Tamarack County by William Kent Krueger

vindictive streak in him.”
    “Christ, if that’s the case, I’ll nail his ass to the wall.”
    “You want this one?”
    “Does Daychild intend to file a complaint?”
    “At the moment, she doesn’t seem inclined.”
    “The truth is that with Ed Larson gone I’m going to be stretched pretty thin while we sort out what’s happened to Evelyn Carter. Are you willing to hang in there with the Daychilds?”
    “I’ll see what I can do.”
    “Thanks, Cork.”
    “But I also want to be kept apprised of what’s going on with your investigation of Evelyn’s disappearance.”
    “It’s a deal.”
    By the time he parked Jenny’s Forester in the garage on Gooseberry Lane, it was nearing eleven. Inside the house, he found the first floor deserted, though a couple of lights had been left on so he wouldn’t enter in the dark. Trixie greeted him at the kitchen door with a friendly woof, but when he flipped off the lights and headed upstairs, she returned to her dog bed near the patio door. The second-floor hallway was lit by a plug-in night-light shaped like a full moon with a pleasant,smiling face. In the night, when Waaboo woke and needed comfort, the soft light helped ensure that a sleepy Jenny—or sometimes Cork—didn’t stumble into a wall by mistake. He paused at the open door to his grandson’s room. The little guy was making noises, not happy ones, small whimpers. He’d twisted his sheet and blankets into a snarled heap, which he’d pushed against the wall. Cork stepped in, untangled the mess of bedding, and laid the covers over the child. As he was about to leave, Waaboo gave a sudden cry and sat up. He began sobbing.
    Cork quickly picked him up. “It’s okay, buddy. It’s okay. Grandpa’s here.”
    Waaboo wrapped his little arms around Cork’s neck. “Dream,” he said. “Bad dream.”
    “It’s over,” Cork told him. “All gone.”
    “Cared,” Waaboo said.
    “Scared of what?” Cork asked.
    “Monter. Eat me.”
    Cork said, “I won’t let any monster eat you, I promise.”
    It was clear that Waaboo was still upset, so Cork sat in the rocker in the corner near the window. His grandson lay against his chest, his head against Cork’s cheek, his little heart to Cork’s big heart. Cork rocked him gently, and in a few minutes, Waaboo was asleep again. Cork could have put him back to bed, but he liked the feel of the small body holding on to him.
    Above him, Cork heard Anne pacing in the attic room. The floorboards creaked where she walked, and he could follow her from one side of the room to the other. His middle child had never been a worrier. Her faith had made her strong. But clearly, she’d lost something—that faith?—and with it had gone her certainty. He wished he could hold her, as he held his grandson, and assure her that what she’d lost wasn’t lost forever, but she didn’t seem to want that from him. Didn’t seem to need that from him.
    Cork felt weary, tired from the events of the day, but tired in another way as well. His children were grown or, in Stephen’s case, almost grown. What they needed from him seemed only athimbleful of what he’d once been asked to give. Long ago, looking toward the time when he might be free from all the demands made on a father, he’d thought it would be a relief, a great weight off his shoulders. But the truth was that it sometimes felt more like abandonment.
    Anne’s steps finally crossed the room to the set of narrow stairs that led down to the second floor. A moment later, she passed Waaboo’s door on her way to the bathroom. She caught sight of her father in the rocker, stopped, and gave him a questioning look.
    “He’s afraid of monsters,” he told her quietly.
    Anne stared a long time at her nephew, and in the dim drizzle from the night-light in the hallway, her face seemed inconsolably sad. She said, “Who isn’t?”

C HAPTER 12
    T he next morning, Stephen came home early, as promised, to deliver the Land Rover his father had