Blood Hollow

32

Next morning, Cork stopped by the YMCA early. He found Mal Thorne in the weight room, wearing finger gloves and working a heavy bag. The priest worked out this way several mornings a week, keeping himself in shape. He might not have been the athlete he was when he’d boxed at Notre Dame, but for a man in middle age, he was all right. He wore a sleeveless T-shirt, and his biceps were hard and round as river stones.

Mal stopped when he saw Cork watching him. He smiled and, with the back of the leather glove on his big right hand, wiped sweat from his brow.

“What’s up, Cork?”

“Got a minute?”

“Sure.”

The room smelled of warm weights and hot bodies and bench cushions that went too long between cleanings. Except for Mal and Cork, the place was empty.

“I’ve been thinking, Mal. About the graffiti Solemn spray-painted on the wall of St. Agnes. That Latin word.”

“Mendax.”

“Right. Liar. I’m pretty sure it was Charlotte Kane who put him up to it.”

The priest showed no surprise.

“Why do you suppose she did that?”

Mal laid a hand on the heavy bag, as if to keep it from swinging, which it wasn’t. “Search me.”

“Not even a guess?”

“Some people feel as if God has let them down, as if the promises of the Church are empty. I encounter that a lot.”

“Did you encounter it with Charlotte?”

“Maybe.”

“You’re hedging.”

“I was her priest, Cork.”

“And her confessor.”

“It’s the nature of the job.”

“Mal, Charlotte Kane exhibited behaviors that, in my understanding, are classic for a young woman who’d been sexually abused, probably on a long-term basis.”

The priest tugged off one of his gloves, and started on the other.

“It occurs to me that you’re also Fletcher Kane’s confessor.”

“I’m not going there with you, Cork. You know that anything told to me in confession is a sacred confidence.”

“I’m concerned. If he was sexually molesting his daughter, he may be trapped in a behavior pattern that threatens other young women.”

“I can’t help you, Cork.” A drop of sweat hung on the priest’s brow. It gathered weight, plummeted, splattered soundlessly on the wooden floor.

“Someone followed Annie home last night. Stayed to the shadows where she couldn’t see him clearly.”

“You think it was Kane?”

“Is there a reason I should?”

The priest looked away and didn’t answer.

“You know something about him and about Charlotte, don’t you?”

“Charlotte’s dead, Cork. Let the dead rest in peace.”

“I don’t think there’s going to be much peace here until we know the truth about her murder.”

The priest took a deep breath. “There’s only one truth of which I’m absolutely certain. That none of us is without sin.” He gave a final, ungloved blow to the heavy bag. “We’re done here.”

He walked away, leaving Cork wondering what it was the priest knew but wouldn’t say.

At the sheriff’s department, he found Cy Borkmann sitting in the chair that only a few days before had been occupied by Arne Soderberg.

“You look good there, Cy.”

“Hey, Cork,” Borkmann said, rising. “Come on in.”

They shook hands.

“How’s it going?” Cork asked.

“No complaints so far. Have a seat. By the way, that was some nice piece of work, connecting Arne with Charlotte Kane.”

“You know how it is. Sometimes you get lucky. Any idea how Arne’s doing?”

“Heard Lyla kicked him out. Me, I wouldn’t necessarily consider that punishment. Gooding told you about the rose petals.”

“Yeah.”

Borkmann shook his head and his wattle wobbled. “Swear to god, you could give Arne a bucketful of wishes and he’d find a way to turn it into a handful of horse crap.”

Cork smiled, then got serious. “Cy, somebody followed my daughter home last night. Scared her pretty bad.”

“Attacked her?”

“No. Stalked is more like it.”

“Did she see who?”

“It was too dark.”

“Let’s write up an incident report.”

“Hold on a minute. I’d like to run something by you. Just between you and me. Off the record.”

“Shoot.”

Cork told him about his discussion with the school psychologist. “From what I gather, Cy, behavior like Charlotte’s may well have been the result of long-term abuse. In all likelihood, it predated her involvement with Arne. I’m wondering about Fletcher Kane. I’m wondering what kind of relationship he really had with his daughter.”

Borkmann’s eyes saucered. He picked up a pen and made a brief notation on a scrap of paper on his desk.

“Listen, Cy,” Cork went on. “Glory Kane was the only one who could corroborate her brother’s alibi for the night of the murder. Don’t you find it a little odd that she disappeared the day after Charlotte was buried?”

“I don’t know that she disappeared. Headed off on some kind of trip, I understand.”

“Conveniently vague, don’t you think?”

“Maybe. Probably Arne never thought about tracking her down because she didn’t seem important to the case. I mean, we had Winter Moon right from the beginning.”

Cork leaned forward confidentially. “Understand I’m just asking a question here. But if Glory knew something or suspected something and Fletcher was afraid she might tell someone, what would he do? Do any of us really know him well enough to know what he’s capable of?”

“You saying he killed her? And that now he’s stalking Annie?”

“I’m not saying anything, Cy. I’m just thinking that if I were sheriff, it would sure be something I’d look into.” Cork sat back. “Do you know anything about Kane before he came to Aurora?”

“Enough.”

“Anything you can share?”

Borkmann thought it over. “Wait here.” He got up and left the room.

Cork went to the window. Another gorgeous June day. Although Solemn was no longer a prisoner in the jail, the hopeful still gathered in the little park across the street. Grover Buck had received his miracle, apparently. And Marge Schembeckler. But what about the boy in the wheelchair and all the others, those still waiting for what their faith had promised them?

Borkmann came back with a manila folder in his hand. “This is what we’ve got on Kane. Graduated magna cum laude from UCLA in seventy-four, from Stanford Medical School in seventy-eight. Joined the staff of the Worthington Clinic in Pomona, California, in eighty. Became head of the clinic in ninety. Invested well. Widowed four years ago. Retired and moved to Aurora. No criminal record.”

“That’s it.”

“Slew of awards for his work. Humanitarian guy. Gave his time to causes and such.”

“Where’d you get this information?”

“Gooding interviewed him.”

“Did Gooding check it out?”

“Not that I know of. The guy wasn’t under suspicion. Again, Arne figured he had Winter Moon dead to rights.”

“Look, Cy. I think Arne made a big mistake when he stopped looking beyond Solemn, but Arne wasn’t a cop. He didn’t think like you and I do. A cop would know better.”

“Sure,” Borkmann said. “Sure.”

“I’m working with Jo on Solemn’s defense, but what I really want, what we all want, is to nail the son of a bitch who murdered Charlotte Kane. I don’t believe for an instant that Solemn’s guilty. I’m going to keep digging. If I find out anything, I’ll share it with you. I’m hoping you’ll show me the same courtesy.”

“Well now, Cork, you know I can’t make any promises. But I’ll sure do my best to keep you in the loop.”

“That’s all I’m asking, Cy.” Cork stood up and reached his hand across the desk. “Nice doing business with you. Sheriff.” He grinned.