Tamarack County

CHAPTER 43

By the time the Land Rover was crawling along Becker Road back in Tamarack County, three inches of new snow had accumulated on the ground and more was falling heavily. There were no tire tracks to follow, and pushing through the storm in the dark, Cork had nothing except the mounds of old plowed snow at the edge of the road to guide him. He leaned forward, his attention focused intensely at the periphery of his headlights so that he wouldn’t miss the mounted black rectangle with the fire number for Eustis Hancock’s cabin. As it turned out, he needn’t have worried. The only sign next to a recently plowed access bore the number Cork had been searching for.

The lane led off to the right, into a heavy stand of mixed evergreen. Cork knew the general area pretty well, and knew that the stand of timber was backed up against the White Iron River, not more than a hundred yards distant. He couldn’t see any lights among the trees, but that could have been simply because of the heavy curtaining of the snowfall. There were no recent tire tracks, so Frogg was either still inside, or gone and had not yet returned. Cork couldn’t take the chance that Frogg might come back and spot the tracks of the Land Rover, so he drove another quarter mile, until he came to a place where a section of the North Star, a snowmobile trail, crossed the road. He pulled the Land Rover onto the trail and into the cover of the trees. He took his Maglite from the glove box, got out, locked the doors, and started back toward Hancock’s cabin.

He kept to the side of the road, hoping his boot tracks wouldn’t be noticeable to anyone traveling in the storm. When he came to the access to Hancock’s place, he leaped the mound of plowed snow at the side of the road and began to wade through the drifts to keep from leaving any sign of his presence on the access lane.

He came to a small clearing and knew the cabin had to be near. He still saw no lights, but he killed the beam of the Maglite and went forward slowly, blindly. In the dark, he almost ran headlong into the structure. He walked around it carefully, came to the front, risked the light, found a beaten trail to the door, which he followed with the beam away from the cabin twenty yards until the light illuminated the green pickup with the mounted plow blade in front and a snowmobile trailer on the hitch in back.

Frogg was there. In the cabin. Asleep, maybe, because there was no light on that Cork could see. He was tempted to burst in and take the man, but the cold voice of reason told him to be patient. He retraced his steps into the cover of the timber and called Dross on his cell phone.

* * *

She came with three deputies-Azevedo, Pender, and Bronson, all members of her Critical Incident Response Team. Cork had arranged to meet her on Becker Road, where the access to Hancock’s cabin split off. Azevedo and Pender brought snowmobiles, just in case. They parked their vehicles at the side of the road, left the parking lights on to provide some illumination, got out, and gathered. They wore body armor. Pender and Bronson carried Mossbergs. Azevedo held a Stinger one-man battering ram. Dross gave instructions. She, Azevedo, and Bronson would take the front door. Pender would position himself in back, in case the man made a run for it that way.

“And I just stand by and watch?” Cork asked.

“We take it from here,” Dross said.

“Mind if I follow at a reasonable distance?”

The wind had increased, and the snow now came at a sharp slant out of the west. Cork turned and put his back against the shove of the storm. Dross, when she looked at him, had to squeeze her eyes nearly shut against the wind and snow, and it made her look a little like a mole about to tunnel.

“I want you to stay here,” she said. “When we have Frogg, you can come in then.”

“You lose him-”

“We won’t,” she said.

That cold voice of reason in his head told Cork that he’d done his part. He’d located Frogg. Now it was time to let the hunters bring him down. It wasn’t easy, but he nodded his assent.

They moved down the access toward Hancock’s cabin, disappearing one by one as if eaten by the storm. Cork stayed where he’d promised he would, although everything inside him was taut with an urgency to act. If he’d still smoked and had a cigarette handy, he would have lit up. As it was, he paced.

He found himself thinking about Cecil LaPointe and how the man held no enmity toward Cork and the others who’d had a hand in putting him behind bars for all those years. LaPointe believed they’d simply played the parts they were always meant to play in shaping his life. Cork wondered about Walter Frogg. Was he always meant to play this part in Stephen’s life and Evelyn Carter’s? He envied LaPointe’s certainty and his serenity, because at the moment, Cork was certain of nothing and what filled him was a rage that precluded any hope of peace.

Two minutes. Three. He heard nothing. After five minutes, he began to rethink his promise.

Then he heard a shot, a single shot, a crack that split the sound of the storm. And then it was only wind again, rushing past him with a liquid hush.

He waited, which took all the control he had. Several minutes later, a figure appeared before him, as if disgorged by the night.

“We broke in,” Azevedo said. “He’s been there, but he’s not there now. The sheriff wants you.”

“What was the shot?”

“Something moved when we were inside the cabin. A raccoon. Bronson nailed it.”

Cork followed the deputy to the cabin, where fingers of flashlight beam were poking around inside. As he entered, he saw the splintering of the door that had been accomplished with the battering ram. It was a one-room cabin, rustic as hell-an old, scarred table, two wooden chairs, a bunk, a sink and counter. No electricity, but there was a woodstove against one wall and a Coleman gas lantern sat on the table. Outside somewhere, Cork figured, there’d be an outhouse. The place smelled old, smelled ignored and rotting. It also smelled of cordite-Bronson’s shot-and Cork saw a little mound of dark gray fur in one corner.

“Well, it’s a roof over his head, I suppose,” Dross said.

She stood at the center of the cabin, the beam of her light on a big canvas travel bag sitting on a sleeping bag that had been spread out on the bunk. The room was cold, though not so cold as the night outside.

“The stove’s still warm,” she added.

Cork said, “Where is he?”

“Pender found snowmobile tracks leading onto the river. Frogg is out, but he’ll be back.”

“Not if he sees all these flashlights,” Cork said.

Dross said, “Bronson’s down on the ice, watching for him. We’ll be ready.”

Cork went to the window that overlooked the White Iron River. It was too dark to see the ice. “I’ve been thinking about Evelyn Carter,” he said.

“What about her?” Dross replied.

“We found her car on the Old Babbitt Road, not far from the Vermilion trailhead. That trail connects with the North Star Trail, which crosses Becker Road a quarter mile north of here. I’m thinking that the night Evelyn went missing, Frogg intercepted her on her way home, killed her, dumped her body somewhere. He drove her Buick out to the Old Babbitt Road, siphoned the gas, and walked to his snowmobile, which he’d left at the trailhead. Probably drove the sled back to wherever he intercepted her, which was also where he’d parked his pickup and the snowmobile trailer. Then he hightailed it here to wait and see if we bought his scheme.”

Dross thought it over and gave a slight nod. “She knew him well. If he waved her down, she would have stopped.” She thought some more. “And we didn’t find any blood in her car, so he probably killed her and dumped her body wherever he stopped her.”

“Had to be off the road where he wouldn’t readily be seen by passing motorists,” Cork prodded. “All the roads out to her place are pretty well traveled.”

Dross looked at him and understanding dawned in her eyes. “You think he stopped her in that long driveway that leads up to her house.”

Cork said, “We’ve been looking in the wrong places. Exactly what Frogg wanted.”

“We’re in the right place now,” Dross said.

“When he comes back, you ought to have your snowmobiles off their trailers and ready to roll, just in case,” Cork said.

Dross said, “Pender, get the sleds.”

“If you won’t let me help apprehend him, I can at least help with that,” Cork said.

Azevedo gave Cork the key to the snowmobile he’d hauled, and Cork followed Pender back to Becker Road. Pender had used a trailer to bring his sled, and he had it unloaded pretty quickly. Azevedo had brought the other snowmobile in the bed of his Tacoma pickup and had used a trifold aluminum ramp to get it there. Cork was still setting up the ramp when Pender sped down the access back toward Hancock’s cabin. Cork finally got the ramp secured and tried to start the engine. It was an old Arctic Cat and reluctant, in that cold, to kick over. Eventually, he got it idling, gave it a couple of minutes, then backed it down the ramp. He decided to give it a few more minutes to warm up before revving it and joining the others.

He turned his back to the wind and thought about Frogg, worried about where the man had gone. He used his cell to call the house on Gooseberry Lane. Anne answered and told him everything was fine there. She asked when he’d be home and when they’d be going back to Duluth to be with Stephen.

He told her, “Soon, honey, real soon. Is Deputy Mercer there?”

She gave him over to the deputy.

Cork knew that Dross had let Ken Mercer in on the situation with Frogg, and had cautioned him to say nothing to Cork’s family until they had the man in custody.

“Frogg isn’t at the cabin,” Cork told the deputy. “As nearly as we can tell, he’s taken off on a snowmobile. God knows where. You keep a sharp eye out, understand?”

“Ten-four, Cork,” Mercer said. “You’ll keep me informed?”

“I will,” he said. “And, Ken?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

He slid the phone back into its holster on his belt and was just about to mount the idling Arctic Cat when he heard something, a distant, familiar whine above the rush of the wind. It was a sound that in the North Country in winter was as ubiquitous as the buzz of mosquitoes in summer. A snowmobile was speeding toward him on Becker Road.