Purgatory Ridge (29 page)

“You going to pay?”

“I’m going to try, John. Wouldn’t you?”

LePere let it slide.

“Whoever this guy is,” Cork went on, “he’s probably been watching Lindstrom’s place for a while. I thought maybe he might have been careless. Maybe you saw him out here somewhere.”

“Like I said, I’ve seen nothing.”

Cork was squinting, looking directly up into the sun. He was hot. He wiped a trickle of sweat from his cheek. “Could I trouble you for a drink of water?”

LePere eyed him a while before answering. “Wait here.” He went in the front door.

Cork walked around behind the cabin and to the
dock. He studied the cove and Lindstrom’s log home across the water. He turned and surveyed the woods that isolated LePere’s place, that formed a wall all the way out to the point at the entrance to the cove. A man could easily slip among the pines undetected, post himself out there near the end of the point, watch Lindstrom’s home without being spotted. Eco-Warrior had been smart about everything. There was no reason LePere should have seen him.

It was different being on this side of a crime. Frustrating. Frightening. He felt he ought to be doing something more, something substantial, but he didn’t know what that was. Two of the people he loved most in the world were in terrible jeopardy, and there didn’t seem to be a thing he could do about it. As sheriff, he’d often had to offer the only comfort he could—
We’re doing our best
. That sounded so feeble from this side.

Think
, he told himself desperately.
Think like you’ve been trained to think
.

Who was this Eco-Warrior? Was he really what he seemed? If the whole point of all that had gone before was to set up the kidnapping, it seemed too risky, too complicated. Why not just make the snatch, deliver the demand? Why all the theatrics? On the other hand, theatrics seemed often to be a part of terrorism.

Two million dollars. That was a huge leap from demanding the safety of Our Grandfathers. What were they after? What would the money do? Buy weapons? Bombs? A more sophisticated arsenal for their terrorism?

His thinking went immediately to Hell Hanover and the Minnesota Civilian Brigade. They could put two million dollars to good use. Hell had already threatened
Jo to get Cork to back off the investigation. It seemed the newspaperman had a lot to be nervous about.

But what about Joan of Arc of the Redwoods? Or Isaiah Broom? Two million could finance the saving of a lot of trees after the fight over Our Grandfathers was finished.

And wasn’t it possible, also, as Schanno had speculated, that Eco-Warrior was simply a cover for an old grievance? Or maybe now for simple greed?

“You’re trespassing,” LePere said at his back.

Cork turned. LePere had a glass in his hand. Water with ice.

“Sorry, John. I’m just trying to figure it.”

“Some things are beyond figuring.”

Cork took the water. “It’s my wife and my boy. What am I supposed to do?”

LePere looked away. “I can’t help you with that one.”

Cork drank the water and handed the glass back. “The wind’s up.”

A breeze had risen, quite suddenly. The water on the cove began to ripple. Far west of Iron Lake, thunderheads began to mount.

“Rain maybe,” LePere said. “Finally.”

“Thanks for the water. If you think of anything, anything that seems like it might help, you’ll let me know?” LePere only stared at him, and finally Cork started back toward his Bronco.

“O’Connor,” LePere called after a dozen steps.

Cork turned back.

“Good luck.”

Cork got in the Bronco and started away. There was a lot on his mind, but he found himself puzzling over a small detail. On the way to the dock, he’d passed

LePere’s garbage can. The lid was off. Yellow jackets and flies buzzed over what was inside. Paper, coffee grounds, discarded food. The odd thing was that there wasn’t any glass. In Cork’s experience, alcoholics generated lots of empty bottles.

J
OHN
L
E
P
ERE WATCHED
O’Connor’s old Bronco head off between the pines.

Damn
.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. When O’Connor was sheriff, he’d always treated LePere decently, even in the days of the heaviest drinking. The man was part Shinnob, too, so he understood the difficulty of growing up mixed blood. LePere was sorry for the turn of events. Nothing was anything like he’d expected. Still, he told himself as he stepped back into his cabin, nothing really terrible had come of it. If it all ultimately went the way Bridger had planned, O’Connor would have his family back together in a couple of days. It would give him a greater appreciation of how precious were the people he loved, and all it would cost him in the end was a bit of worry. To LePere, who’d lost everyone he loved, that seemed a small price.

He took his field glasses from the hook beside the back door and stepped outside again. Across the cove, Lindstrom’s home was a busy place. The shoreline was still crawling with uniformed officers, as were the dock
and the woods. They’d come across Blueberry Creek, trespassed on LePere’s land. That was fine. They’d find nothing, and they’d turn away. Although the ransom note had clearly said
no cops
, Bridger had called this one, too. “There’ll be cops,” he’d said. “A shitload. Don’t let that scare you. We’ll have them fooled. They’ll be looking for that Eco-Warrior, and there’s nothing to connect you with him. You don’t give them just cause, they can’t do a thing. Just be cool, my man. Just be cool.”

He returned the field glasses to their hook and went to the closet in his bedroom. From the shelf above the hangers, he took down a sleeping bag and a canvas pup tent rolled and bagged. He put these on the front seat of his truck. Back in the cabin, he filled a paper sack with food—bologna, bread, peanut butter, strawberry jam, American cheese, and apples. He dropped a butter knife in, as well, and a roll of toilet paper. He put the sack in the truck beside the other things. Finally, he filled two one-gallon plastic milk jugs with tap water and took them to the truck. After he’d locked the doors to his cabin, he headed the truck up the road. He pulled over when he reached the deputy stationed at the highway.

“There’s cops trespassing all over my property.”

The deputy took off his hat and wiped the sweat from the band. “Sorry about that, Mr. LePere. Would you like to talk to the sheriff?”

“No. Tell him he’s welcome to trespass all he wants. I’ll be back when it looks like I can have my privacy again.”

The deputy eyed the gear in the front seat. “Sorry we drove you out.”

LePere replied with an unhappy grunt and hit the
highway. He breathed easier once he’d left the cove behind. All those cops made him nervous. He could hear Bridger’s voice in his head, “Just be cool.” It seemed easy for Bridger. All of it. LePere thought about the gun in the log home and how he’d been afraid Bridger would really use it. Which would have been truly tragic. But then, tragedy happened, didn’t it? He’d never asked for or deserved the tragedy that had been his own life. As far as he could tell, it struck like lightning, without warning or just cause. Still, it would have been hard seeing it happen to the O’Connor woman or her boy. He knew her. He’d seen her sometimes when he was in court. She represented the Iron Lake Ojibwe, had represented them even before they had all that casino money. It was too bad she’d stumbled into the middle of all this. Too bad she had to be taken. But Bridger was probably right. They couldn’t be left behind. And there was no harm done. When the money came, they’d be free again.

He followed the road, the old logging trail, toward the ancient trappers’ cabin that stood just outside the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness. The old road was never used, and even if it were, the cabin couldn’t be seen from it. You had to know where to look. LePere knew. And Bridger, now that LePere had shown him.

Dark was coming on as John LePere pulled his truck off the road, through a gap in the pines, and into a small clearing. Bridger was waiting beside his dusty green Econoline van.

“About time,” Bridger said.

LePere stepped from his truck. “Any word on the money?”

“He’ll get it, all right. I offered to send him a couple of body parts as incentive.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Damn straight I would. People do just fine without their pinkies, Chief.”

LePere nodded toward the cabin, a run-down affair with a gaping doorway and no windows. “How’re they doing?”

“‘How’re they doing?’” Bridger’s tone mocked him. “They’re alive, Chief, and that’s all you need to worry about. I’ll spell you in the morning, after I’ve called Lindstrom with the next set of instructions.” A long growl came from his stomach. “Goddamn, I’m hungry. Here.” He handed LePere the handgun.

“What do I need this for? They’re tied up, aren’t they?”

“Insurance. In the SEALs, I learned the most valuable lesson of my life. Never underestimate the likelihood everything’s going to go to hell, and be ready for it. They’re all yours. You can do whatever you want with Lindstrom’s woman, but don’t touch the other one. I’ve already marked her as mine.”

“What are you talking about?”

Bridger laughed. “Relax, Chief. Have a little fun.” He gave LePere a hearty slap on the shoulder, and he got into his van. “See you in the morning.”

He drove off, the noise of the van shattering the peace of an otherwise quiet evening.

The cabin was ancient. It was old even when he’d stumbled onto it with his father one day while they were searching for blueberries. The logs were cedar, the roof of cedar shakes. The door had long ago been lost and the chinking weathered away, but even in the worst heat of the day, the cabin remained cool inside, shaded by the pines at the clearing’s edge and open to the breeze.

The drought had turned the long grasses in the clearing to dry stalks, and they broke with a brittle crackle as LePere made his way toward the gaping doorway. Inside, the cabin was dark and dead quiet. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. He saw that Bridger had left the duct tape in place around everyone’s wrists and had taped their ankles as well. The Fitzgerald woman and her boy had black hoods over their heads. The O’Connor woman was blindfolded with a red bandanna. It looked as if Bridger had torn a strip of material from the O’Connor boy’s shirt and bound it over the kid’s eyes. All the prisoners—he balked at thinking of them in that way, but he couldn’t find a more delicate word—had been separated from one another and bound with tight loops of nylon rope to the uprights that supported the roof beams. The two boys had their heads down and appeared to be sleeping. The women knew he was there. Their heads were cocked and they were listening. He surveyed the room and found no evidence of water or food. Hadn’t Bridger fed them? Given them water? Had he even given them a chance to relieve themselves?

LePere knelt beside the O’Connor woman. She tried to pull away.

“Easy,” he said. “I’m just going to take the tape off your mouth.”

The duct tape stuck pretty well, and she grimaced as he pulled it off.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “You had anything to eat or drink?”

“No.”

“How about going to the bathroom?”

“We’ve been like this since we got here.” She seemed torn between anger and relief.

“All right,” he said.

The boys were awake now, their heads up.

“Look, I’m going to take the tape off your mouths so you can eat something and drink a little water. If you have to relieve yourselves, let me know and we’ll take care of that, too.” He went to the O’Connor boy. “This’ll hurt a bit, son.”

The boy made a sound—“Owww”—as the tape came off.

“There. That better?”

The boy didn’t answer. It was clear that he was scared shitless. LePere could tell from the urine smell that he’d wet his pants already. Well, there was nothing that could be done about that now.

He moved to the next boy, the Fitzgerald kid. He was surprised to find him quivering uncontrollably, and the smell of urine was even stronger on him. LePere lifted the hood over the boy’s head just enough so that he could remove the tape from his mouth. “You okay?” he asked.

The boy’s breathing was deep, labored. LePere noticed a fruity smell on his breath. The boy said nothing, but his mother began making a ruckus. LePere lifted her hood a bit and pulled the tape off her mouth.

“He’s diabetic,” she gasped. “He needs insulin.”

“Ah, shit. How often does he have to have it?”

“Three times a day. And it’s been almost two days now since he had his last injection. Please, he needs insulin, and he needs it soon.”

“Christ.” LePere stepped back, trying to figure the best course. It wasn’t supposed to be this complicated. Why didn’t Bridger know about the boy’s condition? Or maybe he did and just didn’t care. He was a man LePere was disliking more with every minute.

“All right, let’s get some food and water in you,” he growled.

“Could we go to the bathroom first?” the O’Connor woman asked.

“Everyone need to go?”

“Yes,” the Fitzgerald woman replied.

One at a time, he untied them from the wooden uprights, cut free their hands, and took each for a turn out into the clearing. He handed over the roll of toilet paper and allowed a minute or two of privacy. He told them to call when they were finished, and he warned each that he had a gun and he would use it. They gave him no trouble. When they’d all taken their turns, he bound their ankles, then went to his truck and brought back food and water.

“Leave your blindfolds and hoods in place,” he instructed them. “I don’t want to see anything exposed except mouths.” He opened the jug and they passed it around and drank, especially the Fitzgerald boy. He gave them food, dry bread and bologna that, with the exception of the Fitzgerald boy, they ate greedily.

“You’re not like the other one,” the Fitzgerald woman said.

“Who?”

“Your partner. He’s a son of a bitch.”

“I can be, too. Just don’t test me.”

“I feel sick,” the Fitzgerald boy said.

“I’ll get your damn medicine, okay?”