37
Cork bought a U.S. road atlas at a 7-Eleven on Murchison Avenue, then went back to the restaurant where he’d had breakfast. He ordered coffee and a BLT and opened the atlas. He located Dansig, Iowa, a small dot on State 26 just south of the Minnesota border. He wanted very much to talk with Glory Kane. Or Cordelia Diller, if that was what she was calling herself now.
When he returned to his motel room, he realized it was dinnertime back in Minnesota. He called home and was surprised by the voice that answered.
“Rose?”
“Hello, Cork.”
“Did you drop by for dinner?”
“Actually, I’m preparing it. Ellie Gruber came back today. She’s at the rectory now, so… I’m back here.”
Back here, Cork thought. Why didn’t she say back home?
“That’s good, I suppose.”
“Of course, it’s good.” Her voice brightened, the chipper tone a little forced. “Have you talked with Glory?”
“I tried to call,” he said. “All I got was a busy signal.”
“That’s probably because of the tornadoes. Several last night in southern Minnesota, northern Iowa. Knocked out power all over.”
“That probably explains it. Is Jo around?”
“She’s coming into the kitchen right now.”
“Good to have you home, Rose.”
“Thanks, Cork.”
A few moments of dead at the other end, then Jo came on the line.
“Cork?”
“Hi, kiddo. Full house again.”
“Not entirely. You’re not here. How’d it go today? Did you find out anything?”
“Fletcher Kane’s a lot more complicated than I imagined. I don’t know what to think now.”
“What about Charlotte?”
“I believe there were two, and one of them may well have been manufactured.” He told her the details of his conversations that day. “I spoke with Hadlestadt again. He said that with the amazing advances in facial bone reconstruction these days, it’s not at all outside the realm of possibility. Highly unethical, but not illegal.”
“He created a look-alike?” she said.
“It’s possible he simply stumbled onto a girl who looked exactly like Charlotte, but what are the odds of that? Given that he was a desperately unhappy man, I think it’s more likely that he used his skill as a surgeon to bring his daughter back.”
“My god, that’s so grotesque.”
“I’ll know more after I’ve talked to Glory. Or Cordelia. Christ, is anybody who they seem? How are things there?”
“No more stalkers, thank God.”
“Don’t anyone get lax.”
“Don’t worry. By the way, I’ve heard that Nestor Cole may withdraw the charges against Solemn.”
“Why?”
“Word of your suspicions about Fletcher Kane’s relationship with Charlotte leaked out.”
“Cy Borkmann,” Cork said. “Damn, he never could keep his mouth shut.”
“What’s being said about Fletcher isn’t pretty. I think our county attorney is afraid the waters may be too muddy now for him to be sure of a conviction.”
“Well that’s something anyway.” He took a deep breath. “Good having Rose back?”
Jo was quiet, then said, “We’ll talk when you’re home.”
“All right,” he said. “Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
He hung up, wondering why Jo was reluctant to speak about Rose.
He was getting hungry, thinking of dinner though it was still early, coast time. He walked to the window and looked out. A few ragged palm trees, too many cars, a dirty haze. A megalopolis full of people, and he still felt alone. He knew it was nothing compared to the loneliness of Solemn Winter Moon.
Cork walked back to the bed, sat down, picked up the phone and called Rosemount. This time he got through. The connection was scratchy, a sound like the crackle of tinder-dry brush. He asked for Cordelia Diller. In a minute, the woman he knew as Glory Kane was on the line.
“Glory?”
“It’s Cordelia, actually.”
“What’s with the new name?”
“Not new. Old. Before Glory. Long before Glory.”
“So why Glory?”
“We need to talk. Where are you?”
“California.”
She hesitated. “Then you know about Charlotte.”
“Not everything. How about you tell me?”
“I’d rather not talk over the phone.”
“All right. I’m flying back to the Twin Cities tomorrow. I’ll drive down to Rosemount as soon as I’ve landed.”
She thought it over. “All right.”
“I should be there midafternoon sometime.”
“Cork?”
“Yes?”
“You think Fletcher is a good man?”
“People here seem to think so.”
The dry brush sound filled the empty line for a moment. Then she said, “I used to think so, too.”
38
Cork picked up his Bronco at the Twin Cities airport and headed south. In the bluff country near the Iowa border, he began to see the effects of the storms that had swept through two nights earlier. Great trees lay uprooted. High water had left tangled debris in the undergrowth along stream banks. Road signs hung bent on their metal frames. This was the Midwest and it was that season.
Cork drove through Dansig in the late afternoon. Near the south end of town, a warehouse stood with its walls ripped open, the corrugated siding broken and twisted. A mile farther, he encountered a sign, temporarily repaired with a thick binding of silver duct tape, that pointed east down a secondary road toward Rosemount Retreat Center. The road was a long, narrow lane bordered on both sides by windrows of tall western yews. In several places, a fallen tree lay in freshly cut sections along the shoulder. As Cork neared the Center, he heard a chain saw droning in the humid air.
Rosemount Retreat Center stood on a wooded bluff high above the Mississippi River. The buildings were all dark red brick and looked as if they’d been there since the Civil War. The trunk of a large oak near the entrance had split. Half the tree lay on the ground. The white wood deep at the heart was visible in a long gaping wound. Much of the lawn was littered with broken branches. In several buildings, the glass was gone from windows and temporary
