“Sounds like we all have somewhere to go. That’ll leave the house empty.” Cork sipped his coffee and smiled at the circus on Gooseberry Lane. “There won’t be anybody here to badger.”
“Maybe we can do one more thing,” Rainy said.
“What’s that?” Cork asked.
“Maybe we could talk to just one of them. Then maybe all the other vultures would flock to her instead of us.”
“Her?”
“The woman who was here last night.” Rainy pulled out the card she’d been given and read from it, “ ‘Greta Hanover.’ She wasn’t pushy. And she has Ojibwe roots.”
“For what it’s worth, I thought she was sincere,” Annie said.
“What do we think?” Cork asked.
“Wouldn’t it be like letting the floodgates open?” Daniel said.
“It could be more like letting some air out of an overfilled balloon,” Belle offered. “Especially if we all tell the same story but alter a few details.”
“Like what, Counselor?” Stephen asked.
“Waaboo didn’t talk to a ghost. Ghosts aren’t real. But how about this? When he was hunting blueberries with his family on the Paavola property, he smelled something foul, something dead, which led to the discovery of the body under the cabin.”
They spent a few minutes discussing and settling on the particulars and decided that Rainy and Daniel should take the lead. “Everyone else, just nod,” Belle advised.
“If she’s a good reporter, she may smell a rat,” Daniel said.
“Let’s call her and find out.” Cork turned to his wife. “You spoke with her, Rainy. You still have her card. You want to do the honors?”
Fifteen minutes later, Hanover came to the mudroom door, as Rainy had instructed. Daniel let her in. She seemed surprised when she saw them all there in the kitchen, eyeing her. “Boozhoo. Indizhinikaaz Greta Hanover. Migizi makwa,” she said, offering them a greeting and telling them in Ojibwemowin that her name was Greta Hanover and she was of the Bear Clan.
“Boozhoo. Biindigen,” Rainy replied, welcoming her in. She introduced them all, then said, “The truth is that we’re hoping if we give you an interview, it might stem the flood of reporters. What do you think?”
“Once I have the scoop, you probably won’t be such a big draw,” Hanover agreed. “I can’t guarantee that you won’t still experience some harassment. Quite honestly, some of my colleagues have the ethics of gutter rats. But I’ll do my best to be both truthful and helpful. How’s that?”
Cork said, “Fair enough.”
Hanover spent half an hour in the kitchen, listening and taking notes. As she left, she looked knowingly at Rainy, then the others. “Stick to your story. It makes perfect sense. It may not stop the circulation of rumors, but it will probably get the gutter rats off your doorstep. And like all news stories, this will blow over soon. With the next big headline, everyone will forget about Waaboo and maybe even Olivia Hamilton. It’s the way of the news world.”
“From your mouth to God’s ear,” Belle said.
Rainy took the reporter’s hand and gazed deeply into her eyes. “Chi miigwech.”
They left, one vehicle at a time. Cork was the last out of the driveway. He saw Greta Hanover talking with a small gathering of what he assumed were other journalists. They watched him go, then turned their attention back to Hanover. She kept shaking her head, as if dismissing something they were pressing upon her. As he pulled away, she caught his eye and nodded. Cork gave her a nod of thanks in return.
He picked up Theresa Lee at her home and drove to the double-trunk birch that marked the trail to Crow Point. He kept an eye on the rearview mirror just to be certain no nosy journalist was following. Jenny’s Forester was parked off the road near the trailhead.
As they started along the path, Lee said, “I’ve walked this way many times over the years, but it’s been quite a while since I visited Henry.”
“He moves more slowly these days, but his mind hasn’t slowed down a bit.”
It took more than half an hour to walk the two miles through the forest. They talked little. For Cork, there was almost always a kind of sacred quality in that approach to Crow Point, as if he were preparing for something important. Some of this was because of the place itself, the way the voice of the wilderness spoke to his soul. And, of course, it was also because of Meloux and the solace the old man usually offered a visitor.
But on this visit, as they left the trees and entered the meadow, Cork heard Waaboo scream on the far side of the point. Without a word, he broke into a run.
The cry came from the other side of two rock outcroppings beyond which lay the fire ring where Cork had often sat with the old Mide, staring into the flames and receiving advice. Cork cut across the meadow directly toward the rocks. He heard Waaboo scream again, and he kicked up his speed.
Breathing hard, he hit the well-worn path that ran from Meloux’s cabin and between the outcroppings nearly a hundred yards distant. The rocks rose above Cork as he cut through and another scream came. When he reached the fire ring, he stopped dead, his heart still pounding.
Meloux sat on a section of cut log. Jenny was beside him. Waaboo was nowhere to be seen.
Jenny looked at him with surprise. “Dad? What are you doing here?”
“Where’s Waaboo?” Cork asked between deep breaths.
“There,” his daughter said and pointed toward Iron Lake, whose sparkling blue water was clearly visible through breaks in the birch along the shoreline.
Cork spotted the little boy, splashing in the lake along with Prophet. As he watched, Prophet grabbed Waaboo, lifted him high, and threw him. Waaboo screamed as he flew—a scream of delight—then plunged into the water.
“I thought…” Cork said but didn’t finish.
“Fear misshapes everything,” Meloux said. “What we hear, what we see, what we think, what we feel. Your little rabbit is safe here, Corcoran O’Connor.”
Theresa Lee came up behind Cork. She was also breathing hard.
“Is everything okay?” she gasped.
“It was quite peaceful,” Meloux said. “Now, not so much. But it is good to see you. It has been a long time.”
