Purgatory Ridge

“Your hands,” he said to the rich woman. Then he added, “Please.”

She put her arms behind her and said not another word as he bound her wrists. He went to the door. “I’ll check back in a while.” He turned the light off and slapped the lock in place.

He didn’t go to the house. He walked down to the small dock where the Anne Marie was tied. The hailstorm earlier had swept across the North Woods and headed east so swiftly that nothing at all could be seen of it now in the distant dark where black sky and black water met in an indistinguishable horizon. Purgatory Cove and the great lake beyond it were very still. LePere remembered summer days with Billy, challenging one another to jump from the dock into the water of the cove that, even in August, was cold enough to cramp every muscle of his body in an instant. Billy was always the first to go. Not only would he hit the water but he’d also swim out a distance, mocking his older brother, who seldom did more than jump in and climb quickly out. Billy tolerated the cold better than LePere ever could. It seemed all wrong that Billy was the one the lake had taken.

As he had so often-and so pointlessly-over the years, LePere tried to fathom the reason he’d survived the wreck of the Teasdale when, by all rights, he should have been the one dancing with the other dead at the bottom of Kitchigami. In the still of the night, a thought occurred to him, the first clear understanding he’d experienced in a very long time. He should have been dead. From the moment he climbed aboard the little pontoon raft on that angry lake, he’d felt dead. And after that, for more than a dozen years, he’d walked dead through every day.

John LePere understood that in the dangerous game he’d become part of, the hand that had rolled snake eyes that day was his own.

35

AS SOON AS THE SOUND of John LePere’s footsteps receded from the fish house, Jo slid herself against the wall and began the struggle to stand.

“What are you doing?” Grace whispered.

“My best to get us out of here. I’ll need your help. You’ve got to stand up, too.”

“What about us?” Scott asked.

“Until I tell you, just stay put,” Jo replied. “That would be the biggest help.”

Jo managed to get herself on her feet. With her ankles taped, she was forced to hop to maneuver to a window. In a moment, Grace had joined her.

“See him?” Jo asked. “There on that little dock.” She nodded toward a figure, pale in the moonlight, beside a large boat. LePere was standing very still, staring out at the cove. “Tell me if he moves this way.”

Jo left Grace to her duty and hopped toward the shelves built into the wall at the far end of the fish house. She didn’t know what she was looking for exactly, but the bit of equipment stored there offered hope. In her hurry, she lost her balance and toppled against one of the long wooden tables that ran along the sides of the single room. Her face came near the tabletop that held a thousand scars from knife blades, and she caught the ghost of an odor, the old smell of fish that had soaked into every fiber of the wood. She righted herself and, more carefully, made her way across the floor.

“You called him by name,” Grace said very quietly. “You know him.”

“Don’t you?”

“Should I?”

“His name is John LePere. He’s your neighbor on the cove.” She bent toward the shelves, trying to see by moonlight what they held.

“I’ve never seen him up close. I always had the feeling he resented us being there.”

“It looks like he resented you a lot more than you thought.”

“Mom?”

“Yes, Scott.”

“I talked to him once.”

“When?”

“A while ago. I was down by the creek and he was there, too. He seemed nice.”

“People aren’t always what they seem, Scott.”

The items on the shelves were a diverse collection of boating equipment, diving gear, and general materials. At first glance, nothing that would help.

“I’m sorry, Jo,” Grace said.

“For what?”

“If you hadn’t come out to my house, you wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“Not your fault there are monsters in the world, Grace.”

Jo tried to stoop without falling over. She wanted a better look at the bottom shelf.

“Do you think they’re looking for us?” Grace asked.

“I know Cork is.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know Cork.”

“You love him.” Grace sounded envious.

Stevie whispered, “I want Daddy.” His voice was on the edge of tears.

“We’ll get you back to Daddy,” Jo promised.

She saw something, like a large white feather, where the moonlight fell on the lowest shelf. She wobbled a bit as she lowered herself to her knees, but she made it down safely. Her heart seemed to give a loud, joyous thump when she saw that it was no feather but the clean steel blade of a knife. She began to work her way around so that her back was to the shelf, and she had a shot at grabbing the knife handle. Leaning back, she pushed her arms as far as her sore shoulders would let her, and she touched the knife. Her fingers scrabbled to find a hold.

“Yes!” she whispered triumphantly.

“What is it?”

“A knife. I’ve got a knife.”