Purgatory Ridge

30

JOHN LEPERE WATCHED O’Connor’s old Bronco head off between the pines.

Damn.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. When O’Connor was sheriff, he’d always treated LePere decently, even in the days of the heaviest drinking. The man was part Shinnob, too, so he understood the difficulty of growing up mixed blood. LePere was sorry for the turn of events. Nothing was anything like he’d expected. Still, he told himself as he stepped back into his cabin, nothing really terrible had come of it. If it all ultimately went the way Bridger had planned, O’Connor would have his family back together in a couple of days. It would give him a greater appreciation of how precious were the people he loved, and all it would cost him in the end was a bit of worry. To LePere, who’d lost everyone he loved, that seemed a small price.

He took his field glasses from the hook beside the back door and stepped outside again. Across the cove, Lindstrom’s home was a busy place. The shoreline was still crawling with uniformed officers, as were the dock and the woods. They’d come across Blueberry Creek, trespassed on LePere’s land. That was fine. They’d find nothing, and they’d turn away. Although the ransom note had clearly said no cops, Bridger had called this one, too. “There’ll be cops,” he’d said. “A shitload. Don’t let that scare you. We’ll have them fooled. They’ll be looking for that Eco-Warrior, and there’s nothing to connect you with him. You don’t give them just cause, they can’t do a thing. Just be cool, my man. Just be cool.”

He returned the field glasses to their hook and went to the closet in his bedroom. From the shelf above the hangers, he took down a sleeping bag and a canvas pup tent rolled and bagged. He put these on the front seat of his truck. Back in the cabin, he filled a paper sack with food-bologna, bread, peanut butter, strawberry jam, American cheese, and apples. He dropped a butter knife in, as well, and a roll of toilet paper. He put the sack in the truck beside the other things. Finally, he filled two one-gallon plastic milk jugs with tap water and took them to the truck. After he’d locked the doors to his cabin, he headed the truck up the road. He pulled over when he reached the deputy stationed at the highway.

“There’s cops trespassing all over my property.”

The deputy took off his hat and wiped the sweat from the band. “Sorry about that, Mr. LePere. Would you like to talk to the sheriff?”

“No. Tell him he’s welcome to trespass all he wants. I’ll be back when it looks like I can have my privacy again.”

The deputy eyed the gear in the front seat. “Sorry we drove you out.”

LePere replied with an unhappy grunt and hit the highway. He breathed easier once he’d left the cove behind. All those cops made him nervous. He could hear Bridger’s voice in his head, “Just be cool.” It seemed easy for Bridger. All of it. LePere thought about the gun in the log home and how he’d been afraid Bridger would really use it. Which would have been truly tragic. But then, tragedy happened, didn’t it? He’d never asked for or deserved the tragedy that had been his own life. As far as he could tell, it struck like lightning, without warning or just cause. Still, it would have been hard seeing it happen to the O’Connor woman or her boy. He knew her. He’d seen her sometimes when he was in court. She represented the Iron Lake Ojibwe, had represented them even before they had all that casino money. It was too bad she’d stumbled into the middle of all this. Too bad she had to be taken. But Bridger was probably right. They couldn’t be left behind. And there was no harm done. When the money came, they’d be free again.

He followed the road, the old logging trail, toward the ancient trappers’ cabin that stood just outside the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness. The old road was never used, and even if it were, the cabin couldn’t be seen from it. You had to know where to look. LePere knew. And Bridger, now that LePere had shown him.

Dark was coming on as John LePere pulled his truck off the road, through a gap in the pines, and into a small clearing. Bridger was waiting beside his dusty green Econoline van.

“About time,” Bridger said.

LePere stepped from his truck. “Any word on the money?”

“He’ll get it, all right. I offered to send him a couple of body parts as incentive.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Damn straight I would. People do just fine without their pinkies, Chief.”

LePere nodded toward the cabin, a run-down affair with a gaping doorway and no windows. “How’re they doing?”

“‘How’re they doing?’” Bridger’s tone mocked him. “They’re alive, Chief, and that’s all you need to worry about. I’ll spell you in the morning, after I’ve called Lindstrom with the next set of instructions.” A long growl came from his stomach. “Goddamn, I’m hungry. Here.” He handed LePere the handgun.

“What do I need this for? They’re tied up, aren’t they?”

“Insurance. In the SEALs, I learned the most valuable lesson of my life. Never underestimate the likelihood everything’s going to go to hell, and be ready for it. They’re all yours. You can do whatever you want with Lindstrom’s woman, but don’t touch the other one. I’ve already marked her as mine.”

“What are you talking about?”

Bridger laughed. “Relax, Chief. Have a little fun.” He gave LePere a hearty slap on the shoulder, and he got into his van. “See you in the morning.”

He drove off, the noise of the van shattering the peace of an otherwise quiet evening.

The cabin was ancient. It was old even when he’d stumbled onto it with his father one day while they were searching for blueberries. The logs were cedar, the roof of cedar shakes. The door had long ago been lost and the chinking weathered away, but even in the worst heat of the day, the cabin remained cool inside, shaded by the pines at the clearing’s edge and open to the breeze.

The drought had turned the long grasses in the clearing to dry stalks, and they broke with a brittle crackle as LePere made his way toward the gaping doorway. Inside, the cabin was dark and dead quiet. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. He saw that Bridger had left the duct tape in place around everyone’s wrists and had taped their ankles as well. The Fitzgerald woman and her boy had black hoods over their heads. The O’Connor woman was blindfolded with a red bandanna. It looked as if Bridger had torn a strip of material from the O’Connor boy’s shirt and bound it over the kid’s eyes. All the prisoners-he balked at thinking of them in that way, but he couldn’t find a more delicate word-had been separated from one another and bound with tight loops of nylon rope to the uprights that supported the roof beams. The two boys had their heads down and appeared to be sleeping. The women knew he was there. Their heads were cocked and they were listening. He surveyed the room and found no evidence of water or food. Hadn’t Bridger fed them? Given them water? Had he even given them a chance to relieve themselves?

LePere knelt beside the O’Connor woman. She tried to pull away.

“Easy,” he said. “I’m just going to take the tape off your mouth.”

The duct tape stuck pretty well, and she grimaced as he pulled it off.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “You had anything to eat or drink?”

“No.”

“How about going to the bathroom?”

“We’ve been like this since we got here.” She seemed torn between anger and relief.

“All right,” he said.

The boys were awake now, their heads up.

“Look, I’m going to take the tape off your mouths so you can eat something and drink a little water. If you have to relieve yourselves, let me know and we’ll take care of that, too.” He went to the O’Connor boy. “This’ll hurt a bit, son.”

The boy made a sound-“Owww”-as the tape came off.

“There. That better?”

The boy didn’t answer. It was clear that he was scared shitless. LePere could tell from the urine smell that he’d wet his pants already. Well, there was nothing that could be done about that now.

He moved to the next boy, the Fitzgerald kid. He was surprised to find him quivering uncontrollably, and the smell of urine was even stronger on him. LePere lifted the hood over the boy’s head just enough so that he could remove the tape from his mouth. “You okay?” he asked.

The boy’s breathing was deep, labored. LePere noticed a fruity smell on his breath. The boy said nothing, but his mother began making a ruckus. LePere lifted her hood a bit and pulled the tape off her mouth.

“He’s diabetic,” she gasped. “He needs insulin.”

“Ah, shit. How often does he have to have it?”

“Three times a day. And it’s been almost two days now since he had his last injection. Please, he needs insulin, and he needs it soon.”

“Christ.” LePere stepped back, trying to figure the best course. It wasn’t supposed to be this complicated. Why didn’t Bridger know about the boy’s condition? Or maybe he did and just didn’t care. He was a man LePere was disliking more with every minute.

“All right, let’s get some food and water in you,” he growled.

“Could we go to the bathroom first?” the O’Connor woman asked.

“Everyone need to go?”

“Yes,” the Fitzgerald woman replied.

One at a time, he untied them from the wooden uprights, cut free their hands, and took each for a turn out into the clearing. He handed over the roll of toilet paper and allowed a minute or two of privacy. He told them to call when they were finished, and he warned each that he had a gun and he would use it. They gave him no trouble. When they’d all taken their turns, he bound their ankles, then went to his truck and brought back food and water.

“Leave your blindfolds and hoods in place,” he instructed them. “I don’t want to see anything exposed except mouths.” He opened the jug and they passed it around and drank, especially the Fitzgerald boy. He gave them food, dry bread and bologna that, with the exception of the Fitzgerald boy, they ate greedily.

“You’re not like the other one,” the Fitzgerald woman said.

“Who?”

“Your partner. He’s a son of a bitch.”

“I can be, too. Just don’t test me.”

“I feel sick,” the Fitzgerald boy said.

“I’ll get your damn medicine, okay?”

“It’s not too late to end this,” the O’Connor woman said.

“It’s been too late for a dozen years.”

“What does that mean?”

“Forget it. Look-where do I get this insulin?”

“I keep it in the cupboard in the downstairs bathroom,” the rich woman said.

“I can’t go near your place.”

“Any pharmacy.”

“Right. Soon as the police know your boy’s diabetic, they’ll be waiting for me when I walk in the door. Forget it. I’ll figure it out. Everybody, hands behind you.”

“Do you have to-” the Fitzgerald woman began.

“Just shut up and do it.” He pulled her arms behind her and taped her wrists, then scooted her against the post where she’d been tied before. He bound her in place and taped her mouth. He did the same with each of the others.

“I’ll be back,” he said. “You all just sit tight and don’t make any trouble. This’ll all be over soon.”

He left the water jug and the bag of food and headed back toward where he’d parked his truck among the trees at the edge of the clearing. The tall, dry stalks of foxtail and timothy snapped with a sound like small bones breaking as he pushed through. He turned back once. The cabin was a black square against a dark wall of trees that rose up into a sky grown murky with the approach of night. He was tired. The weight of what he was involved in seemed to have grown enormous. In addition to everything else, now he had the sick boy to worry about. Christ, maybe he should just let it be. What was the boy to him?

The thunderheads he’d seen earlier had continued to mount. Now there was lightning far to the northwest. As he opened the door of his pickup, he heard the low rumble of distant thunder, but he didn’t pay it much heed. He was deep in thought. Where the hell am I going to get insulin?