Purgatory Ridge

“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.

45

“STEVIE!” Jo yelled toward LePere’s little house. “Turn the light off! He’s coming back!”

It was only one light, and it shone east, away from where the narrow lane approached the cove. Still, in all that darkness, it seemed to blaze.

“The light, Stevie. He’ll see the light! Turn it off!” She was shouting so hard it made her throat raw. God, couldn’t he hear her?

The grumble of the engine and the rattle of the undercarriage were audible. If she shouted anymore, she was afraid Bridger might hear. But she had to risk it. Just as she opened her mouth to scream again, the light died. Jo watched for Stevie’s little body to emerge from the dark of the house. He never came. The van parked in the yard. The door opened. The interior light blinked on. Jo saw Bridger slide out, then reach back. He pulled out what looked like a big canvas mailbag. He glanced her way, and Jo shrank back from the window. Bridger headed toward the house.

“Oh, Stevie,” she said, quietly and desperately.