Purgatory Ridge

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?”