Copper River

  “Not even that.”

  “Look, I can understand the need for privacy, but her father’s been murdered and we’re going out of our minds with worry.”

  “Oh, my.” Mary Hilfiker looked very hard at her face and at Ren’s, as if trying to find a crack in their sincerity. Jewell saw something change in her aspect. She relaxed just a little and kindness softened her eyes.

  “If I told you she was okay, it would be a tacit admission that she’s here, and that’s privileged information. Do you see?”

  Ren said, “It’s awful quiet. Is anybody here?”

  The thread of a smile appeared as she glanced down at him. “Although we operate what is essentially a residential program, our clients are required to leave every morning. They’re gone to jobs or school all day. They return for dinner and a bed.”

  “All of them leave?” Jewell asked.

  “Yes.”

  “But they can’t all have jobs or be going to school.”

  “No, not all.”

  “And the others?”

  “They go where kids without homes go to hang out.”

  “Back on the streets.”

  “Generally, yes.”

  “Do you know where Charlie hangs out?” Ren inquired hopefully.

  “No.”

  “If she were to come back this evening, what time would she be here?”

  The woman seemed to weigh her response, then said, “I’m not going to tell you that.”

  “I’m not trying to be difficult,” Jewell said with a prickle of irritation. “I’m just worried.”

  “I understand. And I hope you understand my position. People come here all the time looking for children they’ve abused. They’re sorry for what they’ve done, genuinely sorry. More contrite people you can’t imagine. But the fact is that those who’ve abused will generally continue to do so. Or they come insisting they’re concerned relatives or friends, looking for children who, in actuality, they’ve recruited as prostitutes or runners or whatever.” Her hands finally moved from her side and she held them out, empty and entreating. “You seem respectable, concerned, but put yourself in my shoes. Would you want to take the risk of delivering a child into the hands of someone who’d mistreat her?”

  “Can’t you tell us anything?” Ren said. “She’s my best friend.”

  “I’m sorry—Ren, is it? Honestly, my hands are tied. Especially now, in light of what you’ve told me about her father.”

  “Would you do us a favor?” Jewell said. “If you see Charlie, just let her know that Jewell and Ren came by and that we’re concerned. Could you do that?”

  “If I see her, I will.”

  “Thank you.”

  Jewell took her hand and this time felt a strong grip in return.

  Outside, Ren said, “That’s it?”

  They stood in the sun on the sidewalk, between the blooming marigolds. Late in the season as it was, honeybees still buzzed around the blossoms. They were weightless insects, yet the strong wind didn’t seem to affect them as they went about their careful, important business. In her son’s face, Jewell saw frustration and fear. Where was Charlie?

  “Let’s try something else. Follow me,” she said.

  She led the way to the sloping backyard and walked across the grass to the carriage house.

  “What are you doing?” Ren asked.

  “Delmar Bell lives here.”

  “He’s one of the guys who’s always drinking beer with Charlie’s dad. I thought he was a trucker or something.”

  “He used to be. The company went bankrupt. Now he’s the caretaker for Providence House. Keeps the grounds and building in order.”

  “I don’t like him,” Ren said.

  “The truth is, neither do I, Ren. But maybe he can help us out here.”

  She didn’t know much about Charlie’s interactions with Providence House, but she knew that it began as a result of Delmar Bell. He’d done some running himself when he was a kid, trying to escape a father who never spoke to him in anything but anger and never offered his hand in anything but a fist. There were rumors of even worse things going on at the Bell house. Delmar had always been a little scary, but he’d never been in any serious trouble. He’d been the one who suggested to Charlie that when Max was hitting the booze and things seemed shaky at the trailer in Bodine, she might try the shelter. Max Miller had told Jewell this with a full measure of gratitude toward Bell, because when he was sober he appreciated the idea that Charlie had someplace to go when he wasn’t.

  The door opened quickly to her knock and Bell stuck his head into the sunlight. Jewell remembered that as a kid he’d had fine yellow hair like a dandelion, but he’d long ago gone mostly bald. Now he kept his head shaved, showing a skull rusty with freckles. His eyes were the earthy brown-green of dead moss. He looked surprised to see Jewell, and then he saw Ren and looked confused as well.

  “Hey, Del,” Jewell said brightly.

  He stepped fully into the doorway and the sun struck him hard. He was small, but strong in the way of someone who’d spent long hours in a gym grunting under weights. He wore a white sleeveless T-shirt, faded jeans, and a pair of Adidas stained green from the yard grass.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “Looking for Charlie.”

  “Oh.” He nodded in a knowing way. “Max on the sauce again?”

  “It’s a little more complicated than that, Del. He’s dead.”

  “Naw.” Delmar grinned as if it were a joke. Then he saw she wasn’t kidding. “Jesus. How?”

  “Somebody broke his head open with a baseball bat.”

  “When?”

  “Last night. Charlie’s missing. We were wondering if she came here.”

  His fine, feathery eyebrows dipped together. “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Del, I just want to know if she’s okay, that’s all.”

  His dead moss eyes flicked toward the back of Providence House. “Check up there.”

  “We did. They wouldn’t tell us anything. But they don’t know me.”

  “Christ, Jewell.”

  “Just a yes or no, Del. Was she here last night?”

  He sucked in a breath and puffed out his cheeks. He eyed the house again, then offered reluctantly, “As far as I know, she hasn’t been here. And I’d know because I see all the kids at breakfast before they leave.”

  “Would you do me a favor?”

  “What?”

  “If she comes tonight, give me a call.”

  “I can’t. No. Absolutely not. If they found out, they’d can my ass in a New York minute. I like this job, Jewell. Hell, I need this job.”

  “What time do they open the door to the kids?”

  “Four-thirty. Look, you gotta go.” He cast a fearful glance toward the house and shut his door.

  Jewell walked away not wanting to cause Delmar trouble if she could help it. Ren followed her to the Blazer and they got in. She slid the key into the ignition and heard in her son’s silence unspoken censure.

  “I don’t know what else to do,” she said.

  “We could look for her?”

  “Where? I’m open to ideas, kiddo.”

  Ren tapped his chin with his index finger, a gesture Jewell was sure he was unaware of but one he often employed when thinking deeply. It was a Daniel thing, something Ren had unconsciously copied from his father. At last he gave a hopeless shrug. “I don’t know.”

  “We could spend all day in Marquette and still not find her. What if we head home and come back at four-thirty to see if she shows up at Providence House?”

  She could tell from the scowl on his face that it wasn’t what he’d prefer, and she gave him time to consider an alternative to offer. Finally he said, “Okay.”

  In the Blazer, Jewell turned them toward Bodine.

  Ren dropped his hands to his lap, hunched his shoulders, and climbed back into himself and his silence.

  16

  Dina said, “Someone’s comin
g.”

  Cork looked up from the table where he’d been making notes on a small tablet. “Can you see who?”

  She stood at the door of Thor’s Lodge, looking through the screen toward the resort road. “Not yet. Too many trees. It doesn’t sound like the Blazer.”

  “Close the door.”

  She did, and walked to the window where she drew the curtain slightly aside. Cork came out of his chair and hobbled up beside her. She’d taken a shower and smelled of soap and lavender shampoo. They watched a mud-spattered Jeep pull into the lane between the cabins and stop. The man who eased himself from behind the wheel was wide and powerful looking, a refrigerator wearing Nikes. He had on a blue windbreaker with the Northern Michigan University crest on the front, and a blue and silver ball cap with LIONS above the bill. His jaw line was thick with black stubble like a heavy smear of ash. He eyed Dina’s car, then approached Jewell’s cabin. Dina carefully let the curtain drop into place and they waited silently while the big man knocked at the door.

  “Jewell?” he called. “Ren? Anybody home, eh?”

  Dina tossed a glance at Cork, asking if they should answer the door. He shook his head. They heard the porch creaking under the man’s weight, then the groan of each wooden step as he descended.

  With her finger, Dina carefully parted the curtains again. A thin, bright blade of light cut across her face as she peeked out. Cork watched her eyes track to the left.

  “He’s standing in the road,” she reported in a whisper. “Scratching his jaw, looking around. Now he’s walking again.”

  “To his Jeep?”

  “No.” She watched. “Toward the shed.”

  “My car,” Cork said.

  “I’m on it.” She moved quickly to the door and was out before Cork could respond.

  The plates on the Jeep were Michigan. The spattered mud around the wheel wells and the patina of back-road dust that coated the finish seemed to indicate a local. That and the fact that the man had called Jewell and Ren by name. Cork didn’t think he was on Lou Jacoby’s payroll, but he didn’t want to be careless. Except for the fact that the tube and bag taped to his leg would have been hard to explain, he would have preferred to be out there with Dina.

  He limped to the guest room. In the closet he found boxes that held men’s clothing, Daniel’s probably. Cork located a pair of folded jeans and checked the size tag: 36 × 32. His waist was a 34, but the length was right. He sat on the quilt-covered bed and pulled his shoes off, then undid his bloody khakis. He slipped the belt free and let his pants slide to the floor. Gingerly maneuvering the left pant leg over the tube and bag, he eased himself into Daniel’s jeans. He buttoned, zipped, and belted himself, then put his shoes back on. All this he did with great discomfort, endured with a stream of muffled groans.

  He decided to leave the cane Jewell had given him earlier. He would do his best to walk normally. By the time he stepped onto the cabin porch, however, he was already breathing heavily. In the sunlight near the shed, Dina was in conversation with the visitor. They both looked his way, squinting into the sun as he came. The wind was up, strong, and it pushed at his back, making him work even harder to walk normally. He took his time, a man on vacation, perhaps, with a tight but cordial smile glued to his lips.

  “Morning,” he said brightly.

  “Howdy,” the big man said.

  “What can we do for you?” Cork asked.

  Cork saw immediately that the big man noticed details. Most people focused on faces and missed other things, but the man’s eyes had already traveled the length of Cork’s body, lingering a moment over the unnatural lump on the inside of his pant leg. With luck, the guy would think he was simply well endowed.

  “I was just telling Mr. Johnson that we’re visiting awhile with Jewell,” Dina said. She crossed her arms as if the wind were chilling her.

  “Call me Gary, please. And you said you were visiting. Didn’t say anything about this fella, eh.”

  Cork kept the smile on his face, though his leg was killing him. “Looking for Jewell?”

  “Ren actually. I just came from the Miller place, from talking with Ned Hodder.”

  “You a cop?” Cork asked, thinking that would explain the eyes that didn’t miss much.

  “A newspaperman. I publish the Marquette County Courier. Old friend of Jewell’s. Like you. You know, I still haven’t caught any names here.”

  “We haven’t thrown any,” Dina replied.

  “I’ll bet you’re Ren’s aunt. Donna Walport, right?”

  “If I am?”

  He offered a smile that seemed genuine. “Ned said you were there with Ren, helpful, like you were his lawyer or something.”

  “If it’s Ren you want to talk to, Gary, he’s not here.”

  He ran a huge knuckle over the stubble of his cheek. The wind pulled at his hair. “He’s okay, though, right? I mean, it must’ve been awful, what he saw. Look, I’m not just asking as a newspaperman. Like I said, old friend of the family.”

  “I’d rather not say anything without Ren or Jewell here. You understand.”

  He held up his hands in surrender. They looked like they could pulverize bricks. “This is all off the record, eh. You have my promise.”

  “I hope you’ll forgive me, Gary,” Dina said evenly, “but I don’t know you well enough to know the quality of that statement. And I hope you understand that as friends of the DuBois family ourselves we’re reluctant to say anything that might cause them any trouble.”

  Johnson shifted his focus toward Cork, who simply smiled and shrugged.

  “Are they looking for Charlie?” Johnson asked. “Is that where they’ve gone?”

  “We can’t comment on that,” Dina said.

  For a very brief moment, the man looked perplexed, balanced at the edge of irritation. Then a broad smile cracked his face and his great cheeks drew back and he barked out a laugh.

  “I can see you’ve dealt with reporters before, eh. I swear, everybody should have a relative like you.”

  “Mind if I ask you a couple of questions, Gary?” Dina smiled, with just a hint of the coquette. Oh boy, here it comes, Cork thought. “Do you know Charlie Miller?”

  “In a small town, everyone knows everyone.”

  “The Marquette sheriff’s people consider her a suspect.”

  “That’s because they don’t know Charlie,” Johnson said.

  “He liked to drink, I understand. When he did, Charlie had to make herself scarce.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Anyone ever intervene?”

  “Charlie took care of herself, eh.”

  “Right. And good neighbors don’t interfere.”

  The bitterness in her voice was acid. About her own life, the early years especially, Cork knew little. She’d once let slip that she left home young and never looked back. Cork realized that although she didn’t know Charlie, she might understand her quite well.

  Johnson’s broad face twitched in an uncomfortable way. “Look, any idea when they’ll be back?”

  “None,” Dina said.

  He pulled a hand-tooled leather wallet from his back pocket and plucked out a business card. “I’d appreciate it if you’d let Jewell know I was here and that I’d like to talk with Ren as soon as possible. And just a heads-up, eh. I’m only the first. The Mining Journal, Marquette’s newspaper, will be sending out reporters, too, I’m sure.”

  “We’ll keep that in mind,” Dina said.

  They stood in the wind while Gary Johnson lumbered back to his Jeep, turned the vehicle around, and headed away, waving to them briefly as he passed.

  When the Jeep was out of sight, Dina turned to Cork. Her eyes had darkened to a green the color of an angry sky before hail. “What the hell were you thinking? That I couldn’t handle some hick reporter by myself? Just how dumb are you, limping out here like a wounded I-don’t-know-what? What if he turned out to be somebody on Jacoby’s nickel? Think he wouldn’t know exactly what you look like? And no
w he’d know exactly where you are. That was stupid on so many levels, I don’t even know where to begin.”

  “I think you’ve made a good start,” Cork said. “I’ve got to sit down. My leg is killing me.”

  As he turned to the cabin, his leg gave out and he faltered. Dina slipped under his arm, and he leaned into her for support.

  “He wasn’t one of Jacoby’s people,” Cork said.

  “How can you be sure?”

  “He’s definitely local. A lot of ways to tell a Yooper. Speech, for one. You pick up on that ‘eh’ of his?”

  “Canadian, I thought.”

  “Yooper, too.”

  “He’s a reporter, and reporters are usually trouble,” Dina grumbled.

  Cork limped a few steps with Dina nestled in the crook of his arm, the bone of her shoulders his good support. “Anybody ever tell you you’re pretty when you’re mad?”

  “Just shut up,” she said, “and keep walking.”

  17

  They drove into Bodine from the south, the way they always came from Marquette. Ren stared out the window, his eyes sliding over Wyler’s Greenhouse, Pruitt’s Antiques, and Superior Lanes, the town’s bowling alley. It was all familiar territory. The same place it had always been. The geography hadn’t changed, but something had.

  As they crossed Calumet Street, he looked automatically to the west. Not far away stood the small trailer where, over the years, he had watched hours of television, played a lot of Risk, built a go-kart from the junk in the backyard, and straddled his bike under the maple trees while he talked with Charlie before hitting the long road home. And where that morning he’d found a man dead.

  As they skirted the harbor area, his mother said, “Lots of folks down near the pier. Is something special going on today, Ren?”

  He didn’t know and told her so.

  “You’ve been quiet the whole way back,” she said.

  “Just thinking.”

  “We’ll find her, Ren. She’s somewhere and she’s fine.” She smiled encouragement.

  Which was something Ren couldn’t remember coming from her in a long time. This was his old mom, the one who’d been around before his father died, who’d taught him silly songs—It was a one-eyed, one-horned flying purple people eater—who’d dressed like a were-wolf one Halloween with a furry face and fake fangs and won first prize at the community center party, and who, while Ren watched, had once pulled a lamb, wet and quivering, from the body of a dead ewe and cradled it gently in her arms as if it were her own child.