Purgatory Ridge

He crept down the bank. At first, the ground was hard and rocky. Halfway across, he stepped among reeds and into mud up to his ankles. His feet came out with a loud suck. He paused and listened. All he could hear was Lindstrom breathing very near at his back. He went ahead, through the running water, through the muck on the far side, and finally again onto hard ground under the bridge embankment. Lindstrom brushed his shoulder. Cork went down to his knees and crept up the slope. At the top, he laid himself flat on the ground and peered across the parking area. He could just make out the trash cans.

“What now?” Lindstrom whispered. He had the Colt steadied in front of him with two hands, in a prone position for effective firing. Thank God for his military training, Cork thought.

“Can you see anything?” he asked.

“The cans. Barely,” Lindstrom replied.

Cork wasn’t sure at all what to do next. He didn’t want to risk rushing in. On the other hand, he felt in his gut that something was already wrong, and the sooner he knew what it was, the better. Then he heard the trash can rattle, and Lindstrom drew back the slide on his weapon. A moment later, the quiet of the picnic area was shattered by the crash of metal as one of the trash cans fell over. Lindstrom pulled off a round. Cork flipped on the beam of the flashlight. Caught with his handlike paws full of litter, paralyzed by the light, stood a fat raccoon. Out of the natural mask nature had given the little thief, two eyes blinked. The raccoon dropped to all fours and scurried away.

“We might as well see what there is to see.” Cork stood up.

Lindstrom followed him to the trash cans. The cases were still on the far side. Lindstrom picked one up. “It feels empty,” he said.

Cork shined the light as Lindstrom set the case on the ground and opened it. The money was gone. In the center of the case, pulled from its hidden compartment, lay the transmitter. A note was with it. Lindstrom lifted the paper well into the light so they both could read what was written there.

The note said, “They’re dead. They’re all dead.”

43

IT WAS SCOTT, Grace Fitzgerald’s young son, who finally suggested the means for freeing Stevie from the grip of the bars on the fish house window.

John LePere had stood on an empty wooden crate and tried to force the bars apart. Unfortunately, he’d done a good job in choosing the hardware to make the fish house secure, and the bars wouldn’t budge. He took a section of old board-three feet of two-by-four-wedged it above Stevie’s head, and attempted to pry at least one bar loose from the bolts that anchored it to the window frame. He ended up splintering the board. Jo did her best to comfort Stevie, but as time dragged on, her little boy gave in to his terror. He was sobbing uncontrollably when Scott said quietly from behind the huddled adults, “What about this?”

He held out to them a can he’d found on the nearly empty shelves-motor oil for marine engines, one of the few items Bridger hadn’t removed. “Maybe you could slide him through,” he suggested.

Jo took the can and gave Scott a grateful hug. The boy looked away, embarrassed. “Stevie,” she said. “I’m going to take your shirt and pants off, sweetheart, and then I’m going to put something really slippery all over you. It will feel icky, but I think it will help you squeeze out of those bars. Okay?”

Stevie was still sobbing, but he managed to choke out, “‘kay,” so that Jo knew he understood.

“That’s my good boy.”

LePere supported Stevie’s body while Jo unbuttoned and removed her son’s shirt. She unsnapped his jeans and pulled down the zipper. She had to pull off his shoes to get his pants off. At last, she took a shard of glass from the broken mirror and made a slit in the cardboard side of the oil container. She poured the viscous fluid over his back and rubbed it completely along his sides and chest and stomach. Finally, she dripped the last of it down the bars that held her son prisoner.

“Okay, I think we’re ready. Here goes, honey.” She gave LePere a sign and he lifted Stevie so that the boy could turn his shoulders. Gently, LePere eased him forward. Stevie made a hurting sound. LePere glanced at Jo, who nodded for him to continue. LePere’s face was contorted with concern as he worked Stevie through the bars toward freedom. Once his chest was clear, Stevie nearly shot through the window. LePere held tightly to his ankles.

“I’m going to let you down slowly,” he called to Stevie. “As far as I can. Then I’ll let you drop. I’ll tell you before I do that.” He inched forward until his arms were through the bars up to his shoulders. “Okay, Stevie. I’m going to let go. You shouldn’t drop more than a couple of feet. Roll when you hit the ground. It will help.”

Jo heard a small thump as Stevie fell. She shoved up beside LePere on the crate. “Are you okay, sweetheart?”

Stevie didn’t answer.