Purgatory Ridge

“You mean detonation when Harold Loomis was farthest from the blast,” Jo said in clarification.

“Technically speaking, it wasn’t a detonation,” Owen said. “It was a deflagration. A slower form of explosion.”

“By a whole thousandth of a second,” Earl said. “Mark loves to show off.”

Owen smiled boyishly. “Just keeping the record straight, Dave. I wish we’d been able to question Mr. Loomis immediately. It would have been best to test his hands and clothing for residue.”

“You don’t suspect Loomis of doing this?!” Lindstrom seemed on the edge of outrage.

In a reasonable tone, Earl said, “It would have been good to be able to eliminate him completely as a suspect, that’s all.”

“Does that mean you don’t think Charlie Warren was responsible for this?” Jo asked.

Schanno answered, “It means we don’t really know what happened, and we’ve got to consider all the possibilities.”

“Not Harold Loomis,” Lindstrom insisted.

“Look, Karl,” Schanno said, “even taking into account his age, Loomis seems to have observed very little and remembered even less.”

Lindstrom looked as if he’d hit some kind of wall. “I don’t get it. I’m threatened. My mill is attacked. Outside that gate are a lot of people who aren’t sorry in the least that this has happened. But here you are, questioning my employees. Christ, is this the way justice works in Minnesota now?” He didn’t wait for an answer but turned and stomped across the yard toward the mill offices.

“We should be going,” Jo said. “Wally, I appreciate the call.”

“We’ve all got to live together here, Jo,” Schanno replied.

It was nearing dark when they left. The protestors had called it a day. The road in front of the mill was empty. Cork and Jo were quiet for much of the drive into Aurora. As they neared the first traffic light, Jo asked, “What would Charlie Warren have been doing there?”

“Anyone’s guess at this point,” Cork replied.

“Karl Lindstrom seems so ready to believe it was Charlie who planted that bomb.”

“Given the way things look, if I didn’t know Charlie, I’d probably suspect him. Karl doesn’t know the Anishinaabe people except as someone on the other side of this logging issue. And he’s under a lot of pressure.”

The light turned green and Cork drove on. The street lamps were just starting to flicker on. In Knudsen Park, a game of softball was already being played under stadium lights.

“You grant Lindstrom a lot,” Jo observed.

“I don’t have any reason not to. I don’t represent anybody.”

Jo watched the softballers and said quietly, “Lindstrom was right about one thing. You shouldn’t be involved in this.”

“Aurora’s a small town. Everyone’s involved in this.”

“Not the way you are.” She looked at him. It was too dark for him to see her face clearly. “You shouldn’t have been there tonight. Even Wally Schanno couldn’t defend that one.”

They were quiet the rest of the way home. Stevie was still up and Cork volunteered to put him to bed. He read for a few minutes-James and the Giant Peach-but Stevie was so tired he was asleep after one page. Cork turned on the night-light and turned off the lamp. He stood a while looking out the window. Stevie’s breathing was soft and steady at his back. Through the branches of the elm tree in the backyard, a gentle wind blew, the breathing of the night. The dark air smelled of smoke, of the distant fires. Cork left the room. As he headed down the hallway, he heard Jo and the girls talking downstairs. There was a moment of soft laughter. He got himself ready for bed and lay on top of the covers. He thought about that morning, the moment he’d opened his arms to Jo and they were about to make love. It seemed like a long time ago. He felt more tired than one day should have made him. He waited. Jo didn’t come up. At last, he fell asleep, so deeply he didn’t know if she ever came to bed.

8

LEPERE HAD STRONG, HOT COFFEE in a metal thermos, and he handed the thermos to Wesley Bridger as the man got into the truck.

“You look like hell,” LePere said.

Bridger steadied his hands and poured coffee. “I’ll be fine. It’s this getting up before the goddamn birds.”

“It’s the whiskey before bed.”

“Fuck you, Mom.”

Bridger bent to his coffee as LePere kicked his old pickup into gear and took off. Coffee splashed down the front of Bridger’s shirt.

“What the hell’re you doing?”

LePere smiled at the road ahead that was just beginning to glow with morning sunlight. “Hot shower.”

Despite the coffee, Bridger slept most of the way. After an hour, LePere hit Illgen City and turned south onto Minnesota State Highway 61. On his right, the hills that formed the southern tip of the Sawtooth Mountains were bathed in the gold of a beautiful morning light. From the base of the Sawtooths, Lake Superior spread east, dark blue water running unbroken to the horizon where it fused with the softer blue of the sky.

Clear day, LePere thought. Perfect for the dive. Bridger shifted, opened his eyes, blinked at the sun that struck him full in the face.

“Hungry?” LePere asked.