Mercy Falls

  “Escaping, Dad?” Ben said.

  “What needs taking care of is being seen to. Has there been any more word from Minnesota?”

  “Nothing from Dina.”

  “What about that yokel sheriff?”

  “There’s someone here you should meet,” Jacoby said.

  “I don’t want to meet anyone right now.”

  “This is Jo O’Connor. She’s the wife of Sheriff Corcoran O’Connor in Aurora.”

  The cigar reddened considerably. “When your husband has the murderer of my son in jail, Ms. O’Connor, I’ll gladly take back the yokel.”

  “I’m sure my husband is doing everything possible to make that happen.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I asked her, Dad. Her daughter’s applying to Northwestern. They came to see the campus.”

  Lou Jacoby took the cigar from his mouth and studied the long ash beyond the ember. “You know each other?”

  “I told you,” Jacoby said. “We went to law school together.”

  “That’s right.” He seemed to be putting it together now. “You were Eddie’s attorney in that town.”

  “Not exactly,” Jo said. “I represent the Iron Lake Ojibwe. Your son was trying to negotiate a management contract with their casino.”

  “That have anything to do with his murder?”

  “I can’t imagine that it did, but that’s really a question my husband should answer.”

  “Does he confide in you?”

  “Sometimes. In this, he’s told me nothing that you probably don’t already know.”

  He slipped the cigar back into his mouth, took a long draw, and sent out enough smoke to temporarily obscure his face. “Then I don’t really want to talk to you right now, Ms. O’Connor. You either, Ben boy. I’d rather just be alone.”

  “All right,” Jacoby said dutifully. He opened the French doors and waited for Jo.

  “Grief can be blinding,” Jo said, standing her ground. “But at some point, you’re going to have to take a good long look at the man Eddie was.”

  “You think I don’t know? Hell, I know all about my son.”

  “And loved him anyway,” Ben said bitterly.

  “I told you, I want to be alone.”

  Without another word, Jacoby strode back into the house. In the corner of the veranda, the cigar flared and little points of fire lit the old man’s eyes as he glared at Jo.

  “He’s got himself a little blond shiksa this time,” he said. “A shiksa with spine.”

  Jo turned and followed Jacoby.

  She caught up with him in another room where he’d stopped under a chandelier to speak with a black-haired beauty who had two young boys at her side. As Jo neared them, the woman looked her way.

  “Jo,” Jacoby said, “this is Gabriella. Eddie’s widow.”

  “How do you do?” Gabriella spoke softly and, like Tony Salguero, with a Spanish accent. She offered a tanned hand with nails red as rose petals. A diamond tennis bracelet sparkled on her wrist.

  “I’m sorry about your husband,” Jo said.

  “Ben told me you worked with Eddie in Minnesota.”

  “Not significantly.”

  “Mommy,” one of the boys said. He was perhaps five years old, with his mother’s black hair and fine face, his father’s insolent eyes. “I’m tired. I wanna go.”

  “Find your cousin Mark, play with him.”

  “Mark’s a dork,” the other boy said. Similar features, older by maybe a year, bored out of his skull.

  Gabriella smiled, leaned down, and kissed her son’s black hair. “Pobrecito,” she said. “Find your uncle George, then. He will entertain you.”

  The two boys wandered off, defeated.

  Gabriella turned back to Jo. “I’m sorry. Eddie kept business to himself, so I don’t know anything about what he was doing in Minnesota. I hope his death…” She hesitated. “I hope his death does not inconvenience you.”

  Inconvenience? Jo thought.

  “Excuse me, please.” Gabriella went in the direction her sons had gone.

  “She’s from Argentina,” Ben explained. “Her family have been clients for years, but the economy there is shot to hell. My father and her father made the arrangements for the marriage. Eddie sure got the better end of that deal. Poor Gabriella, she had no idea what she was getting herself into.”

  “Jo!”

  She turned as a woman swept toward her across the room. There was a bit of gray in her hair, a few lines at the edges of her mouth and eyes. Unlike so many of the other women Jo had seen that evening, she didn’t seem especially concerned about fighting time and age. She was smallish, a little round, and had a wry smile on her face. Although two decades had passed, Jo had no trouble recognizing Ben’s sister, Rae.

  “This is wonderful.” Rae threw her arms around Jo. “I can’t believe I’m seeing you again after all these years. How are you?”

  “Good. And you?”

  “Marvelous. Couldn’t be better.” She looked Jo over and shook her head as if in disbelief. “Twenty years and you’re still gorgeous. Come on, let’s go somewhere and sit down. I want to hear all about you.”

  “What about me?” Ben said.

  “Go have a drink, Benny. I’ll fetch you when I’m done with her.”

  Before they could move, from outside came the crunch of metal and the shatter of glass. People crowded the front windows, and someone called, “Ben, you better get out there.”

  Jacoby moved quickly. Jo and Rae followed.

  Outside, they found Phillip Jacoby standing beside a Jaguar that had plowed into one of the brick pillars that flanked the entrance to the drive. He was staggering a little but seemed unhurt. A woman, also unharmed, stood near him, her arms crossed as if she were cold.

  Phillip pointed at the pillar. “That damn thing’s been out to get me for years.”

  “You’ve been drinking,” his father said.

  “I’m still drinking.” He reached into the Jag and hauled out a bottle of Cuervo Gold. He put his arm around the waist of the woman, several years his senior, with brassy gold hair and dressed in a tight midnight-blue dress that was too skimpy for the cool evening, though it did advertise very nicely her wares.

  “This your place?” she said to Ben with a slur.

  Jacoby extended his hand. “Give me your keys, Phillip.”

  “Like hell.”

  “Give me your car keys. You’re in no condition to drive.”

  “My fucking car,” Phillip said.

  “My fucking insurance,” Jacoby shot back.

  “Come on, Phil baby,” the woman in the blue dress said. “This is a drag.”

  “Don’t worry, baby, we’re getting out of here.”

  He turned toward the Jag. Ben caught his arm, spun him, and used his son’s drunken disequilibrium to throw him to the ground, where he pinned him quickly with his knee against his chest. The young man struggled briefly, then gave in.

  “I’ll take those keys.” Jacoby reached into the pocket of his son’s pants and extracted a plastic Baggie and a key ring. He studied the Baggie.

  “Ecstasy? A parting gift from Uncle Eddie?”

  Phillip glared up at him, his eyes bloodshot, his nostrils wet with mucus. “Fuck you.”

  Ben stood up, taking his weight off his son. “Get up. I’m driving you back to campus. We’ll drop your friend wherever she wants.”

  Phillip picked himself up. He kicked at the bottle of tequila, which had fallen from his hand when his father tackled him. “I’ll walk.” He spun away and staggered from the drive into the street.

  His woman companion watched him go, then said in a quiet voice, “I don’t want to walk.”

  “I’ll call you a cab,” Ben told her.

  She seemed to realize how alone and out of place she was. She folded her arms across her thin body.

  “Why don’t you come inside and wait,” Rae said. She turned to Jo. “I’d love to talk, but this probably isn’t the best tim
e. Maybe lunch tomorrow?”

  “I’m at the zoo with the kids.”

  “What if I met you there?”

  “All right.”

  “What time?”

  “Eleven. At the sea lion pool.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Rae turned her attention to the woman, who’d made no move yet to go inside. “Come with me,” she said gently. “It’ll be all right.”

  Most of those who’d come out had, by now, returned to the house. The others followed Rae inside.

  Jo walked to Ben, who was inspecting the damage to the Jaguar.

  “I’ll give him a few minutes to cool down and sober up, then I’ll go after him.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t imagine this was the way the evening would end. I guess I’ve never been very good at endings, huh?”

  “Good night, Ben.”

  She kissed his cheek softly and left him standing beside the ruined car, looking toward the dark that had swallowed his son.

  33

  THEY MOVED ON Stone’s cabin after nightfall, before the moon rose. Cork, Larson, Rutledge, Willner, and a dozen deputies. They went silently, on foot, in armor, and carrying assault rifles, semiautomatic AR-15s. In the trees that crowded the dirt road, the black was almost impenetrable, but as they filed along the lake with the open sky above them, the ambient light of the stars lit their way. Ahead, the ridge behind Stone’s cabin cut a jagged silhouette against the star-dusted sky. Several of the men, including Cork and Larson, had night vision goggles. They crept single file up the rise that led to the cabin, which was completely dark. Cork put on his goggles.

  “His Land Rover’s there,” he whispered to Larson, who was donning his own goggles.

  Cork scanned the yard, empty except for the chopping block. He signaled and four deputies, with Morgan in charge, slipped along the edge of the trees outlining the yard and took up positions behind the cabin. Four others, led by Larson, spread themselves out in front undercover or in prone positions with a good line of sight. Rutledge and Willner stayed well back. Cork and the remaining deputies cautiously approached the front door.

  Unlike many Ojibwe on the rez and the rural people of Tamarack County in general, Stone kept no dog to bark a warning. This may have been because he was gone for long periods of time, disappearing into the Boundary Waters, and a dog would be neglected. Cork thought it might also have been that Stone was a man for whom companionship, even that of a dog, was not only unnecessary, it was unwanted. Whatever the reason, Cork was grateful for the absence of any animal that might sound an alarm.

  The curtains across the front window were drawn shut. There was no porch. He walked the hard ground silently and put his ear to the front door, listened for a full minute, then stepped back. Schilling and Pender readied the battering ram. On his signal, the two deputies splintered the pine boards.

  “Police,” Cork shouted and rushed in. He glanced left, right. The room, luminescent green through the goggles, was vacant. The bathroom door was open, showing only empty space. “The bedroom,” he said to the others, and motioned his deputies to flank the closed door.

  He stood off to the side. “Stone, this is Sheriff O’Connor. I have a warrant for your arrest. Come out now with your hands in the air.”

  They waited. Cork’s heart hammered in his chest. He wanted this to be over quickly and cleanly, without shooting, without blood.

  “Lizzie, are you in there?” he called.

  Still no response. Cork tried the knob. Although it turned, the door didn’t open. Latched from the inside. Pender and Schilling had come into the cabin. He motioned them into position to use the ram. On his signal, they swung it forward and sent the door tumbling off its hinges. Immediately, they fell back, out of the line of fire through the doorway. Cork waited again, ready for gunshots, but heard only the heavy breathing of his own men. He waved the deputies to follow and swung into Stone’s bedroom.

  The room was empty, the bed made, everything left in neat order like a hotel room awaiting the next guest.

  Cork unclipped the walkie-talkie from his belt. “All clear. Repeat, all clear. The chicken has flown the coop.”

  They drove the vehicles up from the county road and parked with the lights shining on the cabin. Cork and those in charge stood outside the glare. The moon wasn’t visible yet, but there was a strong glow coming from behind the eastern hills. It washed out the stars on the horizon.

  “Morgan’s certain no one came or left between our visit this afternoon and the raid,” Larson said. “The Land Rover’s still here. Wherever Stone’s gone, he’s on foot.”

  “Into the Boundary Waters,” Cork said. “I can almost guarantee it. He knows those woods.”

  “He can’t hide there forever,” Rutledge said.

  Cork shook his head. “Stone’s one of the few people who probably could.”

  “Maybe he’s trying to make it across the border into Canada.” Larson waved vaguely to the north. “Or slip out of the woods somewhere far away.”

  “And what? Start over?” Cork didn’t hide his skepticism.

  “What do you think, then?”

  “I’m not sure. None of this has made a lot of sense so far.”

  Dina Willner spoke up. “What about Lizzie Fineday?”

  Earlier, they’d checked with relatives and friends. No one admitted having any knowledge of her whereabouts. Cork believed Stone had lied that afternoon when he said she was gone.

  “I think we can assume he has her,” Cork said.

  “Why would he take her?” Rutledge asked.

  “I can think of at least three reasons. The best face to put on it would be that he’s trying to protect her. Or that he’s got a hostage if he’s cornered.”

  “You said three reasons,” Willner pointed out.

  “He might be thinking she’s the only witness against him in the shooting at the Tibodeau cabin and he’d rather not have her found. Period.” Cork turned to Larson. “Any word from Borkmann?”

  As soon as they were certain the area was secure, Cork had directed his chief deputy to drive to the North Star Bar, apprise Will Fineday of what was going on, and escort him to Stone’s place.

  “He’s on his way with Fineday. ETA fifteen minutes,” Larson said.

  The cough of a gas engine turning over hit the quiet of the night, and a moment later, the engine settled into a steady thrum.

  “Good,” Cork said. “Schilling’s got the generator going. Let’s get some lights on inside.”

  Larson started in that direction with Cork right behind him, but Morgan called to him from a cruiser, “Cork, it’s Bos on the radio for you,” and the sheriff turned back.

  “This is Cork. Go ahead.”

  “Sorry to take you away, Cork, but Jo just called. She’s been trying to get hold of you. She sounded worried.”

  An hour before hard dark, he’d tried to call her. He didn’t know what he might be walking into at Stone’s cabin, and he wanted to hear Jo’s voice, hear that the children were having a good time, that everyone was safe. Rose told him that Jo had gone out for the evening. A drink with Ben Jacoby. He’d chatted with his sister-in-law, then talked with each of his children. Jenny told him about her tour of Northwestern. Mr. Jacoby had arranged it, she said, had pulled strings. Cork told her that was a nice thing for him to have done. He told them all that he loved them, and at the end he thanked Rose for taking them in. “Should I have Jo call back?” she’d asked. “No,” Cork had replied. “Not necessary. Just tell her I love her.”

  Afterward, he’d thought darkly, Jacoby.

  “Any message, Bos?” Cork said over the radio.

  “She just asked that you call her back as soon as you can.”

  “Did you tell her anything about what’s going on up here?”

  “Not a word. Didn’t want her to worry. I told her you were on a late call. Routine.”

  “Thanks, Bos. Out.”

  Cork headed to the cabin where Dina Willner stood lookin
g through the door as Larson moved about carefully inside, trying not to disturb the scene any more than Cork and his men already had.

  “No sign she was ever here,” Larson said, adjusting his wire-rims. “Was she hiding, you think, when we came this afternoon?”

  It was a question with a hidden implication: that maybe Stone had already taken care of her for good, hidden the body somewhere, and cleaned away all trace of her presence.

  “I don’t know,” Cork said.

  He heard the cruiser coming up the road and headed down to meet it. Before Borkmann or Pender could exit the vehicle, Will Fineday was out and charging at Cork like an angry moose.

  “You found her?” he said.

  “Not yet, Will.”

  “I’ll kill him,” Fineday said. “I should have killed him the other day.”

  “When she ran, Will, why did she come here to Stone?”

  “She was scared, not thinking. Stone, he’s a son of a bitch, but everybody’s afraid of him. She thought he could protect her.”

  “From what?”

  “You guys. She didn’t want to talk to cops.”

  “We know she was in the SUV with Jacoby the night he was killed. Was it Jacoby who bruised her face?”

  “The son of a bitch. When I found out, I wanted to kill him.”

  “Did you?”

  It was clear Fineday understood the direction this was going. Cork could see the struggle in the man’s head and his heart. The truth might land him a view cut by iron bars, but it might also save his daughter.

  “You went to Mercy Falls that night, didn’t you, Will?” Cork said it quietly, and not as an accusation.

  The threads—fear, distrust, prejudice—that had held him from speaking finally snapped and he nodded. “He was already dead when I got there, lying on the ground, blood everywhere. Somebody had cut his balls off, too. Shame. I wanted to do that myself.”

  “Did Lizzie kill Edward Jacoby?”

  “No, but I’d’ve understood if she did. The asshole beat her and raped her.”