Northwest Angle

FORTY-TWO

Standing the last watch alone, Cork saw the sun rise over Lake of the Woods. Only the third dawn since the storm, but it seemed to Cork that in that brief period there’d been a whole lifetime of occurrence. The day came bathed in the color of blood, and he thought of the old rhyme: “Red sky at morning, sailors take warning.” He didn’t need the sky to make him vigilant. He’d been tingling all night, as if some radar in his nature was on high alert.

He stood at the end of Bascombe’s dock and heard the door of the lodge slap shut. He turned and saw Rose approaching, a mug of steaming coffee in her hand.

“Thought maybe you could use this.”

“God bless you,” he said.

She studied his face. “Did you sleep at all?”

“No.” He could smell bacon on her clothing. “Working on breakfast?”

“That was the bargain, wasn’t it? You men stand guard, and Annie and I feed you. She’s scrambling eggs even as we speak. Everything should be ready in a few minutes. So what kept you awake? General worry?”

“That,” Cork said.

“And?”

He was tempted to shrug off her question, reluctant to confess. But he needed to unburden himself to someone, and he knew that, if Jo were still alive and with him, he would have told her the truth.

He said, “I blew it, Rose.”

“Blew what?”

“This.” He opened his arms to the lake. “All I wanted was for us to be happy. And what did I do? Brought us to a place so far from everything even God’s forgotten it’s here. And when Jenny needs me most, what do I do? I turn my back on her.”

“You didn’t turn your back, Cork.”

“I didn’t exactly open my arms to her either.”

“You mean to the child.”

“I’m afraid she’s going be hurt again.”

“And if she’s hurt, you’ll be hurt again, too.”

Which was the truth at the bottom of it all, he had to admit.

“She’s strong, Cork. She’ll survive. And so will you.”

She looked nothing like her sister, but in Rose’s advice, Cork heard Jo speaking. He nodded, and then he leaned to her and kissed her cheek in gratitude.

“I’m going to do my best to make sure we all survive,” he said.

The morning was still and warm. Even so, Rose hugged herself as if she were chilled. “So what do we do now?”

“I think today we flush out a snake or two.”

“Noah Smalldog?”

“And maybe some of his cohorts.”

“The Church of the Seven Trumpets?” She shook her head in a deeply troubled way. “If they’re involved in this, what a sad thing for Christian folks.”

“Anyone can call themselves Christian, Rose. Doesn’t make it so. A wolf in sheep’s clothing. Probably every religion has its crazies.”

“To invoke God’s name in such cruelty,” she said. “It’s enough to break your heart.”

“Or make you really pissed.” Cork glanced down at Bascombe’s Marlin gripped in his left hand.

Rose saw his look. “Answering violence with violence, Cork? You told me a couple of years ago that you’d never lift a firearm against another human being again.”

“Any person who’d do what was done to Lily Smalldog or condone that kind of cruelty isn’t, in my book, a human being, Rose. Any person who might do that to a child of mine, I would kill without remorse. I’m funny that way.”

She reached out, and her hand was cool against his cheek. “I’m praying it won’t come to that.”

From the lodge door, Anne called out, “Come and get it.”

“So,” Bascombe said with a bit of egg caught in his beard, “we make an assault on Stump Island today?” He sounded eager.

“No assault, Seth,” Cork replied. “Just a lawful inquiry. And it’ll be only Tom and me going to Stump.”

“Whoa.” Bascombe lifted his head abruptly from where it had hovered over his plate as he shoveled his food in. “Wait a minute. I want a piece of this action.”

“I need you to do something else.”

“Yeah? What?” He didn’t sound happy.

“Your computer doesn’t work, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Is there somewhere on the Angle that you can get access to the Internet?”

“I guess lots of folks would let me use their computers if I asked.”

“Good. I’d like you to head to the mainland this morning while Tom and I are at Stump Island. Get onto the Internet and find out anything you can about the Church of the Seven Trumpets and the Hornetts.”

“Hell, that doesn’t sound like much fun.”

“It’s important. I’d like to know everything I can about these folks. Where they came from, if they’ve been in trouble before. It’s exactly the kind of thing you probably used to do in your work for ATF.”

“Yeah, but I always preferred being out in the field. And how is that going to get us to Smalldog?”

“That’s the second part of what I want you to do,” Cork said. “I want you to go over to Windigo Island and talk to Cherri Allen and Amos Powassin. See if any of the Ojibwe who went out yesterday found anything that might help us track down Smalldog.”

Bascombe’s eyes lit up at that. “Okay. But if we go hunting him, I’m not sitting that one out.”

“It’s a deal,” Cork said. “Mal, are you okay sporting a rifle on the home front here?”

“Like I did last night, I’ll hold the thing and make sure anyone who might be watching knows that I’ve got it. But, Cork, if it comes to having to shoot, I won’t promise.”

“I can’t imagine Smalldog would try anything in broad daylight. But I don’t know the man, so I can’t say for sure.”

Mal said, “I’ll do what I can.”

Near the end of the meal, Kretsch excused himself and went to his cabin. He came back dressed in the khaki uniform of a Lake of the Woods County sheriff’s deputy—badge, duty belt, and all.

“I don’t often wear it,” he admitted, “but I kind of like the feel of authority it lends.”

“You look magnificent,” Rose said.

When they’d finished breakfast, they headed to the dock. Cork and Kretsch got into the deputy’s boat, and Bascombe got into his launch.

“Be careful, Dad,” Anne said.

“I’ll be the picture of diplomacy,” Cork told her, and he hugged her for good measure.

Kretsch and Cork headed off first, then Bascombe. When Cork looked back, his daughter and Mal and Rose were still on the dock, huddled together, shielding their eyes against the strong morning sun as they watched the boats grow distant.

They rode out mostly in silence. As Stump Island loomed on the horizon, Kretsch turned to Cork and said, “I’ve never had to carry out any kind of real investigation on the Angle. Mostly I break up fights and arrest drunks and give out parking tickets. I know you were a county sheriff for a long time. Would you mind taking the lead on this?”

“I think you should ask the questions, Tom. It’s your jurisdiction. But tell you what, if there’s something I think you’ve missed, I’ll toss in a question or two of my own. Okay?”

Kretsch didn’t seem entirely comfortable with the arrangement, but he said, “Okay.”

Because Cork wanted a good look at the whole island before they landed, he asked Kretsch to circle Stump. What he saw was a wall of forest that could have hidden an army. With enough men and arms to defend it, that island, so isolated in the vast expanse of Lake of the Woods, would be a bitch to storm, whether by the forces of Satan or by the men and women of law enforcement.

It was nearing noon, and the sun was almost directly overhead. By the time they approached the dock on Stump Island, the day had turned hot. Two men came from the Seven Trumpets camp to meet them. Both carried rifles. Kretsch motored close, and Cork leaped from the boat with the bow line and tied up to a cleat. Kretsch killed the engine, tossed the stern line, and when Cork had finished securing the boat, joined him on the dock. They turned to meet their welcome committee.

“Good morning,” Kretsch said and introduced himself and Cork.

The two men were big and broad and wore army green ball caps that shaded square faces. One had longish blond hair; the other appeared to be completely bald.

The bald man said, “Morning,” in a way that suggested more a threat than a greeting.

“I’m looking for Gabriel Hornett,” Kretsch said, still chipper.

“Not here,” the man said.

“You mean he’s not on the island?”

“That’s what I mean.”

“Could we speak with Abigail, then?”

“She’s not around either.”

“Both of them are gone?”

“I just said that, didn’t I?”

“Is there someone we could talk to, someone in charge? Joshua Hornett, maybe?”

“He’s not here either, and if he was, he wouldn’t be in charge. That’d be me.”

“And you are?”

“Darrow.”

“Is that a first or a last name?”

“First name’s Patrick.”

“And you are?” Kretsch said, addressing the blond-haired man, who’d stood like a fence post with eyes.

“Billings,” the man said. “Chester A.”

Kretsch nodded and looked past them toward the camp buildings. “Could you tell me where the Hornetts have gone?”

“Away,” Darrow replied.

“You don’t know where?”

“No idea.”

“You?” Kretsch asked Billings, Chester A.

Billings said nothing, only gave his head the faintest ghost of a shake.

“Mind if we look around a little?” Kretsch asked.

“Got a warrant?” Darrow challenged.

“No. Not looking for anything special. Why? You have something to hide?”

“Not a thing, Deputy.”

“Then there’s no reason we couldn’t just have a stroll, right? When we talked to Hornett day before yesterday, he was pretty hospitable.”

The two men exchanged a look, then Darrow gave a nod. “We’ll walk with you.”

In the absence of a wind, the day was still, and Cork heard metallic hammering ahead. When they cleared the first of the buildings and came in sight of the base of the broadcast tower, Cork saw several men at work there. At the moment, it appeared that getting the tower up was the primary business of Seven Trumpets. The story of the Tower of Babel came easily to Cork’s mind.

He said, “Two days ago, Hornett told us you folks’ll be broadcasting scripture and the like pretty soon.”

Darrow didn’t appear to think that required a reply.

“It’ll have to be a pretty strong signal to reach anyone from here.”

“It’ll be strong,” Darrow said.

“And what will your message be?”

“Don’t fuck with us,” Billings said.

Cork scratched his unshaved jaw, making a sound like rubbing sandpaper. “I don’t recall that line from scripture.”

“He means,” Darrow interjected, “that we’re about the Lord’s work up here, and in a Godless world the righteous will stand firm.”

“Yeah,” Billings said. “What I meant.”

“A mighty fortress, is that it?” With a sweep of his hand, Cork indicated the camp.

“Do you believe in the End of Days?” Darrow asked him seriously.

“I have to admit, I have my doubts.”

“Then you’ll perish, brother. And the last words you hear will be coming from us, broadcast over our tower there.”

Kretsch said, “Telling the rest of us that you told us so?”

Darrow gave the deputy a dark look. “It’s all God’s word, all laid out in the Bible, if you ever took the time to read it.”

Cork could have argued, but he’d learned a long time ago that, when confronting men with big rifles and little minds, discretion was best.

The community hall sat on a slight rise ahead, and Cork saw that, like the night before, an armed guard stood at the entrance.

Kretsch said, “Mind if we have a look inside your community hall?”

Which was exactly what Cork was thinking.

“I don’t think so,” Darrow said.

“Hornett took us in the other day.”

“That was Gabriel and that was then.”

“You have your church sanctuary inside, right?” Cork said.

“Yes.”

“Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not,” Cork said.

Darrow gave him a blank look.

Cork said, “Gospel according to Luke. If you ever took the time to read it.”

“You want in, come back when Gabriel is here.”

“When would that be?”

“Don’t know.”

Kretsch said, “We’ve had some reports of the sound of heavy gunfire on Stump Island. Automatic weapons, machine guns, that kind of thing. Know anything about that?”

“Don’t have a clue,” Darrow said.

Kretsch nodded toward the firearms the two men sported. “You ever fire those rifles, do some practice shooting?”

“We practice.”

“Got a firing range?”

“Nothing formal.”

“Not much of a fortress here if you can’t defend it,” Kretsch said.

“Oh, we can defend it,” Billings said. “Just try us.”

“You got some ID?” Kretsch asked the man.

“What for?”

“You don’t sound Minnesotan. Just wondering where you’re from.”

“Mississippi, not that it’s any business of yours.”

“What about you?” Kretsch asked Darrow.

“Idaho.”

“Folks here from all over?”

“All over,” Darrow replied.

“Gathering because you really believe the final days are upon us.”

“You got to be blind to miss the signs,” Billings said.

Kretsch looked to Cork. “Seen enough?”

“There’s one more thing I’d like to have a look at,” Cork said.

“Yeah? What’s that?” Darrow was growing surlier by the minute.

“The boathouse.”

Darrow thought it over, gave a shrug, and turned back toward the lake. He led them to the boathouse, from which, the night before, Cork and Kretsch had seen Smalldog’s cigarette boat depart. He opened the door and let them have a look inside. The slip was empty.

“Where’s the boat you keep in here?” Kretsch asked.

“We don’t keep nothing in here. All our boats we keep at the dock.”

“We saw two boats tied up at the dock day before yesterday,” Cork said. “They’re both still there. What did the Hornetts use to go wherever it is that they went?”

Darrow hesitated a moment too long, then said, “Someone picked them up.”

“Who?” Kretsch asked.

“Didn’t see. Let’s go.” With the barrel of his rifle, Darrow waved them back outside.

On the dock, Kretsch pulled out his wallet, took a business card from inside, and handed it to Darrow. “Have Gabriel give me a call when he returns.”

“Whatever,” Darrow said, and Cork had the feeling that, as soon as they were gone, the man would tear the card into little pieces. Or maybe eat it.

They cast off and motored away slowly.

“What do you think?” Kretsch said.

“An island of really scary loonies,” Cork answered.

“They’re hiding something, and my guess is that it’s in the community hall.”

Cork thought the same thing. “Their arsenal, maybe?”

Kretsch said, “Big structure, huge foundation. If there’s a sublevel to that place, you could park a battalion of tanks down there.” He shook his head. “Still got nothing for a search warrant, though.”

“Maybe Bascombe will have found something,” Cork said.

Kretsch turned the boat north toward Oak Island, far beyond the empty horizon. Just as he eased the throttle forward, Cork said, “Wait!”

Along the shoreline of Stump Island, among the trees a good two hundred yards outside the camp buildings, he spotted a figure waving to them wildly. He took the field glasses he’d brought and put them to his eyes.

“Who is it?” Kretsch asked.

“Joshua Hornett’s wife.”

“Mary, right? Believes she’s the mother of Christ?”

“Whatever she believes, it’s pretty clear she wants us to come to her.” Cork swung the field glasses back toward the camp and saw that the men who’d escorted them were no longer on the dock. “Let’s see what she wants. Can you get in close?”

Kretsch checked the GPS display. “It’ll be tricky, but we can make it.”

He swung the boat east and came carefully at the shoreline. The woman waited for them, pacing like a tiger, glancing nervously in the direction of the compound. As soon as the boat was near enough, she called out, “Please take me away from here!” She looked prepared to leap into the water and swim to them.

“Easy,” Cork called back. “We’re almost there.”

He went to the bow, watched the water for rocks, and waved at Kretsch to cut the motor when they were still a few yards out. He eased himself over the side and waded to the woman.

“You’ll have to get into the water, ma’am,” he said gently. “That’s as close as we can get.”

She nodded her assent and let him help her to the boat, where Kretsch lifted her over the gunwale. Cork followed her up.

“Are you all right?” Kretsch asked her.

She looked up at him with startled green eyes. “They killed my son,” she said. Which was exactly what she’d said to them a couple of days before in the community hall.

“I understand,” Kretsch said and shot Cork a look that told him they were dealing with another loony.

“No,” the woman said. “You don’t. They killed my son.” She wore a simple dress the color of old butter and with a faint checkered pattern across it. There was a pocket sewn to the front of the skirt. She reached into the pocket, brought out a photograph, and handed it to Kretsch. Cork moved to look over the deputy’s shoulder. It was a color Polaroid, worn and clearly much-handled. It showed the woman, a good deal younger, with a baby cradled in her arms. The baby looked to Cork to be only a few weeks old. His face was wide and his eyes oddly angled. Down syndrome, Cork thought. There were mountains in the background. The woman looked happy.

“This is your son?” Cork asked.

“Was my son,” she said. “I named him Adam.”

Kretsch handed the photograph back and asked gently, “What happened to Adam?”

“They killed him,” she said, and a moment later, she began to cry.

“Who killed him, Mary?” Cork asked.

“My name’s not Mary,” she shot back, wiping at her eyes. “They tell everyone that so you’ll think I’m crazy. My name’s Sarah.”

“Why didn’t you say anything the last time we were here?”

“Because they’d kill me, too.”

“You said they killed Adam? The Hornetts killed him?”

“They’re brutal, heartless murderers,” she said.

“Why did they kill your son?”

She glanced fearfully back at the island and said, “Please get me away from here. If they realize I’m gone, they’ll come and shoot us all.”