Northwest Angle

THIRTY-NINE

Stump Island lay black under the hard, white light of the full moon. As they neared it, Cork couldn’t help thinking that it very much resembled a huge panther preparing to spring at them.

Kretsch hadn’t been excited when Cork told him about the stop he wanted to make on their way back to the Angle.

“Those Seven Trumpets folks greeted us carrying firearms the last time we visited,” he’d reminded Cork. “And that was in broad daylight. What are you hoping to find at night?”

“This was the last place anyone admits to seeing Lily Smalldog alive,” Cork had said. “When we talked to Hornett, I didn’t get a particularly cozy feeling from him. I didn’t think he was telling us everything. Couple that with the fact that they’ve chosen to build their little community in a place way the hell and gone from anywhere, and it makes me wonder what they might be trying to hide.”

“You think it might have something to do with Lily Smalldog and the baby?”

“I’m sure there’s a lot more to it than that. I’m hoping we’ll know more once we’ve had a chance to look around without a rifle at our backs.”

Kretsch had agreed without much argument, and then he’d plotted their landing.

“We should come in from the east,” he’d advised. “The Seven Trumpets camp is on the west end of the island, and if the wind is still up, and I can almost guarantee that it will be, the sound of my old Evinrude’ll be carried away from them.”

“Is there an easy place to land?”

“Not that I know of. But I haven’t spent much time on Stump. It’s miles out from everything else, and it’s always been owned by religious groups who’ve been protective of their privacy. The GPS’ll keep us from running aground, but as for actually landing, that could be tricky.”

Cork had looked up at the moon, which was so brilliant he nearly had to shield his eyes. “We’re in luck. We’ve got good light to see by.”

“Means they do, too,” Kretsch had pointed out.

Now they were near enough to the island that Kretsch turned off his running lights to be sure they weren’t seen. At the far west end of Stump Island lay the bright yard lights in the Seven Trumpets camp, and the big wind turbine like a white dinosaur and the faint spiderweb of the broadcast tower the group was constructing. Kretsch continued to circle to the east until the thick forest that covered most of the island stood between them and the camp.

“Here,” he said, handing Cork a pair of field glasses. “Find a likely place to land if you can.”

Cork scanned the shoreline, which was well lit by the moon, and finally spotted what appeared to be a small, protected cove.

“Over there,” he said and pointed.

Kretsch saw it and nodded and carefully brought the boat toward shore. He eased it forward against waves being kicked up by the westerly wind, keeping his eyes riveted to the screen of the GPS module. A dozen yards out, he cut the engine.

“You’ll need to get into the lake and use the bow line to pull us in,” he told Cork. “If there are rocks lurking under the surface, I don’t want them chewing up my propeller blades. Be quick about it, before that wind shoves us clear over to Canada.”

Cork eased himself over the side and slipped into water that reached above his knees. The bottom was littered with rocks, which made his footing uneven and hurt the wounded soles of his feet. Kretsch tossed him the line. Cork caught it and began to haul the boat after him. It took a minute before he stepped onto dry land, where he quickly tied the rope to an aspen sapling. Then he called softly back to Kretsch, “Secured.”

The deputy waded ashore, checking the cylinder of his .38 revolver as he came.

“Have you ever actually had to use that?” Cork asked.

“I only fire it on the range,” Kretsch admitted.

“Keep it holstered,” Cork said. “If we do this right, you won’t need to clear leather.”

Kretsch seemed relieved to be able to slip the gun back onto his belt.

They turned to the thick wall of forest in front of them, and Cork moved along the shoreline looking for a way in. He’d gone fifty yards when he spotted the narrow opening of a deer trail.

“We’re in luck,” he said and, with Kretsch at his back, headed in.

The canopy of branches and leaves scattered the moonlight, but there was still sufficient illumination for the two men to see their way. The wind muscled through the treetops, making enough racket to cover the sounds of their passage. Even so, Cork felt all his senses heightened, and he moved with great caution.

They’d gone a few hundred yards when they came upon a large clearing. Cork stopped at the tree line and carefully eyed the open area. Kretsch moved up beside him.

“Hand me the field glasses,” Cork said.

Kretsch took them from the case on his belt and handed them over. Cork scanned the clearing. It was roughly rectangular, fifty yards wide by a hundred yards long. Across the far end of the clearing lay a line of what looked to be earthen mounds, spaced a few yards apart from each other, casting small black shadows against the meadow grass.

“What do you make of those?” Cork asked, handing Kretsch the glasses.

Kretsch took a look, then shook his head. “Got me.”

Cork crept along the edge of the clearing until he was at the far end. He checked again to be certain that he and Kretsch were alone, then stepped into the open and walked to the first mound. As he approached, he saw glinting on the ground, darts of reflected moonlight. He bent and picked up something fallen in the tall grass. He held it up to the light and saw that it was brass, maybe four inches long and three-quarters of an inch round.

“What is it?” Kretsch asked.

“A shell casing,” Cork said. “From a big-ass weapon. My guess would be fifty-caliber. A machine gun probably.”

“Jesus Christ,” Kretsch said. “These folks are serious about Armageddon.” He glanced down the length of the clearing. “They must use this as a firing range.” He gave a whistle. “Pretty smart.”

Cork turned the shell so that moonlight slivered along the edge. “What do you mean?”

“We’re a good five miles from the nearest populated island. And we’re pretty much into the big water, so fishermen never come out this far. If they wanted to conduct war games here, hell, they could probably do it without raising any eyebrows at all.”

Cork tossed the shell casing to Kretsch and said, “It appears they already have. Let’s keep going.”

Not far from the mounds, Cork found a wide path more heavily worn than the narrow deer trail, and they followed it.

“Careful,” Kretsch whispered at his back. “We’re heading for the compound.”

“Compound?”

“What did Hornett call it? The Citadel? I’m thinking it’s more than just a beautiful spot to spend some time praising the Lord and preparing for the Rapture.”

When he saw yard lights through the trees, Cork paused and whispered to Kretsch, “Most rural folks I know keep the lights at night to a minimum. The beauty of the night itself is something they appreciate. These folks have their area lit up like a prison camp. Makes you wonder what they’re afraid might be lurking in the dark.”

“Us,” Kretsch said and glanced down at his holster, as if to make sure his .38 was still there if he needed it.

There was a sudden lull in the wind, and the trees ceased their restless rattling. All around Cork the woods grew silent. He stopped walking, and Kretsch held up beside him. Cork listened but heard nothing. He signed to the deputy to proceed. The path was strewn with small twigs so that it was impossible to move without the occasional dry-wood snap under their shoes. They continued until they reached a place where the trail led into the cleared area of the camp and its many buildings. Cork took a position behind a tree and signaled to Kretsch for the field glasses. He examined the camp grounds: the boathouse and the dock, the cabins that housed the residents, a large shed with a gas pump outside that probably housed vehicles and equipment, the communal shower, the laundry building, the wind turbine, the metal web of the broadcast tower under construction, and the great hall, the largest of the finished buildings, which served as church, community center, and dining room. There was a light on in the great hall, the only building lit from the inside.

Through the field glasses, Cork saw a match flare in the shadow of the recessed front entryway. A moment later, the match was waved out, leaving only the red glow from the tip of a cigarette. He continued to study the shadow and the ember, which fell and rose and blossomed and fell again with the act of smoking. After a couple of minutes, a man stepped into the wash of the yard light, and Cork saw that he carried a rifle slung over his shoulder.

Cork handed the field glasses to Kretsch and indicated the great hall and the man who stood before it. Kretsch spent a moment looking, lowered the glasses, leaned close to Cork’s ear, and whispered, “Is that an assault rifle he’s carrying?”

Cork nodded. Bright lights and armed guards. What was this group protecting?

The door of the great hall opened, illuminating the shadowed entryway, and several people emerged. They spoke for a moment with the man who shouldered the assault rifle. Their voices carried but so low that Cork couldn’t make out the actual words. Their backs were turned, and even with the field glasses, he couldn’t make out who they were. They moved quickly on, leaving the man with the assault rifle stationed where he’d been, and headed toward the dock. Cork followed them with the glasses and watched them enter the boathouse. A light came on there, and a minute later he heard a deep roar in the windless night, the sound of big engines. A boat backed out onto the lake, then shot south across the big water, running without lights.

“A cigarette boat,” he whispered to Kretsch.

“Smalldog?” the deputy asked.

Cork hadn’t seen enough to answer that question.

Two figures reemerged from the boathouse and returned to the great hall. A short while later, the light inside went out. The guard had finished his cigarette by then, and he began to patrol the perimeter of the building. He disappeared in back, and Cork swung the field glasses to the compound yard, because he’d spotted something there. Near the broadcast tower was another figure, this one draped in white and moving slowly, drifting like mist.

“Who does that look like to you?” He handed the glasses to Kretsch.

Kretsch studied the ghostly figure. “It’s Hornett’s wife. The woman who thinks she’s the Virgin Mary.”

Cork took the glasses from Kretsch and watched as Mary Hornett, who wore a white shawl though it was a warm night, went to the dock and stood at the very end, staring out across the big water. Cork thought that she might be looking where the powerful engines could still be heard from the south, then realized she wasn’t paying any attention to the cigarette boat. Her face was turned toward the night sky.

In the silence that had descended with the cease of the wind, Cork’s ears caught something surprising.

“Hear that?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Kretsch said. “Is she singing?”

“She’s singing,” Cork confirmed.

“I can’t quite make it out.”

Cork said, “Twinkle, twinkle, little star.”

The song died abruptly, and a different sound came to Cork, a deep and prolonged wail. He understood that in its own way this was also a song. The heartbreaking song of grief.

“I think we’ve seen enough,” he said. “Let’s get out of here before someone spots us.”