Purgatory Ridge

The birds had been singing for a couple of hours before the van returned again. Jo could hear it a long way off, the undercarriage rattling as it bounced over what she still assumed was an old logging road. Her stomach tightened. The man was so vile. The van stopped; a door opened and closed; the morning fell quiet. For two minutes there was not another sound. Then he was next to her. He spoke no words, just warmed her cheek with his foul breathing. She’d have spit at him if her mouth hadn’t been taped. He made a sound, a tiny snort as if he’d decided something. And his breath was no longer there.

“Oh, ho. What’s this? Looks like somebody didn’t listen when I talked. Hmmm. And you didn’t even get very far. A lot of work for very little. And for what it will cost you.”

Jo heard a muffled cry. Grace. No, she wanted to scream, but the tape constrained her to a pitiful wail. She struggled against the ropes that bound her to the post. It was a vain effort, but Christ, she couldn’t just listen. What was he doing? Oh God, she didn’t want to think.

Above the sound of Grace’s crying another sound slowly rose. The bastard must have heard it, too, because he stopped his punishment and seemed to be listening. It was an engine. Above them. In the sky. The man moved quickly away and outside.

The plane sounded low and slow as if searching.

Oh, please find us.

It was directly overhead now. Jo wondered if the cabin was hidden among trees, or was it in a clearing?

Let us be in a clearing, please, God.

The engine seemed to hesitate. Jo held her breath. The plane kept moving, flying north, and she knew then that it hadn’t been looking for them, that it was simply passing overhead, probably on its way to help fight one of the fires still burning in the Boundary Waters. She slumped back, feeling lost and abandoned.

He was among them again. She could smell him, an odor of sweat and whiskey and tobacco. “You and me have some unfinished business, Grace. But it will have to wait.” Jo heard him leave; then his voice came back to them from outside the cabin. “Just relax. Enjoy the hospitality.” And he laughed all the way to his van.

The air felt dead still after he’d gone. Even the birds seemed to have fallen silent. The only sound Jo could hear was the quiet weeping of Grace Fitzgerald.

29

THE AFTERNOON WAS SWELTERING. The air conditioner in the Bronco had broken. Cork figured the condenser was probably shot. He drove toward Grace Cove with the ninety-plus heat blasting at him through the open windows. Where the road to the cove split from the county highway, Deputy Gil Singer had been stationed to bar access to all but law enforcement. He wasn’t especially busy, and in Cork’s thinking that was good. The media hadn’t got hold of the story yet. But they would. Somehow, they always did. The longer they stayed out of it, Cork thought, the better.

Gil Singer waved him to a stop, but only to say, “Sorry about Jo and your boy. We’ll get the bastard; don’t worry.”

Cork knew the deputy was just blowing smoke. Schanno had said he’d call when, and if, he had anything more to offer, and Schanno hadn’t called. Still, Cork appreciated the deputy’s sentiment. Even a little false hope seemed better than none.

Lindstrom’s big log home was at the center of an enormous amount of energy. In addition to the cars from the sheriff’s department, the state patrol, the BCA, and the FBI, there was a Jimmy that belonged to the U.S. Border Patrol. A good number of uniforms were combing the shoreline of the lake, and others moved through the woods. A float plane-a Forest Service De Haviland Beaver-sat on the water of the cove. Seeing all this, Cork was amazed the media was still in the dark.

Inside Lindstrom’s place, the air conditioning seemed to have been cranked to the max. Lindstrom was nowhere to be seen. A tall man in a starched white shirt and tie was talking on a cell phone. At one point, he said, “No, Governor, that won’t be necessary.” Schanno, Agent Earl, Lucky Knudsen, Special Agent Margaret Kay, and a couple of FBI agents whose names Cork didn’t remember stood around the large mahogany dining-room table looking at a map spread between them. They were so intent they didn’t notice Cork.

A toilet flushed down a hallway. A moment later, Lindstrom stepped into the living room. He walked slowly, slumped a bit, looking exhausted. He spotted Cork and gave him a grim nod.

“Did you talk with the Fitzgerald Shipping people?” Cork asked.

“I talked.”

“And?”

At the table, the discussion stopped as Schanno and the others turned to listen to the men whose families were at the heart of the trouble.

“They’re considering.”

“Considering?” Anger cut along Cork’s nerves, made his muscles tense.