought with it but rose immediately in the gray of first light, hit the cool, gunmetal water of Iron Lake, and swam out his emotion. By the time the sun had risen fully, he felt nearly empty and almost clean.
He was on the road by seven A.M., winding his way down Highway 1 toward the north shore. He cruised through Finland, hit Highway 61, and headed south-across the Baptism River at Tettagouche, past Shovel Point and Palisade Head, past the big taconite processing plant at Silver Bay. The sun was hazy and copper colored. Under it, Lake Superior had taken on an unsettling hue and seemed to have assumed a foul mood as well. A strong wind blew out of the southeast. The water was full of whitecaps. Not a good day for a dive, but LePere was determined.
As he entered the tunnel beneath Purgatory Ridge, he poured the last of the coffee from his thermos and swallowed it down. When he broke into the light on the other side, he slowed, took a sharp left onto the narrow lane, and headed through the poplars down to Purgatory Cove.
He parked his truck at the house and got out. The southeasterly wind funneled through the opening to the cove, pushing the water against the rocky beach. The Anne Marie rocked restlessly at her mooring. LePere headed to the house, unlocked the door, and went in.
Bridger’s accusation the day before-that LePere never let anyone enter-was true. No one but LePere had been inside since Billy died. As much as possible, he’d kept the rooms exactly as they’d been before the event that had destroyed his life. The stove was an old cast iron wood burner and was also the only source of heat. The table and chairs had been made by his father from birch trees that grew among the hills on the other side of the highway. His mother’s careful needlepoint, done in the years before Billy was born, hung framed on the walls. In the bedroom that had been first his parents’ and then his mother’s alone, the chest of drawers was empty, but on top, among the old jars and bottles that had contained the lotions and scents she’d once used, sat a photograph in a gold frame. A wedding photo. The man was half LePere’s age but had LePere’s strong, stocky build and black hair. The young woman had beautiful Indian features, and the shine in her dark eyes was evidence of a happiness LePere could barely remember in her.
Whenever he stayed in the cabin overnight, LePere slept in the room he’d shared with Billy. There was a collection of agates on a small bookcase, the prizes they’d found along the lake shore and had chosen not to sell to the souvenir shops. On Billy’s bunk was a first baseman’s mitt, a gift LePere had sent from Cleveland his first voyage on the Teasdale. Over the years, LePere had kept the mitt well oiled. On the wall, in a wood-burned frame he’d made himself, Billy had hung a photograph of his big brother standing on the deck of the huge ore carrier, the
