Thunder Bay (8 page)

Like a good lackey, Morrissey stepped forward, took the little jewelry box from the pocket of his windbreaker, and, with his latex-covered hands, delivered it to Wellington. Then he retreated to the place where he’d stood before, just at my back.

Wellington fumbled with the watch. For an engineer, he seemed
oddly stumped by how to open such a simple mechanism. Finally he succeeded in freeing the catch. For a minute, he studied the photograph inside.

“You have some story about the item and my mother?”

“It’s for your ears only,” I said.

“Leave us, Mr. Morrissey.”

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, Mr. Wellington,” Morrissey cautiously offered. “I think I should be here if you need me.”

A reasonable argument from a bodyguard, I thought. Whatever else I felt about Morrissey, he was a man who took his job seriously.

“I believe, Mr. Wellington, that what I have to say you won’t want anyone else to hear,” I countered.

“I’ll say it only once more, Mr. Morrissey. Leave us.” The reedy voice suddenly had volume and power, and I could tell that somewhere in all that withered white was a man with the ability to command, the kind of man I’d talked to on my cell phone earlier.

“Yes, sir,” Morrissey said.

I didn’t turn, but I heard the door open and close at my back.

The air was close and warm. I was sweating.

“The story,” Wellington said, holding up the watch so that it dangled at the end of its gold fob.

“That watch was given to me by an old man. He was given it by your mother. His name is Henry Meloux. He’s dying.”

I tried to pierce the shadow over his face, to see in that frail wizened face something of Meloux. The eyes were dark, but not Henry’s, I finally decided. More like the woman in the photograph, perhaps.

“A rather short story,” he said.

“He gave me that watch and asked me to give it to the man who may be his son.”

The corners of his eyes crinkled. Was he amused?

“He believes I’m his son?”

“He didn’t reveal the whole story to me, but it’s clear he was involved with your mother in a way that could have produced a son. Apparently the timing of your birth is right. And you’re named Henry, like him.”

He considered this, but it was hard to say what he might have been thinking.

“What does he want?”

“To see you, that’s all.”

“You said he’s dying. Where is he?”

“In a hospital in Minnesota.”

“He wants me to go there?”

“Yes.”

He picked up an atomizer that had been tucked beside him in the chair, and he sprayed the air between us.

“Tell me more about this Meloux,” he said.

“He’s Ojibwe. He’s what we call a Mide, a member of the Grand Medicine Society. He heals.”

He leaned forward, and his upper face became clear to me, something carved out of marble, white, hard, and cold.

“An Indian?”

“Yes.”

He stood up, tall and brittle-looking, hollow featured. A ghost of a man.

“Do you realize what you’re saying about my mother? What kind of woman would take up with an Indian buck?” He pointed a curling nail at me. “If I were ten years younger, I’d knock you down.”

I tried again to speak reasonably. “Think about it, Mr. Wellington. You were born two months after your parents married. You were conceived out of wedlock. And I also know that as a child your favorite toy was a stuffed cormorant given to you by your mother. In the Ojibwe totemic system, Henry Meloux is cormorant clan.”

I’d hoped, I suppose, that in the same mysterious way Meloux knew he had a son, the son would recognize Meloux as his father. Not exactly a brilliant strategy.

“Edward!” Wellington called angrily. “Edward!”

The door burst open. “Yes, Mr. Wellington?”

“Show this man out. I don’t wish any further conversation with him.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Wellington.”

I could hear the pleasure in Morrissey’s voice.

“The watch,” I said.

“What?” Wellington squinted at me.

“I’d like the watch back.”

“I’d say it belongs to my family.”

“I’d say not.”

“Edward,” Wellington commanded.

“Come on, O’Connor.”

I shook off his hand. “I’m not leaving without that watch.”

Morrissey gripped my shoulder hard. I turned and swung, catching him full on his jaw. He went down, looking stunned. I spun back and sprang toward Wellington.

“Stay back,” he cried. He cringed a moment, then threw the watch at me like a spoiled child and spat, “All right then,
here.”

I heard Morrissey struggling up at my back. I turned to meet him.

“Enough, Edward,” Wellington ordered. “Just get him out of here.”

Morrissey was breathing hard, and I could see he wanted a piece of me. Hell, he wanted the whole enchilada. But Wellington once more said, “Enough.”

Though Morrissey relaxed his body, his eyes were still tight. “Yes, sir.” He nodded toward the door. “After you, O’Connor.”

H
e jumped me on the limestone path.

We were out of sight of the mansion, winding our way through the pines toward the dock. Morrissey was behind me. He hadn’t said a word since we left the room where Henry Wellington sat trapped in his antiseptic craziness, and I wondered where the bodyguard’s head was at. He couldn’t be happy with himself. He hadn’t done his job particularly well. I was in possession of the watch, and if Wellington hadn’t thrown it at me, I’d have actually laid my germ-infested hands on him. Plus, I’d clipped Morrissey’s jaw pretty well.

So as he brooded behind me, I wondered.

Then he hit me.

In my left kidney.

A blow like a cannonball.

I arched against the impact and the pain. My knees buckled and I went down, kneeling in the crushed limestone.

Morrissey danced to the side and kicked me below the ribs. I toppled and went fetal, my knees to my chest, my arms wrapped around my head to protect myself.

But Morrissey had done all the damage he intended. Except to bend down and deliver this: “Shithead. You ever swing on me again, I’ll kill your sorry ass.”

I heard the crunch of limestone as he stepped back.

To be on the safe side, I waited several seconds then carefully uncurled. Morrissey stood a dozen feet away, arms crossed, shades in place, watching me get to my feet. No emotion on his face now. A volcano that had finished erupting. His right hand rested on his wind-breaker, near the bulge that was not a whisk broom.

Some days you eat the bear, some days the bear eats you.

I turned and headed to the dock with Morrissey behind me at a safe distance.

He handed me over to the guy in the kiosk with the clipboard, who signed me out. Morrissey spoke quietly to the pilot of the launch, who eyed me and nodded. Morrissey cast us off and stayed on the island, while the pilot maneuvered through the shoals to open water, then hit the throttle, and we sped toward Thunder Bay.

My back ached, but I didn’t think Morrissey had done any permanent damage. Maybe a bruise that would bug me for a while, and the knowledge that if I ever encountered him again, he was a man I would keep in front of me.

At the marina, I disembarked. The pilot immediately swung around to return to Manitou Island.

“Beer?”

I turned in the direction of the voice and saw the woman standing on the deck of her sailboat, a bottle lifted in offering.

“Thanks.”

I walked to her sailboat and climbed aboard.

She handed me a Labatt Blue. “You actually got on the island?”

“Yeah.” I unscrewed the cap and took a long drink. It was ice cold. Perfect.

“What was it like?”

“Not a place I’d choose for a vacation,” I said.

“You actually talked with Wellington?”

“We conversed a bit.”

“What’s he like?”

“A man who wants his privacy. I think he’s entitled to it.”

“I saw them frisk you before you left. Careful people.”

“I didn’t catch your name,” I said.

“Trinky Pollard. Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Retired.”

“Cork O’Connor. Former sheriff of Tamarack County, Minnesota.”

“You told me earlier that you’re a PI now.”

“Part-time. Mostly I’m up here as a guy trying to do a friend a favor.”

We shook hands. Hers was impressively strong.

“You look too young to be a retired cop,” she said.

“Not retired. I quit.”

“What do you do when you’re not investigating privately?”

“Mostly I make hamburgers.”

She smiled at that, then glanced toward the island. “So you delivered a cheeseburger and fries to Wellington, eh.” She laughed. “Accomplish whatever it was you were after?”

“I guess you could say I got my man.”

I lifted my bottle, and we toasted.

I looked at my watch. “Thanks for the beer, Trinky. If I’m going to make it home tonight, I’d best be on my way.”

She saw me off her boat, still sipping her beer. When I looked back, she was staring toward Sleeping Giant.

Before I left the marina, I used my cell to call Jo.

“Hello, sweetheart,” she said. “Where are you?”

“Still in Thunder Bay. How are things there?”

She hesitated a moment, which worried me.

“How’s Meloux?” I asked, expecting the worst.

“Ernie Champoux called. Meloux’s left the hospital,” she said.

“Left?”

“Walked out. Against all advice. According to Ernie, he just sat up, told the doctor he was well and ready to leave. Ernie convinced him to let them run a few tests. It was amazing, Cork. They couldn’t find anything wrong. All the signs, everything, perfectly normal. The doctor can’t explain it.”

“Did Meloux say anything?”

“He told them the weight was off his heart, that he was at peace.”

“He believes he’s going to see his son. Damn.”

“Damn? What does that mean?”

I told her about Meloux’s son, a man I wasn’t certain any father would want to claim as the fruit of his loins.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“What can I do? I’ve got to tell him the truth.”

“When will you be home?”

“Well after dark. How’re the kids?”

Once again, she was quiet. And I realized that what I’d picked up in her voice earlier had nothing to do with Meloux.

“What is it, Jo? Is it Jenny? Did Sean finally pop the question?”

“It’s more complicated than that.”

“Oh. How so?”

I heard her take a deep breath. “Cork, you were right to be worried. She’s pregnant.”

L
ong before I turned inland on the drive home to Aurora, the moon rose out of Lake Superior, full and yellow as a lemon. A long finger of light pushed across the surface of the dark water, pointing at me in what seemed an accusing way.

Jenny was pregnant. God, my little girl. If you’d tried to tell me at that moment that she was, in fact, a grown woman, I’d have grabbed you by the neck and wrung you like a mop. To me she wasn’t much more than a child. And now she had a child of her own on the way. How screwed was that? There went the University of Iowa and that writer’s workshop she was hot to get into. There went her future, everything she’d worked hard for over so many years down the drain, lost in a thoughtless moment, wiped away in a stupid spill of passion.

Though probably it wasn’t a moment. Probably they’d been having sex for a while. They’d gone together since Jenny was a sophomore. That was a long time to remain celibate against an onslaught of hormones. I understood that. But Jo had been so certain of Jenny’s sense of responsibility about sex. Why hadn’t my daughter been responsible enough to be safe?

And Sean. He sure as hell wasn’t innocent in all this. Him I wanted to use as a soccer ball.

With that finger of moonlight pointing at me, I wondered what I’d done or hadn’t done that had helped bring this situation about. What kind of father was I? What kind had I been?

Then there was Meloux. His health had apparently taken a remarkable turn after I told him I would go to Thunder Bay. The old Mide believed he would finally see his son. As nearly as I could tell, that belief alone had been enough to work a miracle.