brain and out the back of his skull.
He knelt, and although he already knew the result, he nonetheless put his fingertips to the man’s carotid artery to check for a pulse.
“Dead,” he said. “And, from the looks of it, a day at least.”
Stephen’s face had gone ashen. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper. “So he was here when Mr. Little was shot?”
“He was here. I don’t know if he was alive then, but he was here.”
“Who is he?”
“No idea, Stephen.”
“What should we do?”
“Did you bring your cell phone?”
“You said cell phones don’t work up here, so I left it in the Land Rover.”
“Me, too,” Cork said. “No service there either. Okay, this is what you’re going to do. Take the canoe back the way we came. Here are the keys to the Land Rover. Drive into Allouette or however far you have to go before you get a signal, then call the sheriff’s office and report what we’ve found. Can you handle that?”
“Sure. But what about you?”
“I’ll wait here until the sheriff’s people arrive.”
“Alone with the dead guy?”
“It won’t be the first time,” Cork told him.
“But why? It’s not like he’s going anywhere.”
“I don’t want the body disturbed by scavengers.”
Stephen eyed the dead hunter a last time, with obvious revulsion, then gave his father a look Cork couldn’t quite decipher. “I hope I never get to the point where sitting with a dead man doesn’t bother me.”
He turned and began to make his way out of the trees while Cork thought about his son’s comment and decided that he hoped so, too.
C HAPTER 11
C ork stood at the edge of the ridge and watched his son paddle across the broad gray of the lake. It was like watching a small bird fly alone into a great threatening sky. He felt a deep sorrow in having to send Stephen on that lonely mission. No parent’s child should have had to go through what Stephen, in his brief sixteen years, had already been asked to endure. Cork felt an abiding loneliness as well, but this was for himself, because the tone of his son’s comment in parting hadn’t escaped his notice. Corcoran O’Connor attracted death the way dogs attracted fleas, a phenomenon that his son clearly recognized and just as clearly disapproved of. Cork thought every man wanted to be understood by his children, but—he looked toward the dead man, the second he’d kept company with in as many days—how could anyone understand this?
He turned to a duty that, across the decades of his life, had become depressingly familiar: He investigated the corpse. He didn’t touch anything, just looked the body over carefully.
The dead hunter was Caucasian, with a powerful build. He wore a full camouflage suit, insulated for cold weather, the kind of clothing worn when stalking rather than hunting from a blind. His boots were Danner, expensive but well worn. His rifle was a Marlin 336C, a common make, popular for hunting deer. It was scoped with a Leupold, which was what Cork, when riflehunting, usually mounted on his own Remington. Cork bent close to the crusted eye socket and studied the entry wound. Probably the hunter had died instantly, or almost so. And, probably, he’d been caught by surprise, otherwise, considering the Marlin, he’d have had the advantage. Cork wished he knew if the hunter had been murdered before Jubal Little or after, and how the two killings were connected, because it was clear that they were. The fletching on the arrow that had killed the man was the same pattern Cork used on his own arrows, the same as on the arrow that had killed Jubal Little.
Cork would have loved to have been able to go through the hunter’s pockets for a clue to his identity, but he knew better. He would have to wait, maybe hours, before the crime scene team from the Tamarack County Sheriff’s Department made another visit to that remote location. He couldn’t begin to imagine what Marsha Dross and Ed Larson and the BCA people
He knelt, and although he already knew the result, he nonetheless put his fingertips to the man’s carotid artery to check for a pulse.
“Dead,” he said. “And, from the looks of it, a day at least.”
Stephen’s face had gone ashen. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper. “So he was here when Mr. Little was shot?”
“He was here. I don’t know if he was alive then, but he was here.”
“Who is he?”
“No idea, Stephen.”
“What should we do?”
“Did you bring your cell phone?”
“You said cell phones don’t work up here, so I left it in the Land Rover.”
“Me, too,” Cork said. “No service there either. Okay, this is what you’re going to do. Take the canoe back the way we came. Here are the keys to the Land Rover. Drive into Allouette or however far you have to go before you get a signal, then call the sheriff’s office and report what we’ve found. Can you handle that?”
“Sure. But what about you?”
“I’ll wait here until the sheriff’s people arrive.”
“Alone with the dead guy?”
“It won’t be the first time,” Cork told him.
“But why? It’s not like he’s going anywhere.”
“I don’t want the body disturbed by scavengers.”
Stephen eyed the dead hunter a last time, with obvious revulsion, then gave his father a look Cork couldn’t quite decipher. “I hope I never get to the point where sitting with a dead man doesn’t bother me.”
He turned and began to make his way out of the trees while Cork thought about his son’s comment and decided that he hoped so, too.
C HAPTER 11
C ork stood at the edge of the ridge and watched his son paddle across the broad gray of the lake. It was like watching a small bird fly alone into a great threatening sky. He felt a deep sorrow in having to send Stephen on that lonely mission. No parent’s child should have had to go through what Stephen, in his brief sixteen years, had already been asked to endure. Cork felt an abiding loneliness as well, but this was for himself, because the tone of his son’s comment in parting hadn’t escaped his notice. Corcoran O’Connor attracted death the way dogs attracted fleas, a phenomenon that his son clearly recognized and just as clearly disapproved of. Cork thought every man wanted to be understood by his children, but—he looked toward the dead man, the second he’d kept company with in as many days—how could anyone understand this?
He turned to a duty that, across the decades of his life, had become depressingly familiar: He investigated the corpse. He didn’t touch anything, just looked the body over carefully.
The dead hunter was Caucasian, with a powerful build. He wore a full camouflage suit, insulated for cold weather, the kind of clothing worn when stalking rather than hunting from a blind. His boots were Danner, expensive but well worn. His rifle was a Marlin 336C, a common make, popular for hunting deer. It was scoped with a Leupold, which was what Cork, when riflehunting, usually mounted on his own Remington. Cork bent close to the crusted eye socket and studied the entry wound. Probably the hunter had died instantly, or almost so. And, probably, he’d been caught by surprise, otherwise, considering the Marlin, he’d have had the advantage. Cork wished he knew if the hunter had been murdered before Jubal Little or after, and how the two killings were connected, because it was clear that they were. The fletching on the arrow that had killed the man was the same pattern Cork used on his own arrows, the same as on the arrow that had killed Jubal Little.
Cork would have loved to have been able to go through the hunter’s pockets for a clue to his identity, but he knew better. He would have to wait, maybe hours, before the crime scene team from the Tamarack County Sheriff’s Department made another visit to that remote location. He couldn’t begin to imagine what Marsha Dross and Ed Larson and the BCA people
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