Purgatory Ridge

When Cork stepped out of the trees, he saw Lindstrom a hundred yards south, heading toward the marina. It was after eight. The sun sat on the western edge of Aurora looking tired as a bloodshot eye ready to close. Lindstrom moved quickly through the long shadows of the maples that lined the street. Every so often, he scanned the lake. He reached the bait shop at the marina, stopped, and stood staring at the docks where rows of sailboats and motor launches were moored.

Most boats had come in. A few persistent fishermen lingered far out on the water. The marina was empty. The bait shop had closed. As he approached, Cork saw Lindstrom take the paper from his pocket, read it again, then glance at his watch.

“Karl?”

Lindstrom jumped and his hand shot toward his belt under his sports coat. “Christ, O’Connor. What are you doing here?”

“You looked to me like a man with trouble on his hands. I thought maybe I could help.”

“You can’t, okay? Just go somewhere else. Anywhere else.”

Cork nodded at the paper clenched in Lindstrom’s fist. “What’s in the note, Karl?”

“Just go away, O’Connor. Now.” Lindstrom eyed his watch again.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake-here.” Lindstrom shoved the note at him.

It had been made from words and letters cut out of a newspaper and pasted onto a blank sheet of typing paper.

We are all dead men. Unless we talk. Take a boat ride on the Matador. Dock 3. Marina. 8:15. Meet you middle of the lake.

Eco-Warrior

“Now will you just get out of here?” Lindstrom pleaded. “I don’t want to scare him away.”

“You’re not really going to walk into this, are you, Karl?”

“I’m not afraid.” Although it was obvious he was.

“Karl, this is crazy.”

“If there’s really a chance to put an end to all this, I’m not going to pass it up.”

“Whoever this Eco-Warrior is, he’s already killed once.”

“Everyone agrees that was an accident.”

“Look, Karl, if he really wants to end it, the way to do that is to give himself up.”

“You sound like a cop.”

“I think like a cop. And I’m thinking this is a setup. Maybe you are, too, and that’s why you brought the hardware you stuck in your belt.”

“It’s licensed.”

“Fine. Wonderful. It’s licensed. And you’ve got it with you because you don’t trust this situation either. Use your head, for Christ’s sake.”

“Shut up, O’Connor. Just shut up.” He tipped his wrist and glanced at his watch. “It’s almost eight-fifteen. I’m going.”

Lindstrom started away, but Cork reached out to restrain him.

“Karl, it feels all wrong. Look.” He waved his hand over the deserted marina. “Where is he?”

“Out on the lake. That’s why I’m taking a boat ride.”

“Maybe. And maybe this is all just a way of getting you out here alone. If he wants an easy target, that’s exactly what you’re giving him.”

“Listen, O’Connor, if this really does have a chance of ending the violence and I turn away, how do you think I’m going to feel? How would you feel? You want to know the truth? I’m scared shitless. But I’ve got to know. You understand?”

He pulled away from Cork and walked to the dock third distant from the bait shop. The dock jutted thirty or forty yards into the lake and nearly every slip on both sides was filled with a vessel. Lindstrom, as he stood a moment in the red light of the setting sun, cast an elongated shadow across the boards in front of him. He put his hand at his waist inside his coat, and he walked forward.

Cork scanned the marina, trying to see everything-all three docks, all the moored boats. The long angle of the sunlight created so many shadowed enclaves that there were a hundred places for a man to hide. A slight breeze blew across the lake, and the boats rocked gently, creating the illusion of movement on every deck.

Lindstrom walked slowly, looking carefully right and left, reading the names painted on the bows of the vessels, seeking the one called Matador. Cork glanced at his watch. The hands were just now touching eight-fifteen. He realized Lindstrom’s watch was running fast by a couple of minutes.

He shouted, “Karl!”

Lindstrom paused halfway down the dock and turned back.

The explosion blew a small sailboat at the end of the dock into a blur of smoke and fragments. The other boats there shoved back and tugged at their moorings like nervous ponies. Splintered board rained down on the marina, peppering the water and Cork. Lindstrom was down.

Cork ran to dock 3 where Lindstrom lay on his back, not moving. When Cork reached him, he saw that Lindstrom’s eyes were open and he was staring up at the sky.

“Am I dead?” he asked.

Cork shook his head. “Are you hurt?”

“What? I can’t hear you.”

“Hurt.” Cork mouthed the word and felt his own body in pantomime.

“I don’t know.” Lindstrom tried to rise, but Cork kept him down.

“Stay there.” Cork gestured with his hands. Then he put an imaginary phone to his ear. “I’m going to call you in. We’ll have some paramedics here in no time.”

“Huh?”

“Stay.”