Vermilion Drift

THIRTY-THREE

After Rutledge had gone, Cork got out the box given to him by Millie Joseph that contained his mother’s journals. Since his conversation with Cy Borkman that afternoon, he’d been chewing on questions for which he had no answer. Had Borkman read the situation right? Had his father really been involved with another woman? If so, could that woman have been Monique Cavanaugh? Did his mother know?

He took the box to the patio and, in the warm blue of summer twilight, sat down and began to read.

January 1, 1965

We didn’t celebrate the beginning of this new year. We have no reason to celebrate. My husband is dead. My niece is dead, killed by a madwoman and an Ojibwe majimanidoo. And we who are left abide with our guilt, an uncomfortable companion in all our hours. I miss Liam so much. I will miss him forever.

His mother had known about Monique Cavanaugh’s involvement in the Vanishings, and something had happened in all that terrible, chaotic time that left her with guilt, an uncomfortable companion in all our hours. Was it something to do with Monique Cavanaugh’s death? Was it guilt over having driven her husband away, driven him into another woman’s arms? Guilt because there’d been no reconciliation before he died? But the guilt was some kind of collective guilt as well:… we who are left. Had she meant Cork, who, according to Borkman, had been party to driving his father away? Or had she meant someone else?

He read entry after entry with no indication of remonstration against his father for unfaithfulness. Yet Borkman had been certain of the infidelity, uncertain only of the true identity of the woman his father had picked up at Jacque’s.

Cork closed his eyes, trying hard to remember those days. He blanked. He recalled clearly the hospital vigil he’d kept with his mother while Liam O’Connor lay dying, but before that so much was missing, which was something he’d never really thought about before. Memories were always spotty at best, snapshots put together to create the sense of a more detailed whole. But the summer of 1964 was different. It wasn’t just that there were no snapshots; it was a sense that, like those missing pages of his mother’s journal, something important had been torn out.

It was nearly dark when he put the journals back into the box and went inside. He took the Rolodex from the desk in his office and flipped to a number he hadn’t called in quite a while. He got voice messaging.

“This is Dr. Gray. I can’t take your call at the moment. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

Cork waited for the beep. “Faith, it’s Cork O’Connor. I know you get this all the time, but here goes. I need your help and I need it now.”

A summer storm moved in after dark, bringing a steady rain. Cork was preparing a night deposit slip at Sam’s Place when Dr. Faith Gray returned his call. It was 10:45 P.M.

“You sounded pretty desperate,” she said. “Are you all right?”

“Not really.”

“I’m at home if it’s an emergency.”

“I’d appreciate talking to you.”

“Come on over. I’ll leave the porch light on.”

Faith Gray lived four blocks from the O’Connor house, in a rambler painted light blue with yellow trim. She was a quirky homeowner, with no particular love of lawns. Her property was given over to hostas and planter boxes and rickety-looking trellis affairs without any apparent master plan. Sun catchers and medallions and odd, glittery bits hung on ribbons from the low branches of her trees. Here and there she’d stuck signs amid the foliage. The signs changed from time to time, depending upon the political season and the affairs of the world beyond Aurora, but they tended to praise peace and advocate justice and, in general, exhort people to follow a reasonable and compassionate path through the minefield of life.

Her porch light was on, as promised, and when Cork came out of the rain and mounted the front steps, she was already waiting at the door.

“Come in,” she said with a gracious smile.

She was tall, solid, big-boned, with lovely, long gray hair, a plain, angular face, and eyes the welcoming green of ivy leaves. “I’m having chamomile tea. Would you like some?”

“No thanks.”

“Suit yourself. Have a seat.”

Her living room contained almost as much foliage as her yard, and Cork took an easy chair next to a healthy rubber tree plant.

“You look nice,” he said.

She sat on the sofa, which was backed by a shelf of ferns. “A date.”

“Do I know her?”

“This is about you,” she said. “Talk to me.”

“I need to remember some things, Faith.”

“Okay.”

“Things from my past. From my childhood. I try to reach back, and it’s like everything is there except the one thing I’m trying to remember.”

“That’s not unusual. Our memories are protective that way.”

“It’s important that I remember this period.”

“Why?”

“Is this confidential? Doctor-patient?”

Faith Gray was a psychologist. During his tenure as sheriff of Tamarack County, Cork had brought her on as a consultant to work on psychological assessments of new hires and to help establish guidelines and regulations concerning such things as treatment for deputies involved in officer-related shootings. He liked her. More important, he trusted her.

“I’ll consider it so,” she replied. “And I’ll bill you for this session. I ought to warn you, I charge overtime.” In response to his blank stare, she offered a smile. “That’s a joke, Cork.”

On the street outside, a car went past, and the sound of tires on the wet pavement was a long, heavy sigh. Faith Gray waited.

Cork gathered himself and said, “It’s about the Vanishings.”

He didn’t tell her everything. He left out the parts that might incriminate anyone, and focused on those elements that were about his family, particularly Borkman’s accusation concerning his father’s infidelity. As evidence that there were things hidden, he also told her about the missing journal pages. He asked if she could maybe hypnotize him in order to help him remember what happened in the late, fateful part of the summer of 1964.

“I don’t hypnotize people, Cork. But what I can do is guide you through some relaxation techniques that may help you retrieve the memories yourself.”

“What do we do?”

“Why don’t you start by lying down?”

They exchanged places, and Cork, once he’d laid himself on the sofa, could smell the hot chamomile tea in the cup on the end table.

“Close your eyes, and listen to my voice. What I’m going to do is offer you some suggestions meant to help your body and your mind relax. They’ll all be very simple and very safe, all right?”

“I’m ready,” Cork said.

She began in a soft voice and had him focus on his toes, on being aware of each of them. Gradually she moved up his body, toward the top of his head, but as she was leading him ever so gently through the relaxation of his eyes, Cork suddenly found himself in the middle of the nightmare, watching his father fall to his death.

He jerked awake.

“What is it?” Gray asked.

“Sorry. I must have fallen asleep.”

“That happens sometimes.”

“I was dreaming. A nightmare.”

“Want to talk about it?”

He sat up and shook his head. “It was just a normal nightmare.”

“One you’ve had before?”

“Yes.”

“Often?”

“They began a little over a year ago.”

“Is it the same nightmare every time?”

“Not exactly.”

She sat patiently. Outside the window, rain dripped off the roof and hit the leaves of her yard plants with steady little slaps. Finally Cork told her. About how, when his father fell, it was in different ways, and how the nightmare repeated itself, and how, the second time around, he stood outside and watched himself push his father to his death.

“Just a normal nightmare?” she said. “Cork, dreaming that you had a hand in killing your father isn’t exactly your usual thing-that-goes-bump-in-the-night nightmare.”

“All right, what is it?”

“What kind of relationship did you have with your father?”

“He was a terrific father. I loved him.”

“Yet time and again you push him to his death.”

“Not because I didn’t love him.”

“Why then?”

“You’re the mind reader. You tell me.”

“Any conflicts with him?”

“Not that I remember. Although people I talk to lately tell me differently.”

“What do they tell you?”

“That I was kind of a shit toward him.”

“But you don’t remember that?”

“No. It’s part of all that stuff I can’t recall.”

“How old were you when he died?”

“Thirteen.”

“It could be Oedipal,” she said.

“What? I wanted him out of the way so that I could sleep with my mother? Right.”

She shrugged. “I’m not a big fan of Freudian interpretations either.”

“So what else?”

“How did he die?”

Cork explained the shoot-out at the bank and the vigil at the hospital.

“You were with him when he died?”

“Yes. My mother was there, too. Praying her heart out.”

“What about you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Were you praying your heart out?”

He shook his head and realized the headache he’d had most of the day was coming back, big-time. “I knew it was hopeless.”

“Why?”

“Because the doctor said so.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“Probably not. I wasn’t happy with God at that point.”

“Oh?”

“Didn’t believe him.”

“Any particular reason?”

“I’ve always thought it was my age.”

“Do you think it might have made a difference if you’d prayed?”

“Maybe. I suppose I’ve always wished I had.”

“So do you think it’s possible the root of the nightmare might be that you interpret not praying as pushing your father into his death?”

“I don’t need a nightmare to tell me that. I’ve always felt guilty and always wondered if I’d prayed like my mother would it have made a difference. I thought nightmares were about things you didn’t want to know about consciously.”

“Nightmares can be complicated and about more than a single thing. Our minds are pretty complex, and connections can be intricate. You told me that the nightmares began a little over a year ago. That would be shortly after your wife died, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Sometimes, Cork, when we see someone fall in our dreams, it may have to do with our own belief that we’re lacking an essential quality they possess or that we’ve let them down somehow.”

“But it was Jo I lost, not my father.”

“Do you believe your father would have saved Jo?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“Just a question. But I think it’s a relevant one, considering when the nightmares began.”

“Nobody could have saved Jo.”

“You sound a little angry.”

“There’s a lot going on. I’m kind of wound up.”

“I understand.”

She waited and watched him, and when she didn’t offer anything further, he blurted, “Look, it’s not about Jo, okay?”

“If you say so.”

He pulled himself back, tried to quell his inexplicable anger, and said, “So what else could it be about?”

“It’s possible the nightmare has to do with something very particular, something you don’t remember from that time you can’t recall.”

“If it is, what do we do about it?”

“The truth is that nothing is ever lost. It’s all in there somewhere,” she said, tapping her head. “It could take a long time to crack that nut, Cork, but I’m willing to help you try. If you call my office tomorrow, I’ll see when I can work you in.”

“A long time?” Cork closed his eyes and rubbed his throbbing temples. “I’ll think about it. Do I still have time on this hour?”

“Sure.”

“What do you know about psychopathy?”

“That depends on what you’re interested in.”

“Can it be inherited?”

“There’s a lot of research that points toward a genetic component.”

“People can be born bad?”

“‘Bad’ is a judgmental term. But I believe people may be born without a conscience, yes. Environment also plays an important part in shaping psychopathic behavior. What you’re talking about is generally referred to these days as dissocial or antisocial personality disorder, and psychopaths are generally referred to as antisocial personalities.”

“A rose by any other name,” Cork said. “They’re good at hiding who they really are, right? Like Ted Bundy?”

“They can be very good. They’re often bright, and although they don’t feel remorse or guilt or empathy the way most people do, they know how to mask that. There have been a number of famous cases in which serial killers were able to hide their activities from wives or husbands or parents. But just because someone might be diagnosed with this disorder, that doesn’t mean they’re dangerous like Ted Bundy was dangerous. These traits can make them very successful in competitive environments, like business or politics.”

“Are you saying our politicians are psychopaths?”

She smiled. “Some of them, probably. As were some of the great robber barons and industrialists, certainly.”

“But they didn’t kill people, at least not outright, not like Bundy or John Wayne Gacy. What makes someone do that?”

“We’re outside my comfort zone of knowledge here, Cork. If you’d like, I’ll do a little research on the subject. I know a couple of colleagues who are better versed in psychopathic behavior than I am. I’ll be glad to talk to them.”

“Thanks, Faith.” He stood up, prepared to leave.

“You’ll call tomorrow, make an appointment?”

“I’ll think about it seriously.”

But what he was really thinking was that he needed answers sooner than Faith Gray was going to be able to supply them.

It was still raining when he got home. As Cork stepped from the garage, Trixie poked her nose out the door of her doghouse and woofed. He freed her and let her in the house, gave her a fresh bowl of food and fresh water, took some Tylenol for himself, went out to the front porch, and sat on the swing. A few moments later, Trixie scratched at the screen, and Cork let her out so that she could join him.

They sat together while rain made everything that was illuminated by the streetlamps look liquid. The swing had been an important part of Cork’s life. He and Jo used to sit in it after the kids had finally gone to bed, and they’d talked about the things that parents and married people and longtime lovers discuss in quiet voices meant not to be overheard. He missed that. Missed Jo. Although his deep grieving had long ago ended, he still sometimes found himself feeling terribly sad and abandoned. His children were gone, establishing their own lives, and that was only natural. But where did it leave him? What was the road ahead for a man who was no longer a husband and was a father mostly at a distance?

Thinking of all these things brought him back to the question Faith Gray had posed earlier: Did he think his father might have saved Jo? It seemed like a question out of left field, but it had stung him, and he wondered now where his anger had come from. He wasn’t angry at Jo. He didn’t believe he was angry at his father. And although he’d snapped at her, he hadn’t been angry at Faith Gray.

“So who am I pissed at?” he asked aloud, putting the question to Trixie, who only looked up at him with her brown eyes and then nudged his hand to be petted.

At long last, Cork went back inside and headed upstairs to bed, where his only company for a long time had been his nightmares.