It was the quiet that woke her. That and Stevie’s elbow burrowing into her hip. The elbow didn’t surprise her: her son was a restless sleeper. But the quiet was an odd thing. Not quiet exactly because there were the usual city noises. Traffic early and heavy on Green Bay Road two blocks east, the rattle of suspension, the screech of brakes, the warning beeper on a truck backing up, probably collecting garbage. Like Stevie’s elbow, these were expected things. What was unexpected was the silence of the birds. Spring, summer, and fall in Aurora, the birds began their songs and arguments long before dawn. Jo had grown so used to their chirp and chatter that she didn’t even notice anymore. Except when it was missing. In Evanston, Illinois, that morning there seemed to be no birds at all.
It was the West Nile virus. Rose had told her the night before how the mosquito-borne disease had devastated the avian population all along the north shore of Lake Michigan, leaving birds on the ground under trees like fallen, rotting fruit. It was an awful image to spring to mind first thing in the morning, and the silence in the wake of all that death was disturbing.
She hadn’t slept well, and not just because of Stevie’s restless jerking. She missed Cork. She was relieved when he’d called the evening before and told her about the raid on the farmhouse in Carlton County, relieved that it ended the danger to him. She wanted so much to be with him then, to hold him. But he was safe, and that was the important thing.
Her nose lifted at the smell of coffee brewing, and she pulled back the covers and slipped from the bed, careful not to wake her small son. She threw on her robe and left the guest room of her sister’s home. Rose lived with her husband, Mal, in the upper level of a duplex in a nice neighborhood at the north end of Evanston. The building was long and narrow, what Rose called a railroad car design. In front was the living room, connected by a long hallway to the kitchen in back. Off the hallway on either side were the bedrooms and the bath. Jo found Rose in the kitchen rolling dough on a cutting board while coffee trickled into a pot on the counter.
“Cinnamon rolls,” Jo said. “The kids will love you. They’ve missed your cooking.”
“And I miss their appetites. Mal appreciates my cooking, but eating’s never been that important to him. All those years of self-denial, I suppose. Coffee’s just about ready. Want some?”
“I’ll get it,” Jo said.
“Sit down, relax. This is my kitchen,” she said proudly. She wiped her hands on her apron and went to the cupboard.
Jo watched her sister with amazement and pleasure. There was so much different about Rose now. She’d been plain and heavy all her life, but in the past few months she’d dropped weight, and a lovely color flushed her cheeks. There was a lively snap to all her movements, a joyous energy. This, Jo suspected, was due to love.
“Mal likes his job?”
“It’s perfect. Basically the same thing he did before he came to Aurora, but he doesn’t have to be celibate now.” She laughed sweetly.
For seventeen years, Rose had lived with the O’Connors, most of that time in a cozy attic room, taking care of the household while Jo and Cork both worked the law from different angles. Near the end, Mal Thorne had come to Aurora. Father Mal Thorne, then. For nearly two years, he’d served the parish of St. Agnes. During that time, he began to question significantly his commitment to the Church, and in the fertile ground of that doubt, his love for Rose had grown until he could not deny it. She’d felt the same. Yet, it had taken the actions of a madman to put her into Mal’s willing arms and to convince him it was time to divest himself of his collar and cassock. They’d been married in a civil ceremony and had moved to Chicago, where Mal, as a priest, had once headed a homeless shelter run by the Chicago Archdiocese. He did the same now for a publicly funded shelter.
As Rose turned to bring the coffeepot to the table, Mal walked into the kitchen in his drawstring pajamas. He was medium height. His hair was light brown, thin, and cut close enough to see the tan of his scalp. In his youth, he’d been a champion boxer, middleweight-he still had scar tissue over his left eye and a nose that was crooked from having been broken several times-and carried himself in a way that suggested both power and grace. He smiled often and broadly and did so now.
“Good morning, ladies.” He swept Rose into his arms and kissed her lavishly.
Rose held the hot coffeepot at a safe distance. When Mal stepped back, she said, “I was going to offer you coffee to wake up, but I see you don’t need it.”
“A beautiful day,” he said, and opened his arms toward the window and the sunlight beyond. “Family here and Cork out of danger, blessings both. Where are the kids?”
“Sleeping,” Jo said. “Even Stevie. It’s been hard on them lately. They could use the rest.”
“I’m sure.” Mal sat down at the table, opposite Jo. “What’s the plan for today?”
Jo hid a yawn behind her hand. The coffee was good, but rest would have been better. “I’m thinking that Jenny and I will take a look at Northwestern, since that’s one of the reasons we’re here.”
“Good. Then tomorrow or maybe the next day we might drive to South Bend so Annie can have a look at my alma mater.”
“She’d love that, Mal. She talked nothing but Notre Dame the whole way down.”
“Is she still hoping for a softball scholarship?”
“She’s determined.”
Rose, who was forming dough strips into tight spirals for the cinnamon rolls, said, “She’s like you. When she sets her mind to something, she makes it happen.”
The phone in the hallway rang. Mal got up.
“Sit down, I’ll answer it,” Rose said.
Mal kept moving. “You’ll get the phone all sticky.” In the hallway, he answered with a cheery “Good morning.” Then: “Yes, she is. Just a moment.” He put the receiver to his chest. “For you, Jo.”
“Is it Cork?”
“No, but it’s a man.” He handed her the phone and went back to the kitchen.
It was Ben Jacoby. His voice sounded showered and shaved and sparkling. Jo still had sleep in her eyes.
“Ben? How did you know I was here?”
“Dina Willner.”
Dina. The woman working with Cork to solve the murder of Ben’s brother. It made sense.
“I’m sorry about the bomb scare, but I understand they got the bastards.”
“Yes.”
“That’s wonderful. Look, I’m sorry to be calling so early. I have some good news. I talked with a friend of mine in the admissions office at Northwestern. If you and Jenny are available today, he can arrange a private tour of the campus.”
“Today?” she said.
“Unless you have other plans. I’m sure he’d be willing to schedule anytime. I just wasn’t certain how long you’d be staying.”
“Today would be fine. Thank you, Ben.”
“Also, I was wondering if you might be free for a drink tonight.”
“I don’t think so.”
“A glass of wine and half an hour of your time.”
“It’s not a good idea, Ben.”
“I understand, but…” He fell silent, and Jo didn’t know if he was gathering himself for another attempt or had given up. “Look, there are things I need to say to you.”
She moved into the front room, distant from the kitchen.
“Like what?”
“Give me half an hour.”
“You’ll have to do better than that.”
“I want to tell you why I left.”
“That’s not important to me now.”
“It might be, if you knew. One drink. One glass of wine. One last time. Please.”
She considered a long time before replying. “All right.”
“I’ll pick you up. Seven?”
“Seven is fine, but I’ll meet you there.”
“Deal.”
He gave her the name of a restaurant on Green Bay Road, and he gave her his cell phone number, just in case.
“Ben?” Rose said when Jo came back to the table.
“Jacoby. I told you about him last night. The brother of the man who was killed.”
“That’s right. Your old law school buddy.”
Although they’d shared many confidences, Jo had never told her sister about Ben Jacoby, and as far as Rose and Mal knew, they’d simply been acquainted in law school. At some point, Jo intended to tell Rose the whole story, but not at the moment.
“He’s pulled some strings to get Jenny a tour of Northwestern today.”
“That’s great,” Rose said.
“He also asked me out for a drink.”
“We’ll be glad to watch the children,” Mal offered.
“Thanks.”
She reached for her coffee. Although she’d put Ben Jacoby behind her long ago, his sudden departure from her life had been a nagging mystery for twenty years. She cradled her cup in both palms and carefully sipped the strong French roast amid the deep quiet of the dead birds.