Vermilion Drift (33 page)

Cavanaugh stared at Cork, then said coldly, “You sound just like Lauren. Next you’ll be telling me I’ve got no other friend in the world but you.”

“Believe it or not, I am your friend. Come back with me, and I’ll stand by you, I promise.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you, Cork. You’re going to leave and I’m going to finish my wine and have some dinner and a good soak in my tub and go to bed. And I think I’ll call my lawyer while I’m at it.”

“The longer you string this out, the more it will twist your gut. I’m just trying to help.”

“Your kind of help gets people hanged.”

Cork stood up. “Think about it. If you want to talk, call me.” He took a card from his wallet and held it out to Cavanaugh, who didn’t even look at it. Cork put the card on the coffee table and headed out the door, leaving Max Cavanaugh alone in the cool dark of his big house, listening to music played by a dead man.

M
arsha Dross lived alone on Lomax Street, in a little house with flower boxes on the front porch and green shutters on the windows. Her pickup was in the driveway when Cork pulled up and parked at the curb. Smoke drifted from the backyard, and the breeze carried the delicious aroma of barbecue and sizzling fat. He walked across the lawn and around to the back, where he found the sheriff on her patio, dressed in khaki shorts and sandals. She was turned away from him, and she had a beer in her hand. She wore earbuds that snaked up from an iPod cradled in the pocket of her khakis, and she was doing a line dance move as if the smoking Weber grill with its rack of ribs was her partner. Ed Larson fished to relax. Cork walked his dog. Marsha Dross, apparently, danced.

He hated what he had to do to her.

“Yo, Marsha,” he said, but not loudly enough, because she kept on dancing. “Marsha,” he said again.

This time she heard.

She had never been what most people would call pretty, and Cork seldom gave it much thought, but turning to him, she looked, for an instant, happy and relaxed, and Cork could see a kind of beauty in her that was common and good. When she saw his face and understood that she was probably not going to like what he had to say, she changed. She became, in the blink of an eye, the law.

She pulled off the earbuds and reached down to turn off the iPod and said, with a little brittleness, “What did you do now?”

“You could offer me a beer.”

“Tell me first, then I’ll decide about the beer.”

“Want to sit?”

“For Christ sake, just tell me.”

“I was out at Max Cavanaugh’s place. I told him I thought he killed his sister.”

“You did what?” She put the beer bottle down on her patio table, hard enough that a bit of the brew splashed out the longneck.

“Before you toss me on that grill with those ribs—which, by the way, look pretty good—just listen a minute.”

“This is what I get for bringing you in on a case. Jesus, it’s always the same. You never do things the way I ask or that you promise. You just go off and do whatever comes into your head. You’re not the sheriff anymore, Cork. Christ, you haven’t been in, like, forever.”

“I know. But just give me a minute to explain.”

“God, I thought for a little while, just a little while, I could relax.”

“He did it, Marsha. He killed his sister, and I can almost prove it.”

“Almost? Oh, that’ll sound good to a grand jury.”

“Hear me out.”

She huffed an angry breath, crossed her arms, gave him a killing look, and said, “All right, I’m listening.”

“I talked to Lou Haddad and Sheri this afternoon. Sheri told me that Cavanaugh got a cell phone call at the Four Seasons, after the official reception, when they were all gathered in the bar.”

“We know this already.”

“He went outside, and Sheri did, too, so that she could make a cell phone call to her babysitter. She saw Cavanaugh take off in his Escalade.”

Her eyes changed, the anger transformed in an instant to interest. “He left the Four Seasons?”

“He sure did, and we have a witness to that. According to Sheri, he was gone twenty minutes, enough time to drive to his sister’s boathouse and kill her. And get this: When he came back, he wasn’t wearing the designer blazer he’d worn all evening. According to Sheri, he seemed distant. ‘Fuzzy-headed’ was how she put it. He didn’t stay long.”

“Why did he take off his blazer?” she said. Then answered herself, “Bloodstains.”

“A pretty good speculation.”

“Did he get rid of the clothes, do you think?”

“A search warrant would answer that question.”

She sat down at the table, looking troubled. “Here’s one a search warrant won’t answer: Why?” She picked up her beer and idly sipped.

Cork sat down with her. “It was a risk talking to Max. I knew that, Marsha. But the truth is he’s not a bad guy. I think that what happened wasn’t premeditated. And I was hoping that when he understood what I suspected, he might want to talk about it. A thing like that, it’s got to weigh on his conscience. When I left, he looked pretty dismal.”

Dross thought for a while in silence. The fat from the ribs fell onto the coals and sizzled. Finally she stood up.

“I’m going to see if I can’t get a search warrant. It’s all pretty thin, but I’d like to try. Ed’s fishing at his cabin on Emerson Lake. He told me he was leaving his cell phone at home.”

“He usually fishes from his dock. I’d be glad to head over and give him the word.”

“Thanks.”

“Sorry to interrupt your evening, Marsha.”

“If it means I can sleep tonight, I’ll forgive you.”

She took a long set of tongs, lifted the ribs off the grill and put them on a waiting platter, then headed inside to start making phone calls.

H
e was halfway to Emerson Lake when Max Cavanaugh called. Cork pulled over to the side of the road and answered his cell phone.

“I want to talk,” Cavanaugh said. “But only to you. Come alone. You’ve got twenty minutes.”

“Your place?” Cork said.

“No. I’m at the Ladyslipper Mine.”

“All right.”

“Twenty minutes,” Cavanaugh said. “Alone.”

“Max—” Cork began. But Cavanaugh had hung up.

He swung his Land Rover around, called Dross, and told her what was up.

“I’ll meet you there,” she said.

“He said alone, Marsha.”

“Fine, you meet with him alone, but I’ll be lurking in the general vicinity.”

“That’ll do.”

“Just before you have your talk, call me on your cell and leave the phone on, okay? I’d like to hear what he has to say.”

“Kind of like wearing a wire?”

“Make sure you get close to him.”

It was late, and the sun had set. From the eastern horizon a red smear was spreading across the sky, and the clouds that hung there became like bloodstained cotton. At the gate to the mine, the guard directed Cork to follow one of the roads into the great pit.

“Mr. Cavanaugh went down there himself maybe forty minutes ago.” The guard gave Cork a map and outlined the way. “Mine operation’s
shut down for the night, so you don’t have to worry about being run over by one of them monster trucks or blown up in the blasting.”

Which was, in fact, a comforting piece of information.

Cork followed the road the guard had indicated. It was paved asphalt for a couple of hundred yards, then turned to hard-packed red dirt and curled south of the Great North office complex. It sloped into the pit and almost immediately cut sharply to the left, and Cork kept his Land Rover at a crawl as he negotiated the narrow switchbacks that angled toward the floor of the great excavation. Cork had seen the hole only from above; being inside was different. Above there was grandeur to the scale. Inside and up close, he could see the rugged scars of all the intimate battle that had taken place to open that great hole and tear the ore from the earth.

He turned the final switchback and came out onto the flat at the bottom of the mine, which was a broad plain of devastation as red and bare as Cork imagined the surface of Mars to be, and just as alien in its feel. Gargantuan machines stood idle amid great mounds of blasted rubble that lay waiting to be loaded and carried away. A quarter of a mile to the south, water had seeped in, and a small lake had formed in a depression there, a lake in which, Cork was pretty certain, nothing lived. He felt swallowed by the mine, dwarfed by the immensity of the excavation, and more than a little in awe of the enormity of the vision and enterprise necessary to create it.

He spotted Cavanaugh’s Escalade parked a hundred yards ahead. He slowed and turned on his cell phone.

“Can you hear me, Marsha?”

“There’s static, but I can still read you.”

“All right. Going undercover now.”

He slipped the phone beneath his shirt, where it lay cradled against the thin ridge along the top of his belt line.

“Can you hear me now?”

“Yes, and quit the clowning.”

Cavanaugh had parked fifty yards from an enormous Bucyrus electric shovel. With its long neck and open-jawed bucket, the machine reminded Cork of a great dinosaur ready to feed.

He parked near the Escalade. Cavanaugh got out and met him halfway between the two vehicles. Cork closed to within two feet of Cavanaugh, who looked weary, like a man who’d run a thousand miles.

“I’m here, Max.”

“You wanted to know why,” Cavanaugh said.

“Everything else I pretty much understand.”

Almost wistfully, Cavanaugh eyed the mine walls, which terraced toward the reddened evening sky. “My family made its fortune from this earth,” he said. “I know that a lot of people look at the damage that’s been done to the land here and judge us. Me, I look at this mine and I see the generations of families it’s supported. I see the enterprise it’s fed. I see the wars this nation fought and won because of it. It seems to me that sometimes you have to choose to do some harm in the hope—no, the belief—that it’s for a greater good. That’s how I’ve lived my life anyway, most of it in mines not much different from this one. That big shovel over there? I can work it. I can drive a truck that hauls three hundred tons. I’ve prospected and drilled and blasted. Mining’s been my life, and it’s been a good one.”

“What about taking care of Lauren?” Cork said. “That’s been a part of your life, too.”

Cavanaugh eyed him dourly but didn’t reply.

“It couldn’t have been easy covering for her all these years.”

“That’s what you do when you’re family.”

“What kind of family was she, Max? Hard to love, I imagine.”

“You’re wrong. She was easy to love. Too easy. She walked into a room and she brought the sun with her. She was full of life, ideas, energy. Next to her, most people were like pieces of wood.”

“Then why did you kill her?”

“I’m not entirely certain I did.”

“Tell me about it.”

“There are things you need to know first. Before he died, my father told me about my mother. Horrible things.”

Cavanaugh fell silent and looked down at the hard rock beneath his feet.

“Was she involved in the Vanishings, Max?”

He gave his head a vague shake. “My father couldn’t say for sure, but he suspected. She was capable of it, he believed. At least after they moved here.”

“What made this place different?”

“She met a man, a truly evil man.”

“Indigo Broom.”

Cavanaugh lifted his gaze to Cork, apparently surprised that he knew the name. “Yes, Broom. My mother had had relationships before, a lot of them unconventional, but this was different. This was beyond bizarre. Where there’d been only, I don’t know, narcissism in her, there was cruelty, brutality. The change in her frightened my father. He was preparing to go to the police with his suspicions when she disappeared and the Vanishings stopped. For him, it was like being freed from hell. My grandfather was long dead, every family tie here ended, and so we left Aurora and all the awful memories behind.”

“But then you came back.”

“The worst decision I ever made.”

“Tell me about Lauren, Max.”

Cavanaugh looked away, and his gaze ran across the whole devastated landscape around him. “On his deathbed, my father made me promise to be responsible for her because she was, in many ways, like my mother.”

“What ways?”

“She was beautiful and smart, just like my mother, and just like my mother she had no heart. She loved no one.”

“Not even you?”

“She needed me, needed me desperately. But love? I don’t believe she understood the word. Not in the way you and I might understand it.”

“What about you? Did you love her?”

“I’m not sure I can explain. We shared blood, history, a lifetime of memories. That was part of it. But more important, I understood that she had no choice in who she was. Some people come into the world missing a limb or without sight or hearing. We don’t blame them for the way they’re born. How could I blame Lauren because she came into the world without a heart? She was her mother’s child.”

“You’re not like that.”

“Luck of the draw. It might just as easily have been me. Or both of us. What a curse that would have been for my father.” He let out a breath that may have carried a whisper of a laugh. “It was Dad who pointed out to me that I was the lucky one. He told me I had to share my heart with Lauren. And that’s what I’ve tried to do. Pick up the pieces, fix what she broke, mend the wounds she delivered. Hers was a lonely existence, really. She used people and threw them away, and afterward she was alone. Always alone.”

“Except for you. She came to you for companionship and comfort, yes?”

He breathed deeply, sadly. “She always came to me crying.”

“Manufactured tears?”

“Real enough. But always for her, never for anyone else. In her world, there was no one else worth crying over.”

“Not even you.”

“Not even me.”

“A hard love, Max. Is that why you killed her?”

“I told you. I’m not certain I did.”

“What happened that night?”

“First you have to understand something. Lauren was always self-centered, and I’d come to expect that. But when she moved here and moved back into that awful place we’d lived as children, she began to change. I saw her becoming cruel. It wasn’t simply that she didn’t care about other people, she began to enjoy inflicting pain.”