He crept down the bank. At first, the ground was hard and rocky. Halfway across, he stepped among reeds and into mud up to his ankles. His feet came out with a loud suck. He paused and listened. All he could hear was Lindstrom breathing very near at his back. He went ahead, through the running water, through the muck on the far side, and finally again onto hard ground under the bridge embankment. Lindstrom brushed his shoulder. Cork went down to his knees and crept up the slope. At the top, he laid himself flat on the ground and peered across the parking area. He could just make out the trash cans.
“What now?” Lindstrom whispered. He had the Colt steadied in front of him with two hands, in a prone position for effective firing. Thank God for his military training, Cork thought.
“Can you see anything?” he asked.
“The cans. Barely,” Lindstrom replied.
Cork wasn’t sure at all what to do next. He didn’t want to risk rushing in. On the other hand, he felt in his gut that something was already wrong, and the sooner he knew what it was, the better. Then he heard the trash can rattle, and Lindstrom drew back the slide on his weapon. A moment later, the quiet of the picnic area was shattered by the crash of metal as one of the trash cans fell over. Lindstrom pulled off a round. Cork flipped on the beam of the flashlight. Caught with his handlike paws full of litter, paralyzed by the light, stood a fat raccoon. Out of the natural mask nature had given the little thief, two eyes blinked. The raccoon dropped to all fours and scurried away.
“We might as well see what there is to see.” Cork stood up.
Lindstrom followed him to the trash cans. The cases were still on the far side. Lindstrom picked one up. “It feels empty,” he said.
Cork shined the light as Lindstrom set the case on the ground and opened it. The money was gone. In the center of the case, pulled from its hidden compartment, lay the transmitter. A note was with it. Lindstrom lifted the paper well into the light so they both could read what was written there.
The note said, “They’re dead. They’re all dead.”
43
IT WAS SCOTT, Grace Fitzgerald’s young son, who finally suggested the means for freeing Stevie from the grip of the bars on the fish house window.
John LePere had stood on an empty wooden crate and tried to force the bars apart. Unfortunately, he’d done a good job in choosing the hardware to make the fish house secure, and the bars wouldn’t budge. He took a section of old board—three feet of two-by-four—wedged it above Stevie’s head, and attempted to pry at least one bar loose from the bolts that anchored it to the window frame. He ended up splintering the board. Jo did her best to comfort Stevie, but as time dragged on, her little boy gave in to his terror. He was sobbing uncontrollably when Scott said quietly from behind the huddled adults, “What about this?”
He held out to them a can he’d found on the nearly empty shelves—motor oil for marine engines, one of the few items Bridger hadn’t removed. “Maybe you could slide him through,” he suggested.
Jo took the can and gave Scott a grateful hug. The boy looked away, embarrassed. “Stevie,” she said. “I’m going to take your shirt and pants off, sweetheart, and then I’m going to put something really slippery all over you. It will feel icky, but I think it will help you squeeze out of those bars. Okay?”
Stevie was still sobbing, but he managed to choke out, “‘kay,” so that Jo knew he understood.
“That’s my good boy.”
LePere supported Stevie’s body while Jo unbuttoned and removed her son’s shirt. She unsnapped his jeans and pulled down the zipper. She had to pull off his shoes to get his pants off. At last, she took a shard of glass from the broken mirror and made a slit in the cardboard side of the oil container. She poured the viscous fluid over his back and rubbed it completely along his sides and chest and stomach. Finally, she dripped the last of it down the bars that held her son prisoner.
“Okay, I think we’re ready. Here goes, honey.” She gave LePere a sign and he lifted Stevie so that the boy could turn his shoulders. Gently, LePere eased him forward. Stevie made a hurting sound. LePere glanced at Jo, who nodded for him to continue. LePere’s face was contorted with concern as he worked Stevie through the bars toward freedom. Once his chest was clear, Stevie nearly shot through the window. LePere held tightly to his ankles.
“I’m going to let you down slowly,” he called to Stevie. “As far as I can. Then I’ll let you drop. I’ll tell you before I do that.” He inched forward until his arms were through the bars up to his shoulders. “Okay, Stevie. I’m going to let go. You shouldn’t drop more than a couple of feet. Roll when you hit the ground. It will help.”
Jo heard a small thump as Stevie fell. She shoved up beside LePere on the crate. “Are you okay, sweetheart?”
Stevie didn’t answer.
“Stevie?” she called. She tried to see below the window. The moon had just begun to rise over Lake Superior and in its light the ground looked silver as if covered in frost. She couldn’t see her son. “Stevie, answer me.” Her voice was cold with a desperate fear.
They all turned suddenly as the door to the fish house rattled. Stevie cried from the other side, “I can’t get it open, Mommy.”
Jo rushed to the door and pressed herself against it. “That’s okay, Stevie,” she said, nearly weeping with relief. “That’s okay.”
“What do I do?” he called in his small, frightened voice.
Run, she wanted to tell him. Run fast and far. But there was another mother and child, and Stevie was their only hope.
“He needs to get into the house,” LePere said to Jo. “If the door’s locked, there’s a key on a nail under the top porch step.”
Jo dropped Stevie’s clothes through the window and as he put them on, she explained very carefully to him what he had to do. She heard the crunch of his little feet on the gravel as he hurried away, then she heard nothing. She hopped onto the crate at the window. From there she could see the whole scene—the dock, the cove, the dark profile of Purgatory Ridge, and the house, all coated with moonlight. In the sky to the west, above the Sawtooth Mountains, Jo saw flashes of light. A minute later, she heard the distant growl of thunder. She couldn’t see Stevie at first. Then he emerged from where the dark of the front porch had swallowed him, and he ran back to the fish house.
“It’s open,” he told them.
“Inside the house,” LePere said, this time addressing Stevie directly through the door, “there’s a kitchen area. As you face the sink, there are drawers on the right side.” He paused and glanced at Jo. “Does he know right and left?”
“He knows.”
“Okay, Stevie. In the top drawer on the right-hand side is a ring of keys. There’s a key for the lock on this door. Bring the ring and I’ll help you find the right key. Okay?”
“Okay,” Stevie said.
Atop the crate at the window, Jo watched her son cross the yard again. The light of the moon gave him his shadow as a companion.
“How much time do we have before Bridger comes back?” Grace asked.
“Not much,” LePere replied. “How’s he doing?”
Jo said, “I can’t tell. I think he’s in the house, but I don’t see a light on.”
LePere slapped the wall angrily. “The switch is in an odd place. Damn, I should have explained that to him.”
“Find it, Stevie,” Jo whispered.
As soon as she said it, she wanted to take it back. For she saw headlights swing toward the cove from far up through the trees near the highway.
“He’s back,” she said. “Bridger is back.”
At that moment, the light in the house came on, making the place like a bright beacon in the dark on Purgatory Cove.
44
AGENTS OWEN AND EARL of the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension stayed at the bridge over the Upper Goose Flowage to help the FBI oversee processing of the crime scene. Wally Schanno and Lucky Knudsen coordinated a search of the area that included Goose Lake and Little Red Cedar Lak
e. Both lakes had resorts and public campgrounds on their shores, a lot of ways to access the water. Everyone agreed that the kidnapper had probably made his escape via one of the lakes and had driven the back roads from there. What they didn’t say was that a search would take time and, even if it uncovered something, would probably be too late to do any good.
There was no reason for Cork to linger. With Lindstrom and Special Agent Margaret Kay, he returned to Grace Cove in the meager hope that the kidnapper might make contact again. Also, it kept him from having to go home where Rose and his daughters would be waiting and hoping. Cork didn’t know how to face them, what to say.
Kay made calls on her own cellular, reporting. She looked drawn and tired. She made a final phone call and spoke in a soft, loving tone. Cork thought about the gold band on her finger. She’d put her own life on hold, had gone without sleep, had done her best to bring about a safe resolution. Cork knew it wasn’t her fault, the way things worked out. The phone in Lindstrom’s living room was still set up for a trap-and-trace. Agent Arnie Gooden sat near it with his recording equipment ready. He looked drowsy. Lindstrom had slumped into an easy chair, and he sat staring at the silent phone. He seemed dazed. Exhausted. Empty. Cork felt the same way. So tired he could barely see straight. It wasn’t just exhaustion, he knew. It was what happened when you were empty of everything, when the last bit of hope had finally run out of you. It was like sucking exhaust from a tailpipe. All you wanted to do was give up, close your eyes, and sink into whatever would keep you from thinking. Sleep. Death. Whatever.
“I need to call home,” he said.
Lindstrom raised his eyes slowly. “And tell them what?”
“I don’t know, Karl. Okay if I use the phone in your office?”
Lindstrom gave a small shrug. Cork took that as a yes. He walked down the hallway. The big house and its grounds were nearly empty. To maintain security for the ransom drop, the media had been cleared away before the caravan of cop cars had left to follow Cork and Lindstrom. Except for one officer posted in a cruiser in the driveway, all the law enforcement officers present earlier had been called to help search the area along the Upper Goose Flowage. In the quiet of the house, he could hear thunder rumbling in from the west. On the way back from the drop site, he’d heard a weather report on the radio. A storm was on its way, bringing heavy rain, the first in months. He didn’t care.
Cork sat at the cherry wood desk in Lindstrom’s office. His head ached, a pounding that threatened to blind him. Three times he reached for the phone and three times he drew his hand back. He had no idea what to say to Rose, the girls.
I couldn’t save them. They’re gone. They’re gone forever.
He couldn’t say that over the phone. Nor could he yet bring himself to leave Lindstrom’s home.
The clock on the wall read ten to midnight. Cork wanted to turn the hands back, do it all differently, be in all the right places at all the right times. He wanted a second chance at the last few days. The last few years. He wanted not to have failed them, all the people he loved.
His eyes drifted over the photographs mounted on the wall around the clock. Lindstrom in a naval officer’s uniform aboard a military vessel of some kind. Another with Lindstrom and Grace Fitzgerald together on a boat—clear blue water, a great white sail full of wind. In another, he recognized a very young Grace Fitzgerald, a teenager. Recognized her because of her distinctive nose. She stood next to a white-haired man. They had their arms around one another, smiling. Father and daughter? Cork wondered. They were posed on the deck of a great ship. High above them, visible on the forward mast, was a big, glowing F. Cork wondered if the old man were still alive. No. Otherwise, he’d have given Lindstrom the ransom money. Grace Fitzgerald’s father was lucky. He was dead. Beyond feeling loss. Beyond being hurt.
Christ, stop it. Cork yanked himself back from self-pity. What are you doing? Don’t let go of them yet.
Meloux had said he had a choice. He could keep company with despair or he could choose a different companion.
Cork stood up. He needed to think clearly. He went to the bathroom just down the hallway and closed the door. Turning on the cold water, he splashed his face. He had to get rid of the headache, clear his mind. In the cabinet above the sink, he found a bottle of Excedrin. He shook out a couple of tablets, popped them in his mouth, and swallowed the aspirin with tap water. As he was putting the bottle back, something caught his eye. Syringes. There were a number of them on one of the shelves, each in an individual packet. Next to the syringes was a bottle of medication. Insulin.
Hadn’t Gil Singer told him the only thing stolen from the clinic on the rez had been insulin? Who was the diabetic in Lindstrom’s home?
Cork went to the living room. Gooden had closed his eyes and lay back, sleeping. Kay had settled herself at the dining-room table and had put her head down; she seemed to be napping, too. Lindstrom was still staring at the phone.
Cork held up the bottle and asked Lindstrom in a whisper, “Who?”
“Scott,” Lindstrom replied. He followed Cork’s lead and kept his voice low.
Cork beckoned him to follow, and they went to Lindstrom’s office. Cork closed the door. “Last night, the clinic on the rez was broken into. The only things taken were insulin and syringes.”
Lindstrom thought it over. “For Scott? Why?”
“The kidnapper cared about keeping him alive. He risked a lot to keep your boy alive.”
“Until tonight,” Lindstrom pointed out dismally. He sat at his desk, mirroring none of Cork’s enthusiasm.
The thunder was growing louder. It followed very quickly the lightning flashes visible through the window. The wind was up, lifting the curtains high. Cork went on thinking out loud as he paced the room. “It’s probably someone who knows the rez clinic, someone who’s been treated there.”
“Indian?” Lindstrom said, considering. “Isaiah Broom?”
“Not Broom,” Cork said. “He’s still in custody. And he was arrested heading off to fight a forest fire. That doesn’t sound like the action of a man in the middle of a two-million-dollar ransom negotiation. No, not Broom. Maybe not even a full-blood Anishinaabe. Only enough to be treated at the clinic.”
Cork paused in front of the photographs on the wall. He was staring at the one that showed Grace Fitzgerald and her father on the ship. He pointed to it. “The big F in this picture. What’s that all about?”
“Means the ship was part of the Fitzgerald fleet. All the Fitzgerald freighters carried that big lighted F. You could identify a Fitzgerald ship from miles away, even at night. Why? Is it important?”
“There’s a photograph in John LePere’s cabin. He’s on a ship with the same big letter below the crow’s nest. Do you know anything about LePere?”
“What’s to know?”
“He was on an ore carrier about twelve years ago that went down in a storm on Superior. All hands were lost except for him. His brother died on that ship.” Cork stared at the photo on Lindstrom’s wall. “I’m betting it was part of the Fitzgerald line.”
Lindstrom stood slowly, the exhaustion in his face giving way to a glint of understanding. “LePere.” He squinted at Cork. “Revenge?”
“Maybe. Or maybe in his thinking, some kind of long overdue and just compensation.” Cork started pacing again, fast. “Gil Singer said LePere headed off yesterday, claiming he was driven away by all the activity on the cove. A good excuse for a man known to be reclusive to disappear.”
“Disappear where?”
In his mind, Cork pictured another photograph he’d seen in LePere’s cabin, the one labeled purgatory cove, 1979.
“I’m betting the north shore,” Cork said. “A place called Purgatory Cove. It’s just south of Beaver Bay.”
“You’re betting lives,” Lindstrom reminded him. When Cork didn’t back down, he said, “All right. Let’s go.”
“We need to talk to Kay,” Cork said.
“The hell with the FBI. Everything the
y’ve handled has turned out badly. I’m going to do this my way. Are you in?”
“We need to talk to someone,” Cork insisted.
“Why? So they can drag their feet while they get their writs and warrants? Kay will want evidence, something solid. Do you have anything, anything she could take to a judge?”
Lindstrom was right. Cork didn’t have anything substantial. Only a gut feeling and the fact that everything seemed to fit.
“I’m sick to death of waiting,” Lindstrom said. “Are you coming?”
Twenty-five years of law enforcement made Cork hesitate.
“Look,” Lindstrom argued, angrily now, “if you’re right about LePere, what’s the nearest law enforcement office?”
“Cook County sheriff in Grand Marais.”
“How long would it take them to get to Purgatory Cove, providing they believed us and were willing to go?”
“Half an hour, forty minutes.”
“If we put the pedal to the metal, we can make it in forty-five. If we leave right now.”
Cork looked at the door. “They’ll miss us.”
“You tell them you’re going home. I’ll tell them I’ve got to sleep.” He threw his hands up in exasperation at Cork’s hesitation. “Jesus, you’ve been ahead of all these people. You’ve been right all the way down the line. I trust you, Cork, more than I trust any of them. It’s our families we’re talking about. The ones we love. In the end, who has a greater right to act?” He paused, then shoved away Cork’s reluctance. “Fine, do whatever you want. Me, I’m going. I’m going now.”
Cork made his decision. “My Bronco’s parked at LePere’s cabin. Meet me there.”
He left Lindstrom in the office. At the dining-room table, he lightly touched the shoulder of Agent Margaret Kay. She jerked awake and lifted her head from where it had been cradled on her folded arms.
“I’m going home,” Cork told her. “Call me if…” He let it drop.
She nodded. Then she said, “I’m sorry.”
Purgatory Ridge Page 33
