“Uncle Erno showed it to us years ago. He said that when the apocalypse came, we could join him there. I always thought he was a little crazy.”

“Do you happen to have a photo of your brother?”

She didn’t answer right away. She seemed lost in her anger and fear.

“Ms. Boyle?”

“What? Oh, a photo of Matt? Maybe. But nothing recent. Wait here.”

He thought about what he knew of Irene Boyle’s past, the difficulty of having a woman like Erno Paavola’s sister, a bitter, vindictive drunk, for a mother, the swamp of an alcoholic marriage, and finally getting clear and creating a decent life for herself. But now, if in fact her brother had something to do with the death of Olivia Hamilton and the woman buried in the blueberry patch, that life was about to come crashing down around her like shattered glass.

She returned with her cell phone and showed Cork a photograph. Her brother was smiling and holding up a piece of cake. “That was on his birthday three years ago. I haven’t taken a photo of him since. We haven’t really been in communication for a while.”

“This will do, thanks. Will you send it to me?” Cork waited while she texted him the photo. “If he gets in touch with you, would you let me know?” He handed her one of his business cards. “And encourage him to turn himself in. Authorities at every level are going to want to talk to him.”

“I can’t believe he would have anything to do with harming that girl. He’s always been a little different, but not dangerous.”

Cork thought about saying something comforting, like I hope you’re right. But, in truth, he hoped it was as simple as it was beginning to seem.

It was late afternoon by the time Cork returned to Aurora. Even though the sun was low in the sky, the air was still hot and humid. He parked his Expedition in the lot of the Tamarack County Sheriff’s Department. The deputy at the contact desk let him through. Marsha Dross wasn’t alone in her office. Agent Danette Shirley was there, along with Theresa Lee, the forensic anthropologist.

“Theresa,” he said with surprise and genuine delight. “I hope we don’t have more bodies that need to be exhumed.”

She got up from her chair and they shook hands. “Marsha asked me to examine the body found in the blueberry patch,” Lee said.

“And?” Cork said.

“Female. Probably late teens. Probably Native.”

“Which pretty much confirms what Waaboo told us,” Cork said.

Dross said, “Look, Cork, I’m not going to proceed with this investigation based on the supposed vision of a seven-year-old boy.”

“You don’t believe in visions?” Agent Shirley asked.

“I didn’t say that. Just that visions have no place in how we conduct a criminal investigation. Visions don’t stand up in court.”

“Maybe it’s because I’m Lakota, but I wouldn’t mind having Waaboo with me every time I investigate a missing Native girl,” Agent Shirley said. “So often, there’s nothing to go on.”

“And there are so many,” Theresa Lee added in a weary tone.

“And the jurisdictional issues, which are so complicated, get things all balled up,” Agent Shirley said, just as wearily.

“Even when we find a body, despite all our best efforts, it often goes unidentified,” Theresa Lee said, finishing in a tone that rang with defeat.

“I can give you a piece of information that might be helpful in our case,” Cork said. “It came from Waaboo, something he sensed.” He looked at Dross. “If you’re okay with this kind of lead, Marsha.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Waaboo said she told him her name is Tacicala.”

“Tacicala?” Agent Shirley said. “That’s Fawn in the Lakota language.”

“Exactly,” Cork said.

“So she might not be Ojibwe.” Agent Shirley took a notepad and pen from her purse and jotted something down.

“Do we have any idea how the Olivia Hamilton investigation is going?” Cork asked.

“A warrant to search Mathias Paavola’s apartment is in the works,” Dross told him.

“I don’t think they’ll find him there,” Cork said.

“Why not?”

Cork explained about his visit.

“You went there without authorization and broke in?” Dross said.

“I’m not a cop. I don’t need authorization. And I didn’t break in. Like I said, the landlady gave me a key.”

“And you think someone forced him to leave?”

“That’s sure how it looked to me. But I could be wrong. I also made a visit to his sister.”

Agent Shirley shook her head. “My FBI and BCA colleagues aren’t going like it one bit that you jumped the gun on them.”

“The early bird gets the worm, Danette.”

“And what was the worm?” Dross asked.

“Irene Paavola claims she hasn’t seen or heard from him.”

“Cork,” Theresa Lee said. “Could I talk to Waaboo?”

“The little guy’s been through a lot the last couple of days. Why do you want to talk to him?”

“I’d like to do everything I can to help identify the girl in the blueberry patch. Maybe help bring some closure to her family. It would be…” She seemed to search for the right word, the right explanation. She finished simply, “It would be helpful to me. Do you understand?”

“I think I do,” Cork said. “But I’ll have to ask Jenny.”

“Of course. Thank you.”

It was late in the day when he headed home, the trees flaming with the last red-orange light of the setting sun. The world around him seemed on fire. And Cork thought about hell. He hoped with a deep bitterness and complete lack of forgiveness that the people, probably men, responsible for all the bodies of Native women and girls that Theresa Lee helped pull from shallow graves would burn for eternity.

CHAPTER 18

Annie sat alone on the porch swing. The sun was setting, the houses on Gooseberry Lane aglow in the warm light. In Guatemala, she’d lived in a row of single-room shacks built of cinder block and with corrugated metal roofs. She had no toilet, using instead a communal latrine behind the building and drawing her water from a communal spigot.