Purgatory Ridge

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 Lake. 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 they’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.”

Cork didn’t offer her any solace. He walked away and quickly left through the back door. He could smell rain in the air, a wet, dusty scent. He felt the wind that swept in over Grace Cove, and when the lightning flashed, he could see the black, restless water. He hurried across the lawn. As he entered the woods between LePere’s cabin and Lindstrom’s home, he felt the first fat drops hit his face.

It was raining heavily by the time he’d stumbled out of the woods. The wind had become a powerful force, shoving the drops nearly horizontal. Cork hustled into his Bronco and started the engine. His wet clothes steamed the windshield, and as he wiped the glass clear with his hand, Lindstrom opened the passenger-side door and got in.

“Let’s go get our families,” the man said.

Cork shoved the Bronco into first gear, hit the accelerator, and headed it for the north shore of Lake Superior.