Purgatory Ridge

The Quetico was a large resort and conference center set on the shoreline of Iron Lake a few miles south of Aurora. The main building was an enormous, multiwinged structure with a log facade. On the outside, it projected a relaxed, old North Woods persona. Inside, it was slick and modern, with vast conference rooms, an Olympic-size pool, and the best wood-roast restaurant in the state. There was a wide, sandy beach, a small marina, a number of luxurious cabins hidden among the pines, six tennis courts, and a nine-hole golf course for which Cork couldn’t afford the green fees, even if he’d played the game. The sun, as Cork guided the Bronco along the winding drive, wasn’t far from setting. In the late light, the last of the golfers trailed long shadows as they approached the final green. The parking lot was nearly full. Cork pulled his old Bronco into a space between a blue Mercedes and a shiny black Windstar.

In the main lobby, a sign set on an easel indicated that the dinner for the Northern Minnesota Independent Business Association had been rescheduled to the Hiawatha Room in the building due north. Cork followed the arrow, out of the main building and across the drive to another, much smaller, log-facade structure. Two uniformed officers of the state patrol were stationed just inside the door. The officer to the right had a dog on a leash. The dog and the officers considered Cork carefully. The friendliest look came from the dog. Beyond a small lobby area, double doors opened onto a large room set with tablecloths and silverware and white napkins folded like flowers in water goblets. A lot of guests had already been seated.

“Do you have an invitation, sir?” the officer without the dog asked.

“Looking for Sheriff Schanno,” Cork replied. “Or Captain Knudsen. I’m Cork O’Connor. They’re expecting me.”

“Do you have some ID?”

Cork handed over his driver’s license. The dogless officer reached to a walkie-talkie clipped to his belt and spoke into it. Cork heard Schanno reply, “I’ll be right there.”

A minute later, the Tamarack County sheriff stepped through a door left of the big dining room and beckoned Cork to follow. Beyond the door, Cork found stairs leading up and to the left. A wood-burned sign indicated the Hiawatha Lounge was that way. Directly ahead ran a long, narrow hallway paneled with knotty pine. Cork followed Schanno to an opened door at the end of the hallway where they stepped into a kind of green room, a preparatory place for speakers-several easy chairs, a water cooler, a table, plants, and through the windows a view of the pines that edged Iron Lake. In addition to the law enforcement present-Schanno, Agent Earl, and Lucky Knudsen-Karl Lindstrom was there, along with two other men in slacks and sports coats.

“Evening, Karl,” Cork greeted him.

“Thanks for coming,” Lindstrom said. He looked a little pale. In his left hand, he held a tumbler filled with ice and an amber liquid. He swung his empty hand toward the other two men. “This is Jay Werner, president of NMIBA. And you probably know Jim Kaufmann, who owns the Quetico.”

Cork shook the proffered hands.

“I was just telling Sheriff Schanno we’ve got the largest attendance ever for this dinner,” Werner said. “It’s Karl, don’t you know. The Lindstroms have been a name up here for a good long while, but Karl’s coming north to live here, revamping the mill, knocking heads with those tree huggers, that’s all made him special in folks’ eyes.” He gave Lindstrom a hearty clap on the shoulder.

Kaufmann, a slender, balding man of fifty, added, “We considered canceling, of course, but we all figured, hell, if Karl’s willing, who’re we to back down? Besides, this is more excitement than I’ve had since I left the marines.”

A look passed among the law enforcement officers. This was different for them. Schanno said, “We’re planning this to be no more than another boring dinner followed by a boring speech. No offense, Karl.”

“None taken.”

“You’ll be at the head table with all these gentlemen, Cork,” Schanno said.

“Wear this.” Knudsen handed him a vest. Kevlar. “Karl’s wearing one, too.”

Lindstrom unbuttoned his dress shirt and revealed his vest. He shrugged and lifted his glass in a slight toast.

“You carrying?” Earl asked Cork.

“The only gun I own is a thirty-eight police special. A little clumsy for a sports coat.”

“Let’s get you something,” Knudsen said. He spoke into his walkie-talkie.

“You doing okay?” Cork asked Lindstrom.

“Fine. Really.”

Right, Cork thought, glancing at the drink in his hand.

“Between Lucky’s men and mine, we’ve got all the entrances and exits covered,” Schanno said. “I’m hoping the rest of this county is quiet tonight, because I’ve got just one cruiser and one desk officer covering everything else.”

“What’s with the dog out front?” Cork asked.

“Borrowed him from the office in Duluth,” Knudsen replied. “Trained to sniff for explosives.”

There was a knock at the door and Deputy Gil Singer entered, carrying a belt holster into which was nestled a Beretta 92F.