said, “He sounded like he thought Charlie did it.”
“He’s got to consider that possibility,” Hodder replied. He turned onto Lake Street. Lake Superior stretched away on the right, the great old homes of Bodine rose on the left. “Everybody knows Charlie’s a firecracker. When she goes off, well…”
Hodder sounded like a policeman now, and Ren didn’t like it.
“I’d like to talk to your mother about all this. When she gets home today, have her give me a call, okay?”
Ren held off answering.
“Okay?”
“Okay,” he mumbled.
“How’re you doing?” Hodder asked, sounding more like a normal guy. A guy who might actually care about what had happened to Charlie.
“I’m fine.”
“I hope it goes without saying, Ren, that if you hear from Charlie, you’ll let me know.”
Ren stared out the window at the houses sweeping by. They were just coming up on Amber Kennedy’s place. He thought about the shining feeling he’d had when he rode past on his way to Charlie’s. How was it possible to feel that good and this lousy in the same morning?
13
C ork lived in an old, well-kept two-story clapboard house. The front porch had a swing. A huge elm that was older than Cork shaded the front yard. The house was on Gooseberry Lane in Aurora, Minnesota. He’d grown up in that town and had chosen it as the place to raise his family. Its rhythms were as natural to him as the pulse of his own blood.
Aurora was hundreds of miles away. At the moment it seemed even farther, on the other side of a barrier that was more than just miles. It was a barrier of experience, the result of monstrous events that could not be undone or forgotten.
He lay on the bunk in his cabin, helpless against despair.
His wife had been drugged by Lou Jacoby’s grandson, an angry young man who then raped her. Cork pictured Jo with her ice-blond hair all wild as it had been the morning after that terrible night. He saw again her dazed face, her eyes blinking like fireflies as she stared at the gun in his hand, then at the water of a swimming pool turned red with a dead man’s blood.
In Cork’s anguished thinking, the whole earth was a vast hunting ground, and you were either predator or prey. Killing was the answer. Killing the man who’d spilled his rage into Jo. Killing the men who’d put a bullet through his leg. Killing Lou Jacoby, the son of a bitch who’d set it all in motion.
“Damn!” He realized that the Beretta that Dina had given him in Evanston was still in the glove box of his car. If the men who’d attacked him in Kenosha showed up now, he had no way to protect himself.
He pulled the sheet away and swung his legs off the bunk. He gathered himself, stood, and took a step.
“Oh, shit,” he groaned, then took another.
His shoes sat beside the door. They were brown Rockports, the left one stained dark with blood. He gritted his teeth, knelt, and scooped them up. Outside, he plopped down on the cabin steps and tugged them onto his sockless feet. He looked toward the end of the lane where his car was parked behind the big shed. It seemed like a long way.
In addition to Thor’s Lodge, the resort had six rental cabins staggered along either side of a central dirt access with enough room between each cabin to allow a vehicle to park. They were all the same design, one large square central room that functioned as a sitting area, kitchen, and sleeping quarters. Each cabin also had a small bathroom with a shower stall. The cabins had bunks and were typically rented by hikers or hunters or snowmobilers. Summers when Cork had visited with his mother, the cabins had been well maintained by Jewell’s father. Now there were signs of neglect. Spiderwebs in the window wells. Fallen branches and evergreen cones littering the ground. Brittle weeds creeping around the cabin steps. In such an environment, the wild things—coons and squirrels and snakes—would eventually make their homes.
So much had been left undone because
“He’s got to consider that possibility,” Hodder replied. He turned onto Lake Street. Lake Superior stretched away on the right, the great old homes of Bodine rose on the left. “Everybody knows Charlie’s a firecracker. When she goes off, well…”
Hodder sounded like a policeman now, and Ren didn’t like it.
“I’d like to talk to your mother about all this. When she gets home today, have her give me a call, okay?”
Ren held off answering.
“Okay?”
“Okay,” he mumbled.
“How’re you doing?” Hodder asked, sounding more like a normal guy. A guy who might actually care about what had happened to Charlie.
“I’m fine.”
“I hope it goes without saying, Ren, that if you hear from Charlie, you’ll let me know.”
Ren stared out the window at the houses sweeping by. They were just coming up on Amber Kennedy’s place. He thought about the shining feeling he’d had when he rode past on his way to Charlie’s. How was it possible to feel that good and this lousy in the same morning?
13
C ork lived in an old, well-kept two-story clapboard house. The front porch had a swing. A huge elm that was older than Cork shaded the front yard. The house was on Gooseberry Lane in Aurora, Minnesota. He’d grown up in that town and had chosen it as the place to raise his family. Its rhythms were as natural to him as the pulse of his own blood.
Aurora was hundreds of miles away. At the moment it seemed even farther, on the other side of a barrier that was more than just miles. It was a barrier of experience, the result of monstrous events that could not be undone or forgotten.
He lay on the bunk in his cabin, helpless against despair.
His wife had been drugged by Lou Jacoby’s grandson, an angry young man who then raped her. Cork pictured Jo with her ice-blond hair all wild as it had been the morning after that terrible night. He saw again her dazed face, her eyes blinking like fireflies as she stared at the gun in his hand, then at the water of a swimming pool turned red with a dead man’s blood.
In Cork’s anguished thinking, the whole earth was a vast hunting ground, and you were either predator or prey. Killing was the answer. Killing the man who’d spilled his rage into Jo. Killing the men who’d put a bullet through his leg. Killing Lou Jacoby, the son of a bitch who’d set it all in motion.
“Damn!” He realized that the Beretta that Dina had given him in Evanston was still in the glove box of his car. If the men who’d attacked him in Kenosha showed up now, he had no way to protect himself.
He pulled the sheet away and swung his legs off the bunk. He gathered himself, stood, and took a step.
“Oh, shit,” he groaned, then took another.
His shoes sat beside the door. They were brown Rockports, the left one stained dark with blood. He gritted his teeth, knelt, and scooped them up. Outside, he plopped down on the cabin steps and tugged them onto his sockless feet. He looked toward the end of the lane where his car was parked behind the big shed. It seemed like a long way.
In addition to Thor’s Lodge, the resort had six rental cabins staggered along either side of a central dirt access with enough room between each cabin to allow a vehicle to park. They were all the same design, one large square central room that functioned as a sitting area, kitchen, and sleeping quarters. Each cabin also had a small bathroom with a shower stall. The cabins had bunks and were typically rented by hikers or hunters or snowmobilers. Summers when Cork had visited with his mother, the cabins had been well maintained by Jewell’s father. Now there were signs of neglect. Spiderwebs in the window wells. Fallen branches and evergreen cones littering the ground. Brittle weeds creeping around the cabin steps. In such an environment, the wild things—coons and squirrels and snakes—would eventually make their homes.
So much had been left undone because
Similar Books
