Purgatory Ridge

by William Kent Krueger

  “Where did you get this?” she asked when she could breathe again.

  “I’ve had it for some time. I got it from his father”—he pointed toward the man in the photograph—“before the old goat croaked. This was exactly his kind of weapon. Me, I prefer military hardware. But a weapon is a weapon.” He leaned forward. “The bottom line is this. Unless you convince Cork to stop sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong and to refrain forever from being a candidate for sheriff, he gets a copy of that photo. A big eight-by-ten in a gold frame.”

  Jo stared at Hanover. “He’s seen this.”

  “He knows?” Hanover shook his head in bewilderment. “I guess he’s not nearly the man I thought he was. Doesn’t matter. The conditions still hold, but the consequence is this. All of Tamarack County will see that photo. I’ll make sure it’s not possible for you or Cork to walk down a street here without someone whispering at your back. And I wonder what those children of yours would think of their mother, especially when they start hearing the word slut and your name in the same sentence.”

  “Get out.”

  “Look at it this way, Jo. Cork’s a great fry boy. All you have to do is convince him to keep flipping those burgers.”

  “I said get out.” Jo stood and flung the photograph at him. It simply fluttered to the floor where Hanover let it lie.

  “That’s all right. You can keep it. I have the negative.” He turned and limped to the door, but he paused with his hand on the knob. “You know, Jo, I’ve stood by and watched you twist the law every which way to get what you want around here. In this, there is no law. There’s only justice. At last.”

  “Hell,” she spit out, using for the first time the epithet so many others had applied to him, “bite me.”

  Hanover exited, and she heard him laughing as he closed the door.

  She found she was shaking with rage. She walked unsteadily around the desk and stood looking down at herself on the floor. The camera had captured her as she bent to the pleasure of a man she would never forget but whose memory she hated. She’d believed that part of her life was over forever and that she’d escaped. But history, she understood as she knelt and took the photograph into her hands, could never be undone. And in a place like Aurora especially, it was as inescapable as her own shadow.

  18

  AT SEVEN-THIRTY-FIVE P.M., Cork parked his Bronco behind the Aurora Middle School and headed toward the back entrance, which was near a Dumpster. He could see that Deputy Gil Singer had been posted at the door.

  “How’s it going, Gil?”

  “Quiet, Cork. Back here anyway. Action’s out front.”

  “I know. Couldn’t find a place to park, so I came ‘round back. You mind?”

  “All right by me.”

  “Is that Lindstrom’s?” Cork asked, pointing toward a new blue Explorer parked not far from his old Bronco.

  “Yep.”

  “Is he inside the school?”

  “You’re batting a thousand, Cork.”

  “Mind if I go in?”

  “Sheriff said to keep suspicious types out. Don’t guess that includes you.” He opened the door.

  When Cork graduated thirty years earlier, the building had been Aurora’s high school. A few years later, a large consolidated county school had been built just west of town, and the old high school, a beautiful structure of red brick, had become the district’s middle school. The building was full of good memories for Cork. Whenever he walked the hallways, the smell alone—waxed floors and old lockers—took him back instantly across three decades.

  Inside the front door, he found Karl Lindstrom in a heated discussion with Bruce Mortenson, the operations manager for the mill. Cork held back until Mortenson lifted his hands in exasperation and declared, “Fine, Karl. Have it your way. It’s your damn mill, after all.” Mortenson stomped out the door.

  Cork coughed discreetly. Lindstrom looked his way. “O’Connor.” He actually seemed glad to see Cork.

  “Evening, Karl.”

  Lindstrom stepped toward him, about to speak, but the front door swung open and Lindstrom’s attorney Frank Wharton slipped inside. He handed Lindstrom a sheet of paper and said, “Everything’s ready, Karl. Folks’re waiting.”

  “Thanks, Frank. I’ll be right there.” Lindstrom glanced at Cork. “You have a minute after this so we can talk?”

  “Sure.”

  Lindstrom looked down at the paper in his hands, took a deep breath, and pushed outside. Cork gave him a moment, then followed.

  A standing microphone and speakers had been set on the steps of the school. Parked cars lined the street, and the front lawn was crowded. Newspeople with cameras and tape recorders had positioned themselves at the bottom of the steps. Hell Hanover was right there in the thick of them. Looking over the crowd, Cork saw that both sides of the logging issue were well represented. Sheriff Wally Schanno and several of his deputies flanked Lindstrom on the steps. Agents Earl and Owen of the BCA were there, too. Across the street was a small park, and Cork saw Jo standing there alone, her arms folded across her body as if despite the terrible heat, she was cold.

  Lindstrom stepped up to the microphone and tapped it. “Can you all hear me?”

  Someone near the back of the crowd shouted, “Loud and clear, Karl. Give ‘em hell.”

  “I’m not here to give anybody hell,” Lindstrom said, leaning to the mike. “Seems to me we’ve had enough of that already.” He considered the paper in his hand, then let it fall. “I had remarks prepared by my lawyer so that I’d say all of this right, but I’m a little tired of legalese at the moment. I’d just as soon tell you straight out how I feel.

  “I don’t know how many of you remember the company’s old logo with the slogan ‘Lindstrom houses the world.’ Remember? It showed the globe inside a home built with Lindstrom lumber. Well, we don’t house much of the world anymore. For a lot of reasons.

  “A few years ago, my father was faced with a decision. Drastic changes had to be made to our Eagle River mill in Wisconsin to bring it in line with new state and federal environmental regulations and to make it competitive with products from foreign markets. My father chose to close that mill rather than fight the government and unfair trade policies. Two years ago, faced with a similar dilemma here in the last of the Lindstrom mills, I chose differently.

  “As most of you know, I built a home on Iron Lake last year, built it with Lindstrom logs. This spring, my family and I moved in. We came up here because I wanted to be a part of this town. The Lindstrom name’s been important in the North Woods for several generations, but the Lindstroms have never been around to see the effects of what they’ve done. Well, I’m here, and I’m taking responsibility for what we do. Over the last two years, I’ve completely renovated the mill. We’ve got the best technology in the business. I did this at great personal expense because I believe it’s best for the environment and for the people here. As far as I’m concerned, there’s no more beautiful place on earth than Tamarack County and no better people.”

  “You’re doing great, Karl! Don’t let ‘em get you down!”

  “Thanks. Thank you.” Lindstrom turned away from the mike and coughed. While he was at it, he took a moment to gather his thoughts. “A lot of good people depend on the mill for their livelihood. And for the mill to operate, we need to cut trees. Recently, every logging operation we’ve undertaken has been plagued by sabotage. Sugar in the gas tanks of our heavy equipment and marks removed from the trees designated for cutting, to name just a couple.

  “The controversy that’s recently disrupted both the normal life of this community and the harvesting of timber for the mill isn’t just unfortunate. It’s personally very painful. I’ve always tried to work within the framework of the law in seeking a resolution, but there are those on the other side of the issue who haven’t. The result has been a terrible tragedy. A senseless death.

  “Because I want to end this animosity, I’m offering some concessions to those who are so o
pposed to our logging in the area of the Superior National Forest the Ojibwe call Our Grandfathers. Should Judge Rabin rule in our favor—and I have to tell you that I believe firmly she will—I promise that when logging resumes, not one of the Lindstrom loggers or any logging company with whom we subcontract will cut a single unnecessary tree from Our Grandfathers. I swear to you we’ll do only what’s necessary to create a logging road through the area that will give us access to the younger trees surrounding and intermixed with those beautiful old white pines. In addition, I absolutely promise that any white pine cut will be replaced with a white pine seedling that, as the years go by, will take its place tall and proud among Our Grandfathers.

  “I wanted to make this announcement on the steps of the school because ultimately, what’s important is that we leave our children a world that holds for them the promise of health, wealth, happiness, and harmony.” He looked the crowd over slowly. “That’s all I have to say. I’d be happy to answer any questions you might have.”

  Before Lindstrom could grant anyone a chance to speak, a voice boomed against the brick of the building.

  “I have a question.”

  Cork and a lot of other people looked across the street and saw Joan of Arc of the Redwoods standing atop her dusty Econoline van with a bullhorn in one hand and her cane in the other.

  “Why is your head in the sand? For a man who claims to be concerned about the environment, you’re pretty ignorant of the fragile nature of ecological systems. You cut a road through Our Grandfathers and you’ll damage the system that sustains them. You harvest the timber that surrounds them and you do the same thing. The point we’ve been trying to make is that any cutting in that area is a violation of nature. The consequences will be devastating.”

  “Our studies tell us differently,” Lindstrom countered.

  “Your studies tell you what you want to hear. I’ve seen studies like yours, and I’ve seen firsthand the slaughter they’ve justified.”

  “You’re talking, I assume, about your experiences with the redwoods in California. Let me just point out that the decisions there are being made by people thousands of miles from the forests. I’ve chosen to live here. I’ve brought my family here. I make decisions as a member of this community, for the benefit of the men and women who look to the mill for livelihood and who are also members of this community. I respectfully point out that you don’t live here and that when one way or another this is resolved, you’ll leave. Build a house here. Raise a family here. Try making a living here. Then maybe you’ll have the right to be heard here.”

  Loud applause met Lindstrom’s remarks.

  When things had quieted a bit, the woman put the bullhorn to her mouth again. “I’m a member of a larger community, Mr. Lindstrom, as are you.”

  Lindstrom leaned to the mike, but before he could speak, a loud bang interrupted him and made him jump—made everyone jump. Cork hunched down instinctively and glanced to the north side of the building where the sound had come. The crowd also ducked and moved helter-skelter in a shifting wave of brief panic. Wally Schanno had his firearm drawn. Along with two deputies, he quickly moved toward the side of the school. Agent Earl of the BCA had his own weapon in hand and had taken up a protective position next to Lindstrom. For the first time in a long time, Cork wished he were carrying a piece, too.

  Evening quiet settled in again almost immediately. All heads were turned where Schanno and his men had gone. It took less than two minutes for the sheriff and his deputies to reappear. Gil Singer was with them. Schanno spoke briefly to Singer, who disappeared again, heading back—Cork supposed—to his post at the rear door.

  Schanno approached the microphone. “It’s okay folks. Just a firecracker. Somebody’s idea of a joke. Not a funny one.” He turned to Lindstrom but still spoke into the mike. “Did you want to say anything else, Karl?”

  Lindstrom stepped forward and spoke in a shaky voice. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for coming this evening. I—uh—I guess that’s all I have to say.”

  “I haven’t finished.” It was the woman with the cane and the bullhorn.

  Lindstrom ignored her, turned abruptly from the microphone, and vanished back inside the building.

  The crowd began almost immediately to disperse. Schanno headed over to confer with the BCA agents. With the help of her son, who’d seemed to come out of nowhere, Joan of Arc of the Redwoods descended from the roof of her van and drove away. Cork left the steps and crossed the street to the little park where Jo was now standing with George LeDuc.

  “What do you think, George?” Cork asked when he’d joined them.

  “I could’ve done without that firecracker. And Lindstrom, he looked like he could use a change of underwear.”

  “What about his offer?”

  “I don’t know, Cork. Seems like he’s trying.”

  “He’s offering us a bone without any meat on it.” Isaiah Broom came up behind LeDuc. It was the first Cork had seen of him that evening. “Once his machines and men are in there, they can do anything they want to. If you believe him, George, you’re a bigger fool than I thought.” That said, Broom turned and left.

  George LeDuc watched him go. “Now there’s a man could piss off a saint.” He looked to Jo. “What do we do now?”

  “There’s nothing to do but wait until the ruling comes down. Then we’ll see.”

  LeDuc bid them good evening and headed toward his truck. “I’m going to talk to Karl Lindstrom inside the school,” Cork said. “Care to join me?”

  “He might not want to see me,” Jo replied.

  “He seems in a very forgiving mood.”

  The microphone and speakers were being removed. The crowd had pretty much dispersed. Schanno was down by his Land Cruiser talking with a couple of deputies. Cork and Jo went in the front door. Lindstrom had leaned a hand against the wall, holding himself up. When the door opened, he jerked to attention, startled.

  “Easy, Karl. It’s just us.”

  Lindstrom still looked shaken. “That’s okay. I was just… I’m just a little…” He stopped and seemed to pull himself together. “I’m glad you’re here, Cork. You, too, Jo. I wanted to apologize for my behavior at the mill the other night. I was upset.”

  “Forget it,” Jo said.

  “You know, I’ve sunk every dime I have into modernizing that mill. I thought I was helping people, doing something worthwhile.”

  “You’ve kept a lot of people employed, Karl. That is important,” Cork told him.

  “Joan of Arc out there, she makes me sound like a monster.”

  Cork could see it hurt. The Lindstroms before him would have grinned and worn the epithet proudly. “Let it go,” he advised.

  “You’re right.” His eyes shifted to Jo. “You’ll be receiving a formal outline of my proposal, Jo, but if you’d like one now, I’ve got a copy in my briefcase. It’s in my Explorer.”

  “Where are you parked?” Jo asked.

  “Out back.”

  “I’d like to see it, yes.”

  They walked together through the darkening hallways to the back door that was unguarded now. When they reached the Explorer, Lindstrom plucked from the windshield a folded sheet of paper that had been stuffed under the wiper blade. As he read the note, the color drained from his face. He looked at his watch.

  “What is it, Karl?” Cork asked.

  “Nothing. It’s nothing. Listen, Jo, I’ll get you that document later, all right?”

  “Sure, Karl.”

  Lindstrom waited. It was clear he wanted them to move away.

  “I’ll give you a lift to your car,” Cork offered to Jo.

  He turned and headed to his Bronco. When Jo was beside him in the passenger seat, he backed the Bronco out and started it away slowly, watching Lindstrom in his mirror. Jo was watching, too. Lindstrom took an old leather briefcase from the Explorer, opened it, and reached inside. He drew something out and his hand went toward his waist under his sports coat. Then he slammed the d
oor closed and started walking briskly across the football field behind the school.

  “Did you see?” Jo asked.

  “Yes.”

  Lindstrom had shoved a handgun into his belt.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “You know as much as I do.” Cork turned off the engine and reached for the door handle.

  “Where are you going?”

  “After Karl. I don’t know what was in that note, but it wasn’t good news.”

  Jo grabbed his arm. “Cork, this isn’t your responsibility. This is for Wally Schanno to worry about. Get Wally or one of his deputies. Please.”

  Lindstrom was halfway across the field. Cork knew if he delayed much longer, Lindstrom would be gone—wherever it was he was going.

  “All right.” He drove to the front of the building. No one was left outside. All the cars except Jo’s Tercel were gone. The front lawn was as vacant as it usually was on a summer evening.

  “Jo, I have to go.”

  “Why?”

  Cork looked at her. She was right. There was no reason for him to do this. He was a man who flipped hamburgers now. Except everything in him was shoving him after Lindstrom.

  “Go,” she finally said angrily, and grabbed the door handle. “Just go if you feel you have to.” She got out and slammed the door shut. “But if you find yourself in the middle of something—”

  Cork didn’t wait for her to finish. He raced the Bronco to the parking area behind the school. Lindstrom was just vanishing into a line of maple trees that edged the field behind the bleachers. Beyond the maple trees was Lake Shore Drive, and beyond the drive lay Iron Lake.

  When Cork stepped out of the trees, he saw Lindstrom a hundred yards south, heading toward the marina. It was after eight. The sun sat on the western edge of Aurora looking tired as a bloodshot eye ready to close. Lindstrom moved quickly through the long shadows of the maples that lined the street. Every so often, he scanned the lake. He reached the bait shop at the marina, stopped, and stood staring at the docks where rows of sailboats and motor launches were moored.