Northwest Angle

SEVENTEEN

She woke herself from a nightmare set among ruins and discovered that her father was gone. The night was blessedly warm. The wind was up again, though nothing like the storm that had stranded them. The breeze ran among the leaves of the poplars and needles of the spruce in the stand that served as sanctuary, and Jenny lay still, listening to that restless sound. At last, she pushed herself up. Her body was stiff from the hard ground, and probably from the tension of the worry that hadn’t left her even in her sleep. She found a bottle of formula prepared and sitting beside the Coleman stove. There was water in the pan over the unlit burner. On a flat surface of the rock sat an empty can of peaches. She looked up the rock rise, stark white under the moon, and although she didn’t see him, she figured that her father must have gone back to the top to watch for the man in the cigarette boat.

She was hungry. From the supply of goods they’d brought, she took a can of pineapple rings and used the opener. She drank the juice first, then one by one, lifted out the rings and ate greedily. As she was finishing, the baby began to stir. She lit the burner, put the bottle in the pan to warm, then sat beside the child, watching him wake. His face was drawn into tight lines, and his tiny hands were clenched into fists. She wondered, with a stab of sorrow, if somewhere in his little brain would be stored forever the memory of what had happened on that devastated island. No one remembered that far back in their lives, did they? Oh, God, she hoped not.

His eyes finally opened, and her face was the first thing he saw. To her great surprise, he smiled. She picked him up and cradled him.

“What’s your name, little guy?” She nuzzled his nose with her own, and a small cry escaped his mouth. She put a finger to her lips and whispered, “Shhhhh.”

When the bottle was warmed, she fed him and burped him. As she was changing his diaper, she heard the powerful engines kick in beyond the rise.

A few minutes later, her father came down the face of the rock. He looked tired and he looked grim.

“He’s on his way?” she said as she walked the baby.

“Yes.”

“It sounds like he’s circling to the east. Why?”

Although she knew he couldn’t see the boat, she watched her father’s eyes follow the deep growl of the engines.

“Probably thinking of coming in with the sun at his back,” he said. “That way, if someone’s on the island and planning on taking a bead on him, the sun will be in the shooter’s eyes.”

“But if it’s that dangerous, why would he come back?”

“Maybe to look for the baby. Or, like you said before, to remove all evidence that might tie him to what he did there. Which would include us.”

“He doesn’t know about us, Dad.”

“I’m sure he knows someone was in the cabin.”

“For all he knows, we could have left.”

He nodded faintly, his eyes still tracking the course of the boat from the sound of the engines. “So maybe he’s not back for the baby. Maybe he’s looking for something else that he knew he couldn’t find in the dark. I’m just guessing.”

She looked at the sloping rock her father had just descended. “What if we went to the other side of this rise?”

He shook his head. “Two problems with that. One, there’s no cover on the ridge. Two, when you get to the top, it’s a sheer drop to the water. For better or worse, this is where we make our stand.”

“Our stand?”

“Sorry. Bad choice of words. This is where we hunker down and wait it out.”

“Until he’s gone? Then what?”

“Let’s figure that out when the time comes. This little guy’s the big question mark now. Think you can keep him quiet?”

“I’ll do my best, Dad,” she promised. She smiled at the baby in her arms. “He will, too.”

They listened as the boat continued circling, then the engines cut, and all they could hear was the sound of the wind in the trees.

Her father turned back to the rise. “I’m going to see what he’s up to now.”

He climbed the sloping rock wall and cleared the top of the trees. The moon had long ago passed its zenith, and the island across the channel was a tapestry of silver and black. Off the eastern tip lay a little islet barely more than a round cone of bald rock the size of a two-story house. He tried to reckon where the cigarette boat might be anchored now, and figured that the far side of that islet was a good bet. When morning came and the boat made a run for the island—if, in fact, that was the plan—the launch would be coming directly out of the glare of the rising sun. The man at the wheel would land without incident. And then he would begin his hunt.

But hunting what? Cork wondered. Jenny and him? The baby? Something else entirely? Impossible to know.

Cork tried to put himself inside that man’s brain, to stay ahead of his thinking.

If the mystery man believed someone was still on the island, he would probably work his way carefully from one end to the other, keeping to the cover of the downed trees. It would be hard to move quickly or quietly, so what would his advantage be? Cork figured if it were him, he’d make sure that he had firepower on his side. He’d have brought a good rifle with a powerful scope. He’d have brought field glasses. Maybe he’d even have dressed in camouflage, or at least clothing that would blend easily into the underbrush. If he was as cruel as the torture of the young woman in the cabin indicated, he’d shoot to maim, to disable, and in that way try to ensure an opportunity for interrogation, the kind of sadistic interrogation the young woman must have endured.

But to what end? What was the purpose of what had occurred in that isolated place? Inflicting pain for pain’s sake? There were people capable of such inhumanity, but this felt different to Cork. The woman’s isolated situation felt purposeful, a hiding. If the storm hadn’t destroyed the tree cover, the cabin would be difficult, if not impossible, to spot from the water. It was a rustic structure but had been comfortably accommodated. Until the fallen pine had breached the roof, it was sturdy. The cooking had been done on the Coleman, so no fire in the stove and no smoke to give away the location. All in all, not a bad place to hide. But why and from whom? The man in the cigarette boat, what had he been to the dead girl? Protector or prison guard? Keeper or killer? And what was he now to those he hunted?

The baby was yet another unanswered question. Clearly, he’d been hidden, and the place of his hiding had been prepared long in advance. The dead girl must have known they were in danger. She’d done her best to save the child, maybe even sacrificed herself. But why? What was the importance of the baby to anyone but her? And was the baby the reason she died?

And then he wondered, with a bitter edge that shamed him, would this child be responsible for the death of another woman? Because he knew without a doubt that Jenny was prepared to sacrifice herself, if it came to that.

Cork was exhausted; his brain was going in dizzy circles, and he couldn’t think clearly. It didn’t much matter. In a little while, when the sun rose, all his questions would be answered, one way or another.