Trickster's Point (21 page)

“Who is she?”

“Let it go, O’Connor.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Understand this: If the name Rhiannon comes out of your mouth again, it’ll be the last thing that ever does. And something else to keep in mind. You mention this conversation to anyone, especially the sheriff or her people, someone near and dear to you will pay the price. That’s a promise.”

“Listen—” Cork began, but the caller was gone.

Willie glanced across at him. “You look like you just talked to the Devil himself.”

Cork thought about the warning he’d just received. It was a stupid call, of course, because now there was no way in hell he wouldn’t pursue the mystery of Rhiannon. But it was effective in one respect. He would not mention the name again, not until he’d found the answer.

“It was no one, Willie,” he said. “No one important.”

T
he house was quiet when he got home, everyone in bed, asleep. Cork went straight to his office, turned on his computer. He meant to do a search for anything related to Jubal Little and Rhiannon but saw that his daughter Anne had sent him a Skype message. It said, “Call me when you have a chance. Worried.”

Anne was his middle child. On graduation from high school, she’d left Aurora and followed a path intended to lead her to the altar as a Bride of Christ. She was doing her best to join the Sisters of Notre Dame de Namur, an order well known for its social activism. That was Annie, by God. She was currently in Thoreau, New Mexico, working at a school and mission, preparing for her vocation. Cork shot her back a message saying everything was fine. No need to worry. And he promised to call.

He Googled Jubal Little and Rhiannon together, a search that yielded just over two hundred thousand hits. He scanned the first twenty pages of sites and realized it was getting him nowhere. He tried the name Rhiannon alone. He was pretty sure he’d get the Fleetwood Mac hit, and he did. He went through the lyrics—all about a Welsh witch, a woman taken by the wind—looking for a clue to the identity of Jubal’s Rhiannon, but nothing leaped out at him. He searched a bit more and found the derivation of the name. According to Wikipedia, it was Celtic, the name of a great queen in Welsh mythology. Not much help,
but he was fishing for anything. He checked the White Pages and found that there were seventy-two people in Minnesota with that first name. Because of Jubal’s long ties with Washington, D.C., it was entirely possible that Rhiannon, whoever she was, was connected somehow with Jubal’s activities there.

Cork sat back and thought about the phone call itself. The voice was unfamiliar, but he understood that it had been disguised. It was definitely male, low and graveled and obviously unreal. Willie had said he looked as if he’d just spoken to the Devil himself, and that was what the voice had, indeed, sounded like. Cork brought up the number on his cell phone. Out of Area. Calling card, most probably. Tough, if not impossible to trace. And even if he were able, he was pretty sure that he’d find it had come from a public phone. A dead end.

He tried to remember everyone to whom he’d spoken the name Rhiannon. He recalled only Rainy, Camilla Little, Marsha Dross, and Willie Crane. But maybe there was someone he’d forgotten. Or perhaps—probably, in fact—they’d mentioned the name to others. Though that couldn’t have been true of Willie, who was with Cork when the call had come.

He looked at the clock. It was almost two a.m. He was tired, his brain all mushy, his thinking going fuzzy. He turned off his computer, but he sat for a long moment in the silence of his office, thinking one final thought. Whoever Rhiannon was, the real issue was what did she have to do with Jubal’s death? Maybe nothing, exactly as the caller had said. And if so, maybe the call had been meant to tantalize him with this bait, to distract him from his pursuit of the truth about Jubal’s murder, to lure him onto a different path, a blind alley. It had been a ridiculous kind of call, really, the kind from bad movies.

In the end, there was one consideration that overrode all the others. The caller had made a threat directed at someone Cork cared about. It might have been just theater, just a bluff, but he couldn’t take that chance. Where Rhiannon was concerned, he would proceed with great caution.

He turned out the lamp on his desk, left his office, and slowly climbed the stairs toward bed, hoping he could sleep.

*   *   *

He didn’t, not much. After a few hours of restless napping, he rose in the dark, showered, dressed, left a note for his children, and headed out. He pulled up to the curb in front of Johnny’s Pinewood Broiler at 5:30, which was half an hour before the front door was unlocked and the place was officially open for business. On the other side of the big plate-glass windows, the restaurant was only dimly lit, but he could see Heidi Steger moving fast back and forth behind the counter. Heidi was somewhere in her thirties and three times married. No children though. She was always doing something to look younger. Her hair, for example. At the moment, it was a neon green that made her look a little like a Chia Pet. It was also on the wild side that morning, and Cork figured she’d overslept and was frantically trying to get the place ready for customers. He slid from the Land Rover, went to the Broiler door, and knocked on the glass. Heidi turned toward him, looked bewildered, pointed at her wristwatch, and shook her head. Cork beckoned her to him. He could tell she wasn’t happy to be interrupted, but she came and unlocked anyway.

“I don’t care how hungry you are,” she said, “I’m not putting in any orders before six.”

“This isn’t about eating, Heidi.”

“No? What’s it about then? And make it quick, Cork. I’m running late as it is.”

“The day before yesterday, the day Jubal Little was killed, when we came for breakfast, do you remember who else was here that morning?”

“Oh, Jesus. That was Saturday. You have any idea how many people come here for breakfast on a Saturday? You think I’m going to remember them all?”

“Just take a moment, Heidi. Relax and think. This was very early Saturday, first thing after you opened. Anybody come to mind?”

“Cork, I’ve got so much—”

“Please. It’s important.”

She took a breath and closed her eyes. Then she squeezed them together, as if it hurt her to think deeply. At last she said, “Gus Sorenson and Davey Klein and Mack McKenzie were at the counter. Two Greek omelets and one short stack with a side of link sausage. Cora Hubik was at table six. Eggs over easy and a waffle. Lester Bigby in booth three, right behind you and Jubal Little. Oatmeal and raisins. Jasper Davis in booth five. His usual—”

“Lester Bigby? He was here?”

“I just said he was. In the booth right behind you.”

“I don’t remember him.”

“You probably didn’t see his face. He’s usually got it hid behind a newspaper.”

“Bigby,” Cork said.

She mentioned two more names, but they weren’t anybody Cork had reason to be concerned about, especially after he’d learned that Lester Bigby had been there. He thanked Heidi and started away.

“Be back for breakfast?” she asked.

“I’ll probably have something at home.”

“Give that grandson of yours a big hug for me. And bring him in for a cinnamon roll sometime. On me, okay?”

“Will do, Heidi.”

Cork didn’t, in fact, go home. He drove north out of Aurora, along the lakeshore and back roads until he reached the double-trunk birch. Soft blue morning light was sifting through the tree branches as he set out along the path to Crow Point, and he realized the cloud cover that had hung heavy for days was gone, and the sun would break against a clear heaven. That idea alone lifted his spirits.

The sky had turned the color of a peach when he stepped from the trees and entered the meadow at the end of the point. He saw no smoke rising from the stovepipe on either of the cabins. He walked to Rainy’s door, knocked lightly, and opened it.

“Rainy?” he called softly.

“Cork?” She rose in bed, propped herself on an elbow, and gave him a quizzical look.

“Would you like some company?”

She smiled and lifted the blanket for him. “I’d love some.”

Later, they lay together, a braiding of arms and legs and moist flesh.

“I don’t know what brought this on, but I’m glad it did,” Rainy said in a breathless whisper.

“I spoke with Camilla Little last night, and then tried to see Winona Crane. They both seem to me to be crippled women. It’s helped me realize how lucky I am to have you in my life, and I just wanted you to know that I know that.”

In reply, she kissed his shoulder gently.

He said, “Some people, love just seems to sweep them up like a big wave, and then leave them stranded. I think that’s the way it was with Winona and Camilla where Jubal was concerned.”

“What about you?” Rainy said. “From what you’ve told me, Jubal left you kind of stranded, too.”

Cork rolled onto his back and stared up at the boards of the ceiling. Rainy put her hand on his chest over his heart.

“He wasn’t always like that,” Cork said. “It wasn’t always all about Jubal.”

*   *   *

After Jubal left for college, Cork didn’t see him for several years. Summers, Jubal worked in Cedar Falls at jobs arranged for him by the Athletic Department. They communicated occasionally through letters, but neither of them was particularly responsible in that way. It wasn’t difficult for Cork to keep track of Jubal’s
football career, however. The University of Northern Iowa’s team
was
Jubal. He became the starting quarterback in his freshman year, and in every year thereafter, he set new school records and new conference records. Although he played for a small school in a midwestern state that most of America associated with dumb cows and tall corn, Jubal’s exploits excited national attention. Because of his Minnesota roots, he was often featured in the sports columns of the newspapers in the Twin Cities. His senior year warranted a full two-page article in
Sports Illustrated,
and that same year, he was profiled in
Time.
Part of it, of course, was his incredible athletic ability, but part of it was his unique history. The summer before his senior year, Jubal’s father died, stabbed to death in the prison yard at Deer Lodge. Because of who Jubal was, the incident became a national story. By then, the sentiment in America had changed and being Indian was a unique, even honorable thing. Once the truth was known, Jubal seemed to embrace his heritage. On the football field that final year—and in the pros afterward, for a while—he took to calling himself the Wild Warrior and let his hair grow long. Off the football field, he often wore a beaded headband and sometimes a feather. He didn’t return to Aurora until the following spring, when his mother died, and by then Cork was long gone, off to Chicago, training to wear the blue uniform of a cop. Cork didn’t learn about Jubal’s mother until later. When he did, he sent a letter of condolence, which Jubal never answered. Cork understood. Gradually over the years, he and Jubal, like most high school friends, had eased into their adult lives and had drifted apart.

It was Willie Crane who brought them together again. It happened in the spring.

Cork worked third-shift patrol, the late shift, and had just arrived home at eight a.m., ready to get some shut-eye, when his telephone rang.

“O’Connor,” he answered.

“Hello, Cork. It’s Willie Crane.”
LoCor. IsWillieCrane.

“Willie? My God, it’s been forever. How are you?”

“Okay. I’m in Chicago. I was wondering if I could see you.”

It had been a long time since Cork had heard his voice, but in the interim, Willie had improved his speech a little, and Cork had no trouble understanding the words.

“Sure, Willie. How long are you in town?”

“Not long, I hope. It kind of depends on you.”

“Why?”

“When we talk, you’ll understand. It’s important. It’s about Winona.”

“What about her?”

“I’d rather talk in person.”

“All right. How about breakfast right now?”

Willie was staying at the Congress Hotel on Michigan Avenue, and Cork met him there. He still walked with the shuffling gait Cork remembered well, but even that seemed to have improved a little. They sat at a table near a window that looked east toward Grant Park. Cork hadn’t seen Willie in almost six years. Winona’s brother had grown tall and lean and handsome. Cork had heard that Willie was making a name for himself as a wildlife photographer and a nature writer. Anyone looking at Willie who didn’t know him would have been surprised. But from very early, Cork had seen the strength that was at the heart of Willie Crane.

“I hear you’re doing well,” Cork told him. Willie looked surprised, and Cork explained, “The rez telegraph reaches all the way to Chicago.”

“I’ve worked hard. And I love what I do. You, too, I bet. I’m not surprised at all that you’re a cop. Just that you’re a cop here.”

“My father’s family are all from Chicago, Willie, and a lot of them are cops. It’s not Aurora, but it feels comfortable to me.”

“I hear you’ve met someone.”

Willie was talking about Jo McKenzie, a law student at the University of Chicago, whom Cork had met on a routine burglary call and had fallen for. It was serious, although they weren’t talking marriage yet. He was amazed that Willie knew.