Purgatory Ridge

“I’ll take it from here,” she heard the gunman say. He had a hard, unpleasant voice that made her think of a saw blade biting dry wood. “You know what to do.”

“I know.”

“Don’t look so worried. We just stepped onto the yellow brick road.” The gunman laughed.

The boat was shoved back. The engine sputtered to life. The runabout slowly came around, and Jo felt it carry them away, out of the small cove and onto Iron Lake.

• • •

On the shoreline of the cove, the man in the ski mask watched the silhouette of the boat and its sole upright occupant until they disappeared. He realized he was sweating like a pack mule, and he yanked the ski mask from his head. He ran a hand through his wet hair. The whole time, he’d been barely able to breathe, and he sucked in the night air greedily. He bent and felt the rocky bottom of the lake until he found the right stone, a round one that filled his hand. He wrapped the ski mask around it, bound it in place with duct tape, and threw it as far as he could out into the water of the cove. He took off his gloves and shoved them into his back pocket.

It hadn’t gone badly, although the other woman and her boy had been a surprise. Still, they’d handled it. No one had been hurt. It boded well.

He kept to the water, following the shoreline past Blueberry Creek and finally to his own dock. He stepped onto the old board and slipped out of his sneakers. In the cabin, he put the wet shoes beside the back door to dry, changed his clothes, and finally went to the kitchen where he broke the seal on a fifth of Cutty Sark. He poured three fingers of scotch into a glass and stared at it.

John Sailor LePere had been sober for a long time. But he needed a drink now. Not to steady his nerves. Not to forget his losses. Not to escape his nightmares. He needed, that night, to be what Aurora, Minnesota, believed him to be. A drunken Indian who could no more manage a kidnapping than he could a raising of the dead.

“To you, Billy.”

He lifted his glass to the empty room and he filled his throat with fire.

24

CORK PARKED HIS BRONCO IN THE GARAGE at ten-thirty P.M. He was surprised to see that Jo’s Toyota wasn’t there. Inside the house, everything was quiet. Lights were still on in the living room, and he heard the television turned down low. He found Annie asleep on the couch.

“Sweetheart.” He shook her gently. “Why don’t you go on up to bed.”

She nodded, her eyes still dreamy.

“Did your mom come home?”

“Unh-uh.” She shook her head. “Aunt Rose went to bed a while ago. Jenny’s still out with Sean.”

He watched her stumble up the stairs, then he sat on the sofa himself and stared at the television. MTV. A rap video. He wasn’t watching. He was thinking about the evening at the Quetico.

He’d sat next to Karl Lindstrom during dinner. The man had barely touched his food. But he’d had a drink to his lips nearly the whole time. Although he seemed to attend to the conversation at the table, his eyes were clearly scanning the room, checking to see if Death had an invitation. Despite the air conditioning, he was sweating heavily as he rose to make his way to the podium. When he spoke, however, his voice and manner betrayed not at all his concern. He appeared relaxed, very much in control, and he delivered a pretty good speech about balancing the need for growth and profit against the absolute duty to ensure the integrity of the earth for future generations. The only allusion he made to his own recent brush with death was to say at the outset, “It is, indeed, a pleasure to be here this evening, appearing before you in living color.”

Although he listened, Cork was carefully watching the large room. With Schanno’s men and the state patrol posted at every door, it would have been suicide for Eco-Warrior to try anything. Still, you never knew.

Nothing happened. Lindstrom finished his address to huge applause, rejoined the men at his table, and proceeded to further calm his nerves with a couple more scotch and sodas. He’d had enough alcohol by the end that Schanno insisted on having a deputy escort him home. Lindstrom didn’t argue.

Cork used the remote to kill the picture on the television. The house slid further into stillness. He looked at his watch. It was much too late. He went to the telephone table next to the stairs and pulled the address book from the drawer. Under Grace Fitzgerald, he found a number Jo had written. He reached for the phone and was startled when it rang just as he touched it.

“Cork O’Connor,” he said into the receiver.

“This is Wally Schanno.”

“Yeah, Wally. What’s up?”

“I’m at Karl Lindstrom’s place. Was Jo visiting Lindstrom’s wife this evening?”

“As far as I know. Why?”

“Cork,” Schanno said, his voice hesitant, guarded, “it appears that Grace Fitzgerald and her son have been kidnapped. They’re gone and somebody’s left a ransom note. Jo’s Toyota is still here, but there’s no sign of her.”

Cork’s mouth went dry. “Stevie was with her,” he said. “I think you’d better get out here.”