dirty, sexist linen in public? If you want to know the truth, Stu, I’d just as soon do this in court. I’d just as soon make an example of this crew and maybe the whole leadership of this county while we’re at it.”
Jo would have gone on, but the phone rang. She turned from Grantham and answered it with an irate, “Yes!”
It was her sister Rose.
“Have you heard from Anne?” Rose asked, speaking of Jo’s eleven-year-old daughter.
“No. Isn’t she home with you?”
“She checked in right after school let out and said she had an errand to run. I didn’t think anything of it. But that was three hours ago, and I haven’t heard from her since.”
Jo looked out her window at the furious energy of the storm. She worked at keeping her own voice calm. “Does Jenny know anything?”
“No.”
“Friends?”
“I called everyone I could think of.”
“Have you tried Cork?”
“I left messages on his machine.”
“Maybe he took her ice fishing,” Jo suggested, although she was certain Cork wouldn’t have done that without calling first.
“Jo, I’m worried.”
“Are Stevie and Jenny there with you?”
“Yes.”
“Keep them there. I’ll be right home.”
Jo hung up the phone. She glared at Grantham. “Well?”
The telephone call had broken Jo’s momentum. Grantham was straightening his tie. “Trouble at home?”
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
“I don’t think I want to rush a decision here, Jo,” Grantham said. He wandered back toward his chair and seemed prepared to settle in again.
Jo went to the door and held it open, signaling Grantham their meeting was at a definite end. “I’ll be in touch.”
“I’m sure you will.” The man smiled as he left.
Jo threw a few things into her briefcase. She pulled on her coat, locked up the office, and headed out to the empty parking lot. Under the snow, the windshield of her Toyota was coated with a thick layer of ice that broke her plastic scraper. She turned the defroster up full blast, and while the engine warmed and the air grew hot enough to begin melting a clear patch, she labored to brush snow off the rest of the car.
Suddenly, out of the cold of the storm, she felt the touch of a deeper cold on her back, as if an icy hand had reached through her coat and touched her skin. She swung around, a shiver running down her spine, and peered into the swirling white behind her. She strained to look at the line of cedars that walled the corner of the lot a couple of dozen yards away.
“Is anyone there?” She knew it was ridiculous to think a human hand could have reached so far. But what had touched her had not felt human at all.
No voice answered except the bitter howl of the wind. She left off brushing the snow, got into her car, and locked the doors. The defroster had cleared only a small area low on the windshield, but it was enough for Nancy Jo O’Connor. She left the empty lot as quickly as she could.
4
C ORK PULLED UP ALONGSIDE a snow-covered Quonset hut that stood next to the lake. The front of the hut had been reconstructed as a burger stand, with two sliding windows and a long, narrow counter for serving customers. Pictures of ice cream cones decorated the side of the building up front. The serving windows had been boarded over with plywood, and above that a sign painted in red letters on a white board read, “Sam’s Place.”
Cork parked near the back door and went in. The back half of the hut had been converted into a space for living—one large room that held a stove and refrigerator, a sink, a table with two chairs, a sofa, a bunk, a small desk, and a bookshelf. One corner had been partitioned for a bathroom with a toilet, a sink, and a shower stall. During World War II, the hut had been part of a complex used by the National Guard. After the war, the complex was abandoned and all but the single Quonset hut had been bulldozed. Cork wasn’t sure why the hut had been spared, but it had been
Jo would have gone on, but the phone rang. She turned from Grantham and answered it with an irate, “Yes!”
It was her sister Rose.
“Have you heard from Anne?” Rose asked, speaking of Jo’s eleven-year-old daughter.
“No. Isn’t she home with you?”
“She checked in right after school let out and said she had an errand to run. I didn’t think anything of it. But that was three hours ago, and I haven’t heard from her since.”
Jo looked out her window at the furious energy of the storm. She worked at keeping her own voice calm. “Does Jenny know anything?”
“No.”
“Friends?”
“I called everyone I could think of.”
“Have you tried Cork?”
“I left messages on his machine.”
“Maybe he took her ice fishing,” Jo suggested, although she was certain Cork wouldn’t have done that without calling first.
“Jo, I’m worried.”
“Are Stevie and Jenny there with you?”
“Yes.”
“Keep them there. I’ll be right home.”
Jo hung up the phone. She glared at Grantham. “Well?”
The telephone call had broken Jo’s momentum. Grantham was straightening his tie. “Trouble at home?”
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
“I don’t think I want to rush a decision here, Jo,” Grantham said. He wandered back toward his chair and seemed prepared to settle in again.
Jo went to the door and held it open, signaling Grantham their meeting was at a definite end. “I’ll be in touch.”
“I’m sure you will.” The man smiled as he left.
Jo threw a few things into her briefcase. She pulled on her coat, locked up the office, and headed out to the empty parking lot. Under the snow, the windshield of her Toyota was coated with a thick layer of ice that broke her plastic scraper. She turned the defroster up full blast, and while the engine warmed and the air grew hot enough to begin melting a clear patch, she labored to brush snow off the rest of the car.
Suddenly, out of the cold of the storm, she felt the touch of a deeper cold on her back, as if an icy hand had reached through her coat and touched her skin. She swung around, a shiver running down her spine, and peered into the swirling white behind her. She strained to look at the line of cedars that walled the corner of the lot a couple of dozen yards away.
“Is anyone there?” She knew it was ridiculous to think a human hand could have reached so far. But what had touched her had not felt human at all.
No voice answered except the bitter howl of the wind. She left off brushing the snow, got into her car, and locked the doors. The defroster had cleared only a small area low on the windshield, but it was enough for Nancy Jo O’Connor. She left the empty lot as quickly as she could.
4
C ORK PULLED UP ALONGSIDE a snow-covered Quonset hut that stood next to the lake. The front of the hut had been reconstructed as a burger stand, with two sliding windows and a long, narrow counter for serving customers. Pictures of ice cream cones decorated the side of the building up front. The serving windows had been boarded over with plywood, and above that a sign painted in red letters on a white board read, “Sam’s Place.”
Cork parked near the back door and went in. The back half of the hut had been converted into a space for living—one large room that held a stove and refrigerator, a sink, a table with two chairs, a sofa, a bunk, a small desk, and a bookshelf. One corner had been partitioned for a bathroom with a toilet, a sink, and a shower stall. During World War II, the hut had been part of a complex used by the National Guard. After the war, the complex was abandoned and all but the single Quonset hut had been bulldozed. Cork wasn’t sure why the hut had been spared, but it had been
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