Blood Hollow

28

Near closing time at Sam’s Place that evening, Cork got a call from Jo. Oliver Bledsoe had just stopped by to inform her that the Iron Lake Ojibwe had decided to bail Solemn out of jail.

A few minutes later, Bledsoe himself drove up in his gray Pathfinder, got out, and leaned through the serving window. “Got a minute, Cork?”

Annie was cleaning up, and she told her dad to go ahead. Cork stepped outside and walked with Bledsoe to the edge of the lake. The water and the sky were twins, both of them black in the east but silver along the western edge where there was still the faint ghost of daylight. The air was breathless, the water dead calm.

Bledsoe wore black Dockers, a white, short-sleeved shirt, and a string tie with a turquoise slide. His hair, like the night, was a mix of black and silver. He put his hands in his pockets and looked out at the water. “I’ve been authorized to arrange bail for Solemn.”

“I know. Jo called me. When will you spring him?”

“We’ll have the money tomorrow.”

Casino money, Cork knew. He wondered if word of Soderberg had got out, and was that the reason for the change of heart.

“Why?” he asked.

“A lot of support for Solemn on the rez, what with these miracles and all.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“I knew his uncle. About as good a man as I’ve ever known. Solemn, I don’t know except by reputation, which, quite frankly, isn’t good.” Bledsoe shrugged. “Maybe all those years I spent on Franklin Avenue listening to the stories of drunks, Shinnobs and otherwise, have made me a poor audience for this kind of thing. I can’t help thinking that Solemn’s worked a sleight of hand somehow.” He glanced at Cork. “But you know him better. What do you think?”

“He’s never claimed to be a part of the miracles. He just claims he talked with Jesus.”

“Not that anyone’s asking my advice, but I’d say it’s not a bad idea to hold on to a little skepticism where Solemn’s concerned.” He turned back toward the parking lot. “If you don’t mind, I’d like you there tomorrow when he gets out. It could be a zoo.”

Cork nodded. “Just let me know when.”

As he drove home that night with Annie in the seat beside him, he considered what Bledsoe had said. That it was a good idea to hold on to a little skepticism where Solemn was concerned. Cork let that piece of advice roll around in his thinking.

He’d found Charlotte’s married lover, but he didn’t believe that he’d found her killer. At the moment, he had no obvious suspects. Except Solemn. Who had a motive, an opportunity, no alibi, and toward whom all the evidence seemed to point. Cork wondered if he’d simply been fooled? Was it possible he’d allowed himself to believe what he preferred to believe, against all evidence to the contrary?

“You’re sure quiet,” Annie said.

“Just thinking,” Cork said.

Like a cop, he thought dourly.

Bledsoe called early the next morning and spoke with Jo before she left for the office. The plan was to post bail at ten so that Solemn would be released well before noon, which was when the crowd in the park usually began to swell. Bledsoe hoped to convince the sheriff to help spirit Solemn away without a lot of fanfare.

Dorothy Winter Moon was already waiting at the sheriff’s office when Cork and Jo arrived. She’d done herself up like a rodeo queen in cowboy boots, tight jeans, and red snap button shirt.

“I don’t know if this is a good idea,” she said. “People know where we live. They’ll just make life miserable for Solemn and for me. At least here, things are under control.”

Cork had the same concern, but he made a suggestion. “Maybe he should stay at Sam’s old cabin for a while, Dot. Until this is over and things quiet down.”

“If he’ll go,” she said. “I don’t know what to expect from him anymore.”

Marsha Dross had taken them into the sheriff’s office to wait. A few minutes later Randy Gooding stepped in.

“Folks, things are a little up in the air at the moment,” he said. “The problem is that we’re temporarily without a sheriff. Arne Soderberg turned in his resignation an hour ago.”

That didn’t surprise Cork. “Seems to me,” he said, “protocol dictates that the most senior officer assume temporary responsibility as sheriff until the county commissioners appoint a replacement.”

“That’s right,” Gooding said.

Cork thought a moment. “Cy Borkmann.”

Goodman nodded. “Cy.”

The wattle-throated deputy. A nice man, a competent officer. But sheriff?

“Where is he?” Cork asked.

“That’s part of the problem. He has the day off. Took his wife down to Duluth for some hospital tests. So…”

“No one is officially in charge.” Cork summed it up.

“That’s about the size of it.”

“It’s all process,” Cork said. “Bail is posted, prisoner released. Doesn’t matter whether we have a sheriff present.”

“What about getting Solemn home safely?” Dot asked.

“We’ll do our best to get him to a vehicle, but after that, it’s out of our hands,” Gooding said.

Bledsoe and the paperwork arrived about fifteen minutes later. “There’s something going on out there,” he told Gooding. “I think they know about Solemn.”

Gooding went to the window and looked toward the park across the street. “Jeeze, you’re right. They’re swarming this way.”

“We should probably take Solemn out the back,” Cork said. “Keep him out of sight of the crowd altogether.”

Gooding stepped to the office door. “Marsha, see if we’d have any interference taking Winter Moon out the back emergency exit. Pender, go out front and keep the crowd away from the front door.”

“Who put you in charge?” Pender snapped.

To which Dross, as she departed on her errand, replied, “Just do it, Duane.”

Gooding turned back to the others in the sheriff’s office. “Cork, if it’s clear in back, why don’t you go out and bring your Bronco around. Dot, Jo, it might be best if you just stayed put for a while. You, too, Ollie.”

Dross came back and stood in the doorway. “The coast is clear in back.”

A general buzz had begun outside the opened window, voices rising, and Cork left the office quickly.

Deputy Pender stood on the sidewalk, facing the crowd that pressed toward the jail, his hands on his hips, fists against the leather of his gun belt. As Cork stepped into the late morning sunlight, he saw Pender lift his right hand and hold it up, as if he were trying to halt traffic at a busy intersection. His left hand went to his lips, and he gave a long shrill blast on a metal whistle.

The crowd, as it milled its way across the street and onto the grass of the sheriff’s department, reminded Cork of cattle crossing a road. At the sound of Pender’s whistle, those near the forefront did, indeed, attempt to halt, but they were pushed ahead by those behind.

Pender gave three more whistle blasts. At last, the forward movement stopped.

“Go back to the park,” Pender shouted. “I want everyone to move back across the street to the park.”

The sugar-cinnamon smell of minidonuts drifted ahead of the crowd. Yellow balloons on long white strings bobbed above their heads. Somewhere near the back, a boom box was playing “Horse with No Name.”

“Move back,” Pender said. “I’m not going to warn you again.”

The front line held.

Cork figured it was a good time to get his ass out of the way. He slipped behind Pender and headed across the grass to the parking lot. No one seemed to pay him any attention. All eyes were intent on Pender.

“Winter Moon,” someone yelled. “We want Winter Moon.”

“Let him out!”

“Let us see him!”

“Free Solemn!”

Free Solemn. They’d found the cry, and it went up in a chorus, from mouths that had never personally spoken a word to Solemn Winter Moon.

Cork drove out of the parking lot and turned away from the crowd that acted as a barricade across the street. He maneuvered around the block and pulled to the curb at the back of the building. The cell phone on the seat beside him chirped.

“How’s it look?” Gooding asked.

“Clear,” Cork said.

“Ten-four. We’re coming out.”

No sooner had Gooding hung up than Cork spotted a few people edging around the corner of the building. Among them were the Warroad couple with their wheelchair-bound son. Why they’d broken away from the crowd up front, Cork couldn’t say, but there was nothing he could do about it now except hope that he was able to get Solemn away before anything serious occurred.

The couple wheeled their son toward the Bronco, coming as if they knew what was happening. Behind them, the other few who’d deserted the crowd hung back, their gazes shifting back and forth between the wheelchair and the crush of people up front.

The rear door of the building opened. Gooding came out, escorting Solemn, who’d changed from his county uniform into jeans and a white T-shirt. Twenty yards of open ground lay between them and the Bronco. They’d taken only a few steps when a cry went up from the people who’d stationed themselves at the building’s corner, and the rush was on.

The Warroad couple arrived first, thrusting the wheelchair and its precious occupant between Solemn and the safety of the Bronco.

“Please,” the woman said. She grabbed Solemn’s hand. “Heal my son.” She tugged at his arm, pulling him toward the boy. Her husband tried to grasp Solemn’s other arm, but Gooding interfered.

“Move away, folks,” he ordered. “Let this man through.”

“Please,” the woman said.

Solemn could not ignore her desperation. He looked down at the boy whose tongue hung from his mouth, whose eyes roamed, whose hands were locked in a vicious grip that held nothing.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked.

Cork heard the noise of the crowd rounding the corner of the building. “Get in, Solemn,” he shouted.

Solemn’s eyes had not left the boy. “What do you want me to do?”

“Lay your hands on him,” the woman said. “Touch him.”

The first of those who’d given the cry neared Solemn. Gooding put himself between them and Winter Moon.

“Stay back,” he shouted. “That’s a police order.”

It made them pause only a moment.

Solemn reached out and laid both his hands on the boy’s head. He looked at the woman, his dark eyes full of doubt. “Like this?”

The flood of people swept into view. The sound of their coming triggered those already near Solemn, and those anxious few shoved past Gooding. Solemn lost his grip on the boy and stumbled toward the Bronco. He slipped into the backseat and slammed the door as two bodies hurled themselves against it. Cork hit the power lock, put the Bronco into gear, and drove away from the wave of faithful sweeping around Gooding.

Two blocks distant, he finally asked over his shoulder, “You okay?”

Solemn didn’t reply.

Cork glanced in the mirror, and saw behind him the face of a terrified man.

The whole distance to Sam Winter Moon’s old cabin Solemn didn’t say a word. Cork parked in the shade of the pine trees and got out. Solemn moved like an old man, slowly and in a daze. When he was out of the vehicle, he stood and stared at the cabin.

“I’ll bring you whatever you need,” Cork said.

“I touched him. Nothing happened.”

“What did you expect?”

Solemn shook his head. “I told you they were looking for something I couldn’t give them.”

“I know, Solemn.”

“It’s gone.”

“What?”

But Solemn didn’t say. He walked toward the cabin and went inside alone.

Fifteen minutes later, Dot drove up in her blue Blazer. Jo followed in her Toyota.

“Where is he?” Dot looked toward the cabin. “Inside?”

Cork nodded.

“How’s he doing?” Jo asked.

“Pretty shaken.”

“You need anything, Dot?”

“No.” She took Jo’s hand, and Cork’s, and thanked them. “Migwech.” She went inside to be with her son.

“Anybody follow you?” Cork asked.

“No. They were all too confused, I think. It was pretty crazy back there.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Cork, I saw Fletcher Kane. He was standing across the street, watching when Dot and I left the building.”

“What was he doing there?”

“I don’t know, but he didn’t seem happy.” Jo looked at the old cabin where Dot and Solemn had sought refuge. “Do we need to do anything here?”

“I don’t know what it would be. Let’s go home.”