Purgatory Ridge

Cy Borkmann, a long-time deputy, was posted at the turnoff. He raised his hand and Cork rolled the Bronco to a stop. Borkmann was a portly man with a double chin that quivered like the wattle on a turkey whenever he talked. He stepped to the Bronco and leaned a fleshy arm on Cork’s door. “Hey, Cork. You been home yet?”

“No. Why?”

“Word leaked to the newspeople. They’re all over Lindstrom’s place, and yours. They’ve been coming since before sunrise. We tried to keep ‘em out, but hell, they come by boat and hiked through the woods and even had a helicopter drop somebody on the back lawn. This is big news. Sheriff finally gave instructions to go ahead and let anybody with a press ID through. They’re liable to swarm all over you soon as you drive up.”

“Thanks for the warning, Cy.”

Cork pulled away. Where the road splintered off toward LePere’s cabin, he turned in.

“What are you doing?” George LeDuc asked.

“I’m going to park out here and walk in. I don’t want to drive into a zoo.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s only five-twenty. Kidnapper’s call is supposed to come at six. We’ve got time.”

He pulled to the side of the road and parked in high weeds. It was LePere’s land, but he didn’t figure the man would mind much now. His privacy had already been shattered. LeDuc followed Cork through the woods, across a dry creek bed, and finally onto the wide lawn that surrounded the big house. As Borkmann had said, the place was a circus. Cameras had been set up to shoot the log home from several angles. Newspeople stood about, talking with one another or trying to talk to the officers posted at every door. Fortunately, no one seemed to take much notice as Cork and George LeDuc made their way across the grass. At the back door, a state trooper blocked their way.

“I’m Cork O’Connor. I’m supposed to be here.”

“May I see some ID, sir?”

Cork showed him a driver’s license.

“And you, sir?” the trooper asked LeDuc.

“He’s with me,” Cork said. “He needs to be here, too.”

The trooper considered George LeDuc, but not for long. A number of reporters were headed their way, and it was clear the trooper had already had enough of the media. “Go ahead.” He stepped aside and let them pass.

The kitchen smelled of breakfast, of sausages, eggs, hash browns, and coffee. Several empty foam containers sat on the table along with a couple of big white sacks with JOHNNY’S PINEWOOD BROILER printed boldly across the side. Cork figured Schanno had arranged for it. The Broiler supplied the meals for prisoners at the jail. Although he’d eaten almost nothing since Jo and Stevie had been taken, not even the smell of the Broiler’s good food made him hungry.

The officers were gathered in the living room, awaiting the call. Agent David Earl of the BCA sat in a leather easy chair scribbling in a small notebook. FBI Special Agent Margaret Kay held a cup of coffee in her hand and leaned over the shoulder of Arnie Gooden, who was checking the equipment set up to record the next ransom call. Lucky Knudsen sat with his arms folded, staring, as nearly as Cork could tell, at the rainbows on the dining room wall formed by sunlight that fractured as it passed through the crystals of the chandelier. Wally Schanno was speaking into a walkie-talkie.

“Where have you been?” Schanno asked when he saw Cork. “Cy said you’d come by him a while ago.”

“Did an end run around the media,” Cork said. “I didn’t particularly want to talk to anyone. Looks like all hell’s busted loose.”

“I knew it would sooner or later.” Schanno glanced toward a window where the curtains were open to the front lawn. The craziness that had descended there was clearly visible. “I’ve put them off for a while, but somebody’s going to have to give them something substantial pretty soon. The whole county knows now anyway. The department’s been flooded with calls, folks claiming they saw everything from Big Foot to Elvis out this way.”

Cork spotted a pot of coffee sitting on a tray along with disposable cups. He headed over and poured himself some. “Coffee, George?” he asked.

LeDuc shook his head.

“Cy told me the press is camped at my house, too,” Cork said to Schanno.

The sheriff nodded dolefully. “I’m sorry about that, Cork. I sent Deputy Dross over there to help Rose out.”

“I’d better call.”

Karl Lindstrom stepped out of a doorway down a short hall and walked slowly toward the living room. The man’s appearance startled Cork. Karl was a Lindstrom, a fighter, but the man approaching Cork looked so beaten down that there was no fight left in him. His eyes were bloodshot and tunneled deep into dark sockets. He walked like an old man, sucked dry of life, limp skin over fragile bone. Three feet from Cork, he stopped, and it was a moment before he spoke.

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t get the money. I tried. I don’t know where else to turn. I don’t know what else to do.”

Special Agent Kay spoke to him quietly across the room. “I’ve told you, Mr. Lindstrom. You can negotiate.”

“With what?” Anger-a spark of life-burned in his words.