Purgatory Ridge

The water was ice cold, but LePere barely noticed. He grabbed the boy, who was bobbing in the wake of a swell, and put his right arm firmly around Stevie’s chest. When the next wave swept in, LePere felt the power of the lake lift them both as if they were nothing. He turned before he hit the rock, took the blow fully against his side and shoulder, sparing the boy. The lake tried to tear Stevie from his grasp, but LePere was damned if he’d lose the boy now. He threw his free arm out, groping for a firm hold. His hand grasped a ragged edge, and he clamped his fingers tight around it. He pulled himself up and pushed the boy ahead so that Jo O’Connor could reach him. As soon as Stevie left his arms, the next wave hit and scraped LePere across the rock, facedown. Two more waves manhandled him before he was able to pull himself from the water. He could feel a warm flow of blood down his face. He would have preferred to rest a moment, but even a moment was not something he wanted to waste. He waved them all to move ahead, and he followed.

Grace Fitzgerald now lit the way. When they reached the other side of the ridge, LePere could see the lights from resort cabins along the shoreline a half mile distant. He looked back. The light behind had gained on them significantly. He knew they wouldn’t reach the cabins before Bridger caught up with them.

“Go ahead,” he called to the others.

“What about you?” Jo O’Connor called back.

LePere pointed toward the approaching flashlight beam. “I’ll take care of him. Go on. Just go.”

The women went ahead with their sons. LePere found a boulder that would hide him, and he crouched to spring. As the flashlight beam slid past, he leaped and took the man down. They wrestled briefly on the rock before a gunshot stopped them both. LePere, who lay pressed on top of the man with the flashlight, heard Bridger’s voice speaking at his back.

“Let him up, John.”

LePere stood up. He saw that Bridger held a pistol trained on the women and the boys.

“He was waiting for us,” Jo O’Connor said.

The man who’d followed them pushed up and used his flashlight a moment to search for his handgun. When he found it, he faced the others.

“Karl?” Grace Fitzgerald’s voice was filled with bewilderment.

“Hello, Grace. Hey there, Scott. Good work, Wes,” Lindstrom called to Bridger.

“You know this man?” the woman asked her husband.

“Know him? Hell, I hired him. Look, let’s all go back to LePere’s cozy little place and discuss this. Oh, and by the way, Jo, I’ve got a special surprise for you back there. And for you, too, Stevie. Would you like to see your daddy?”

“Cork’s there?” Jo O’Connor asked.

“He was when I left. And I’m sure he hasn’t gone anywhere.” He waved them off the ridge with his gun. “Let’s go. Time’s wasting.”

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.”