Jo sat back. “I can’t imagine where this is leading.”
“First, I want him to butt out of the investigation into the incident at Lindstrom’s mill. And second, I want you to make him understand that running for sheriff again would be the worst decision he ever made.”
For her own reasons, Jo agreed with Hanover’s sentiments, but she disliked the man immensely, and it was only years of practiced self-restraint in the courtroom that kept her from telling Helmuth Hanover to go fuck himself.
“What difference could any of this possibly make to you?” she asked.
“That doesn’t matter. I’d just suggest you do it.”
Jo smiled now. “You’re not still sore that he broke up your little Boy Scout troop? The Minnesota Civilian Brigade.” She looked him over carefully. “Or is it that you’re afraid he might have another go at it? You know, he never believed for an instant you all just dropped your dreams of glory.”
“Like I said, it doesn’t matter why. Just do it.”
“Helm, what makes you think you can slither in here and dictate terms to me?”
She saw his cold blue eyes slide down to the envelope in his hand. Another thin smile broke across his face. Without a word, he handed her the envelope.
When she saw the photograph inside, she felt gutted, like some animal Hanover had stealthily tracked and finally brought down. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. In the silence of that moment, she heard Hanover give a little snort of victory.
“You just finished ridiculing my dreams of glory, Jo. What about your own?”
The photograph was black and white, taken at night with a camera using a starlight lens. It was a bit grainy because the image had been enlarged several times. Despite the poor quality, the composition of the photo was brutally clear. A hot tub lit by candlelight. A woman, naked, holding to the edge of the tub and bent slightly forward, her mouth opened in a little circle of ecstasy as a naked man entered her from behind. The woman was Jo. The man was not Cork.
“Where did you get this?” she asked when she could breathe again.
“I’ve had it for some time. I got it from his father”-he pointed toward the man in the photograph-“before the old goat croaked. This was exactly his kind of weapon. Me, I prefer military hardware. But a weapon is a weapon.” He leaned forward. “The bottom line is this. Unless you convince Cork to stop sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong and to refrain forever from being a candidate for sheriff, he gets a copy of that photo. A big eight-by-ten in a gold frame.”
Jo stared at Hanover. “He’s seen this.”
“He knows?” Hanover shook his head in bewilderment. “I guess he’s not nearly the man I thought he was. Doesn’t matter. The conditions still hold, but the consequence is this. All of Tamarack County will see that photo. I’ll make sure it’s not possible for you or Cork to walk down a street here without someone whispering at your back. And I wonder what those children of yours would think of their mother, especially when they start hearing the word slut and your name in the same sentence.”
“Get out.”
“Look at it this way, Jo. Cork’s a great fry boy. All you have to do is convince him to keep flipping those burgers.”
“I said get out.” Jo stood and flung the photograph at him. It simply fluttered to the floor where Hanover let it lie.
“That’s all right. You can keep it. I have the negative.” He turned and limped to the door, but he paused with his hand on the knob. “You know, Jo, I’ve stood by and watched you twist the law every which way to get what you want around here. In this, there is no law. There’s only justice. At last.”
“Hell,” she spit out, using for the first time the epithet so many others had applied to him, “bite me.”
Hanover exited, and she heard him laughing as he closed the door.
She found she was shaking with rage. She walked unsteadily around the desk and stood looking down at herself on the floor. The camera had captured her as she bent to the pleasure of a man she would never forget but whose memory she hated. She’d believed that part of her life was over forever and that she’d escaped. But history, she understood as she knelt and took the photograph into her hands, could never be undone. And in a place like Aurora especially, it was as inescapable as her own shadow.
18
AT SEVEN-THIRTY-FIVE P.M., Cork parked his Bronco behind the Aurora Middle School and headed toward the back entrance, which was near a Dumpster. He could see that Deputy Gil Singer had been posted at the door.
“How’s it going, Gil?”
“Quiet, Cork. Back here anyway. Action’s out front.”
“I know. Couldn’t find a place to park, so I came ‘round back. You mind?”
“All right by me.”
“Is that Lindstrom’s?” Cork asked, pointing toward a new blue Explorer parked not far from his old Bronco.
“Yep.”
“Is he inside the school?”
“You’re batting a thousand, Cork.”
“Mind if I go in?”
“Sheriff said to keep suspicious types out. Don’t guess that includes you.” He opened the door.
When Cork graduated thirty years earlier, the building had been Aurora’s high school. A few years later, a large consolidated county school had been built just west of town, and the old high school, a beautiful structure of red brick, had become the district’s middle school. The building was full of good memories for Cork. Whenever he walked the hallways, the smell alone-waxed floors and old lockers-took him back instantly across three decades.
Inside the front door, he found Karl Lindstrom in a heated discussion with Bruce Mortenson, the operations manager for the mill. Cork held back until Mortenson lifted his hands in exasperation and declared, “Fine, Karl. Have it your way. It’s your damn mill, after all.” Mortenson stomped out the door.
Cork coughed discreetly. Lindstrom looked his way. “O’Connor.” He actually seemed glad to see Cork.
“Evening, Karl.”
Lindstrom stepped toward him, about to speak, but the front door swung open and Lindstrom’s attorney Frank Wharton slipped inside. He handed Lindstrom a sheet of paper and said, “Everything’s ready, Karl. Folks’re waiting.”
“Thanks, Frank. I’ll be right there.” Lindstrom glanced at Cork. “You have a minute after this so we can talk?”
“Sure.”
Lindstrom looked down at the paper in his hands, took a deep breath, and pushed outside. Cork gave him a moment, then followed.
A standing microphone and speakers had been set on the steps of the school. Parked cars lined the street, and the front lawn was crowded. Newspeople with cameras and tape recorders had positioned themselves at the bottom of the steps. Hell Hanover was right there in the thick of them. Looking over the crowd, Cork saw that both sides of the logging issue were well represented. Sheriff Wally Schanno and several of his deputies flanked Lindstrom on the steps. Agents Earl and Owen of the BCA were there, too. Across the street was a small park, and Cork saw Jo standing there alone, her arms folded across her body as if despite the terrible heat, she was cold.
Lindstrom stepped up to the microphone and tapped it. “Can you all hear me?”
Someone near the back of the crowd shouted, “Loud and clear, Karl. Give ‘em hell.”
“I’m not here to give anybody hell,” Lindstrom said, leaning to the mike. “Seems to me we’ve had enough of that already.” He considered the paper in his hand, then let it fall. “I had remarks prepared by my lawyer so that I’d
