Purgatory Ridge

48

BRIDGER PUSHED OPEN the fish house door and turned on the light. He stepped aside, and Lindstrom ushered the others in.

When Jo saw Cork, she let out a cry. He sat on the floor, propped against the wall, his shirt drenched with blood. “Oh Jesus, no.” She dropped to her knees beside him.

His eyes fluttered open, and when he saw her, a faint smile came to his lips. “You’re alive.”

They’d taped her wrists behind her again-taped all their wrists-so she couldn’t reach out to him, couldn’t help him in any way. She saw that he’d managed to unbutton his shirt and pull it aside. In his left hand was a folded, bloody handkerchief that he held pressed against his shoulder a few inches above his right nipple.

“How bad?” she asked.

“Just a hole,” Cork whispered. “One little hole.”

Stevie stood near his father, blinking as he tried to comprehend all the blood and his father’s helplessness.

“Hey, buddy,” Cork said. It was barely more than a mumble. He tried to lift his right arm toward his son, but the move made him groan, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the pain.

“I don’t understand, Karl,” Grace Fitzgerald said. She stood against the wall with Scott beside her.

“Sit down, all of you. Wes, see to the boats. Let me know when you’re ready. And that gun you have. I’ll take it.”

“Why?” Bridger asked darkly.

“Because it’s unregistered, and we’re going to wipe it clean of prints and leave it in Mr. LePere’s house. When they find it, they’ll do ballistics and discover that it’s the same gun that was fired in my home on Grace Cove. Further evidence of Mr. LePere’s guilt.” He held out his hand, and Bridger-a bit reluctantly, it seemed to Jo-yielded him the weapon.

After Bridger made his exit, Lindstrom leaned casually against one of the tables where LePere’s father had cleaned fish. “You know, Grace, I loved you once, really loved you. I’d have died for you, you know that?” He stuffed the handgun Bridger had given him into the waist of his pants, but he kept the other pointed at his prisoners.

“I don’t believe it,” she replied.

He shrugged. “Fine. Whatever. I did kill for you once.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your beloved Edward. It wasn’t the lake that got him. It was Bridger. At my direction.”

Grace stared in disbelief. “You… killed Edward?”

“I thought that with him out of the way, I’d have a chance. But he still had you, even dead.” Lindstrom waved it off, as if it were really nothing to him now. “The point is that when it became clear to me that you would never love me, it also became clear that someday you’d leave me. Now, that was a thing I couldn’t abide. For many reasons.”

“You… planned all this?”

“Meticulously, Grace.”

“How’d you know Wes?” John LePere asked.

“He told you a story once, I believe, about a covert operation he was involved in as a SEAL that sank a Libyan tanker. That was my operation. Wes impressed me as a man with many skills and few scruples. I tracked him down when I decided to get rid of Edward.”

Cork coughed and groaned. Jo longed to hold him, to give him some comfort, to ease his pain. She glanced at Stevie and saw that his eyes were glazed. He stared at her as if he didn’t see her at all, as if he saw nothing anymore. She understood. How could so brief a life, so protected an existence, comprehend such horror as he’d been through?

Bridger opened the door and stepped in dripping rain. “All set. Here’s the remote detonator.” He handed the device to Lindstrom.

“We’re going for a boat ride,” Karl Lindstrom said to Jo and the others. “I’ll tell you up-front that you won’t be coming back. Now, I can kill you right here, or you can walk to the boats and have a few more precious minutes of life. I’d prefer not to have to carry you down to the dock, but the choice is yours.” He glanced at his watch. “You’d better decide fast. I have to get back to Grace Cove before I’m missed.”

He waited. LePere finally stood up. So did Grace and Scott. Stevie, who’d never sat down, stood blank-faced and rigid.

“You have to get up, Cork,” Jo whispered desperately. “Please get up.”

Cork slowly worked his way to his hands and knees, then pulled himself up by holding on to one of the tables. He stood, wavering, leaning heavily against Jo.

Karl Lindstrom said, “Give him a hand, Wes.”

“He’s all bloody.”

“So buy yourself a new shirt tomorrow. You’ll be able to afford it.”

“Why don’t you help him?”

“Somebody’s got to hold the gun.”

“Shit.” Bridger worked his shoulder under Cork’s arm and walked him to the door.

“Let’s go,” Lindstrom said, and he followed behind them.

They stumbled into the storm, walking a muddy path to the dock. Even with her arms bound behind her back, Jo managed to grab hold of the front of Stevie’s shirt, and she pulled him along behind her. He followed like a zombie. Bridger had tied the stolen motor launch to the stern of the Anne Marie with a tow line. They all climbed aboard LePere’s boat. Bridger hauled Cork over the gunwale and let him drop in the cockpit.

“That’s as far as I take him,” Bridger declared.

Lindstrom herded the others out of the rain into the deckhouse of the Anne Marie, but he left Cork where he’d fallen. “Just get him out of the way so we don’t trip over him,” he instructed Bridger.

Looking back, Jo saw Wesley Bridger roll Cork against the side of the cockpit, where he lay like a dead fish waiting to be gutted.

Lindstrom directed them to the other end of the deckhouse where a companionway to the left of the helm station led below. At the bottom of the short flight of steps, they entered the small, forward cabin that had a V berth shaped to the bow. Lindstrom shoved LePere to the floor. Jo and the others crammed themselves onto the berth. Bridger stepped down and joined his cohort.

“I’ll take her out. You keep them out of mischief,” Lindstrom said. He headed up to the wheel inside the deckhouse. Bridger closed the cabin door and stayed with the others belowdeck.

The Anne Marie pulled away from the dock. On the relatively calm water of Purgatory Cove, the boat rocked gently. As soon as Karl Lindstrom headed it out beyond the protection of the rocks, the bow began to buck wildly. Stevie sat beside Jo, stiff as a plastic doll. Grace and Scott were in the bunk on the other side of the V berth. LePere sat on the floor with his back against a door marked storage.

Bridger braced himself against the pitching of the boat and grinned at them. “Feels worse than it is. The waves are only three or four feet. Nothing, really. Relax and enjoy the ride.”

“Where are you taking us?” Grace asked.

“Not far. A mile or so out, just beyond where the lake bottom drops away. We want you deep.”

Jo thought about the remote detonator Bridger had handed to Lindstrom. She considered the motor launch in tow, and she understood. They meant to sink the Anne Marie and use the launch to return to Purgatory Cove.

Bridger seemed to discern her thought process. “We’re not going to blow you up,” he said. “We don’t want to attract attention with a big explosion and we don’t want any debris. No, I’ve rigged just enough of a charge to scuttle her. I figure it’ll take fifteen minutes, maybe twenty. Then you and the boat and all the evidence will be gone. But you won’t have to worry about that, because you’ll already be dead.”

Jo asked, “How much has he promised you?”

“What difference does it make to you? Thinking of trying a counter offer?” Bridger laughed.

“I was just thinking about something you said today.”

“Yeah? And what was that?”

“The only way for two people to keep a secret is if one of them is dead. Your exact words, I believe.”

“Lawyers,” Bridger scoffed.

“Think about it. What more does Karl need from you? You gave him your gun and he has the detonator. Right now, all you are to him is a loose end. One of two people who share a secret.”

“Shut up,” Bridger said. But Jo could tell he was thinking.

The boat pitched hard to port, and Stevie nearly fell off the bunk. Jo threw her leg across him and eased him back. He didn’t seem to be aware of it at all. He didn’t even seem to be blinking. A part of Jo thought maybe that was best. If they were going to die, she’d rather her son were somewhere else in his consciousness, somewhere he couldn’t see death coming.

“On the other hand,” Jo went on, once again addressing Bridger, “what’s he to you now but a loose end? You have two million dollars. How much more do you really need? The police will investigate him. They’ll start sifting and sorting and even though everything points another way, they’ll consider Karl Lindstrom seriously. The Fitzgerald fortune is such a magnificent motive. Has he really covered all his tracks? Think about it for a moment, Mr. Bridger. If they nail him and he wants to cut a deal, what does he have to offer them except you?”

She saw a look in his eyes, the kind she’d often seen in the jury box when she knew she’d put well into their minds the question of reasonable doubt. Bridger reached down and lifted his right pant leg. Strapped to his calf was a sheathed knife. He unsnapped the leather guard that secured the hilt.

“You all just sit tight,” he said. He winked at Jo. “Could’ve used you in the SEALs.” Once more he braced himself in the companionway and waited. When the motor cut out, he tensed.

Lindstrom pulled the cabin door open. He had the gun in his hand. He said to Bridger, “Topside, Wes. We need to confer.”

“Confer,” Bridger said. “Right.”

Lindstrom stepped back on deck and Bridger followed warily. The door closed. The waves thumped the side of the boat, and the hull creaked and groaned. Jo slid quickly from the bunk. “Move away from there,” she said to LePere.

He scooted from the storage compartment, and Jo tried desperately to open the door, hoping there would be something inside-a knife, anything-that might free them. Her taped hands were little help. She was still struggling when something slammed hard against the cabin door. A guttural cry of pain followed. Jo kept working at the latch as the sound of a fight in the deckhouse carried down to them. The crack of a pistol shot, followed almost immediately by another, brought the scuffle to an abrupt end.

They all stared at the cabin door.

When it opened, Karl Lindstrom stepped down. He looked drawn, and Jo saw a red stain on his right side above his belt line.

“He had a knife strapped to his leg,” Jo said.

“Yesterday’s news,” Lindstrom replied.

“We were hoping he’d kill you.”

“You were hoping we’d kill each other. Bad luck for you. Just a nick.”

“How will you explain it in the morning? You cut yourself shaving?”

“I’ll think of something,” Lindstrom said. “I always have.”

He held the gun in his right hand and the detonator in the other. Jo knew they’d reached the end. Would he shoot them first?

She didn’t wonder long. Nor did it ultimately matter.

Lindstrom stumbled suddenly down the steps. A look of astonishment stretched all the features of his face. He opened his mouth, and Jo thought he might speak, but all that came out was a brief, hard grunt. He dropped the gun and reached backward as if trying to grasp something behind him. He dropped to his knees in the middle of the cabin, then fell forward, facedown. In three places, the back of his shirt was stained with widening patterns of blood.

Cork teetered at the top of the cabin stairway. In his hand, he gripped the knife Bridger had used in his fight with Lindstrom. The blade glistened with Lindstrom’s blood from tip to hilt. The bow of the Anne Marie rose and dipped, pitching Cork down the steps into the cabin. He stumbled over Lindstrom’s prone form, bounced off the berth, and fell at LePere’s feet. He’d dropped the knife. Slowly, painfully, he reached out, took it again in his grasp, and lifted it toward LePere.

John LePere quickly turned himself around and ran the duct tape that bound his wrists along the sharp edge of the knife while Cork held it. He tore his hands free, took the blade from Cork, and cut the others loose.

Jo sat on the floor and cradled her husband’s head in her lap. “Stay with me, Cork.”

“Always,” he whispered.

LePere said, “I’m going topside. I’ll take us back in.”

He hadn’t gone a step when Grace Fitzgerald cried out, “No!” and reached toward Karl Lindstrom.

Jo saw why. She watched in horror what none of them was able to stop. Karl Lindstrom had turned his head toward his left hand, in which he still held the detonator. Before anyone could prevent him, he squeezed his fingers around the device. A muffled explosion followed, and the Anne Marie shivered as if she’d been kicked.

“You son of a bitch,” Grace yelled.

“I always was a bad loser,” Lindstrom murmured.

LePere danced around Lindstrom and hurried up to the deck. He came back a moment later, looking grim.

“He’s blown a hole in the stern. We’re taking on water.”

“What about the other boat?” Jo said.

LePere shook his head. “The blast blew the tow line free. The other boat’s gone. I can’t even see it.”

“Don’t you have life vests?” Grace asked.

“In the deckhouse,” LePere said. “Let’s clear this cabin. I have to get into that storage compartment. I keep an inflatable raft there. Hurry. We don’t have much time.”

“Take Stevie up, Grace. I’ll help Cork.”

“You’re not strong enough,” LePere told her. “You get the raft. I’ll take your husband.” He lifted Cork in his arms and started up the steps behind the others.

Jo found the rolled, yellow rubber raft and two small oars where LePere had indicated. By the time she’d grabbed the items, water ran down the companionway and lay several inches deep in the cabin.

Lindstrom rolled to his back and said in a wet, bubbly voice, “Help me.”

“Ask God, not me.” Jo didn’t even pause as she stepped over him and headed topside.

Without power or guidance, the boat had turned broadside to the wind, and it tilted dangerously as it rode up the waves and rolled into the troughs. Jo struggled through the deckhouse toward the stern doorway, the shifting angle of the boat throwing her off balance at every step. LePere shouted into the radio mike at the helm station, “Mayday. Mayday. Mayday. This is the Anne Marie. We have a damaged hull and are sinking fast.” He repeated the message several times, giving the coordinates, then abandoned the radio and helped Jo with the raft and oars. They skirted Bridger, who lay facedown in the water that sloshed in the deckhouse, two bloodstains merging across the back of his shirt.

Outside, the cockpit was awash with water calf deep. With both hands, Scott was holding tightly to the railing of the ladder that led up to the flying bridge. He wore an orange life vest that was too big for him. Beside Scott, Grace held herself to the ladder with one hand and held to Stevie with the other. Stevie, too, wore a big life vest. One more vest was draped across the ladder. Cork sat alone, propped against the side of the boat. Jo could see damage to the stern railing, and the list of the Anne Marie was becoming more obvious by the moment.

LePere cut the rope that held the raft in a roll, and he pulled the cord to open the air valve. The raft inflated quickly.

Jo saw immediately it was too small. “We won’t fit,” she screamed, beginning to lose control. She’d held herself together for so long that she felt utterly exhausted, ready to give in to panic.

“The two of you.” LePere pointed to Jo and Grace. “And the boys. You can fit.”

“I’m not leaving Cork.”

“He can’t help you.”

“I’m not leaving him,” Jo shouted at LePere. She looked toward her husband. He was flopping like a rag doll as the waves pitched the Anne Marie about. Even so, it was obvious that the shake of his head was intentional. He was telling Jo no.

She knelt beside him. “I can’t go without you.”

She had to lean very near to hear his answer.

“You have to,” he said.

“How can I leave you, Cork?”

“We’ll never leave each other.” He nodded toward where Stevie stood, held steady by Grace Fitzgerald. “Get our son home safely. Do that for me. Promise.”

Although rain ran in rivers down her face, it wasn’t the rain that made her eyes blur. “Cork-”

“No time. Promise,” he insisted.

She yielded. “I promise.”

“I love you,” he whispered against her cheek.

“I love you,” she whispered back. She couldn’t say good-bye, couldn’t manage any more words at all. She kissed him, kissed him just that once, then she turned away.

LePere held the third vest out to Grace and Jo. “It’s the last one I have. Who wears it?”

“You,” Grace said to him.

“It won’t do me any good. In this lake, I’d just freeze to death.”

“Then could you put it on my husband?” Jo asked LePere. “I don’t want to lose him forever.”

She looked to Grace, who seemed to understand her purpose. Bodies without life vests did not float in Lake Superior. The lake didn’t give up its dead. Grace nodded her assent.

“Into the raft,” LePere shouted. Then, “Wait.” He went into the deckhouse and came back with a small compass that he gave to Jo. “Hold a northwest heading, into the wind.”

Jo put her arms briefly around the man. “Thank you.”

“God be with you,” he said and pushed her toward the raft.

The stern, riding low in the water, was the easiest place from which to launch. LePere held the raft as steady as he could while Jo and the others got in. The rough seas made it difficult, but finally Grace was settled in back with one of the oars and Jo in front with the other. The two boys huddled in the middle, Scott with his arms around Stevie. LePere shoved them off.

They headed into a wind that threw the lake at them. Jo dug at the water with all her strength. They rode several feet up a swell, then dropped into the trough behind it. The black water broke over them with numbing cold, and it was clear to Jo that they were not much better off in the little yellow raft than they’d been on the foundering Anne Marie. Holding the compass near her face, she checked direction. She allowed herself one look back. She could barely see the lights of the boat. The mouth of darkness was already open, ready to swallow Cork forever. She turned her mind and her will to keeping her final promise to her husband.

For a long time, they battled the lake, using the squat oars as paddles. Jo’s arms had never hurt so much. Moving into the wind was tiring, but it was good in a way. They held their course more easily. Jo couldn’t tell at all if they were making distance. She didn’t speak to Grace, but she could feel the push of the other oar behind her as steady as her own. After three quarters of an hour, the wind slackened and the rain began to let up. In a few minutes, the storm passed. The lake grew calmer. As if a curtain had been pulled away, the moon and stars emerged, turning the water in front of them silver. At the end of the silver, Jo saw the black rise of land several hundred yards away, with lights scattered along the shoreline.

“We made it!” Grace shouted triumphantly at her back.

Not all of us, Jo thought, staring at the dark land ahead. And not all of me.