Purgatory Ridge

by William Kent Krueger

  “Everybody in.”

  The other man steadied the boat and, because their bound hands made it awkward, helped them in. Stevie he lifted bodily and set gently beside Jo.

  “Lie down,” the gunman ordered.

  The runabout was narrow. They all lay together, nearly on top of one another. The bottom of the boat smelled of fish gut and cut bait and damp wood. Although Jo nestled next to Stevie, she knew she offered him no protection. She heard the crinkle of a tarp flapped open. The next instant they were plunged in darkness. A hand tamped her butt, then her shoulders as the men tucked the edges of the tarp tightly about them.

  “I’ll take it from here,” she heard the gunman say. He had a hard, unpleasant voice that made her think of a saw blade biting dry wood. “You know what to do.”

  “I know.”

  “Don’t look so worried. We just stepped onto the yellow brick road.” The gunman laughed.

  The boat was shoved back. The engine sputtered to life. The runabout slowly came around, and Jo felt it carry them away, out of the small cove and onto Iron Lake.

  • • •

  On the shoreline of the cove, the man in the ski mask watched the silhouette of the boat and its sole upright occupant until they disappeared. He realized he was sweating like a pack mule, and he yanked the ski mask from his head. He ran a hand through his wet hair. The whole time, he’d been barely able to breathe, and he sucked in the night air greedily. He bent and felt the rocky bottom of the lake until he found the right stone, a round one that filled his hand. He wrapped the ski mask around it, bound it in place with duct tape, and threw it as far as he could out into the water of the cove. He took off his gloves and shoved them into his back pocket.

  It hadn’t gone badly, although the other woman and her boy had been a surprise. Still, they’d handled it. No one had been hurt. It boded well.

  He kept to the water, following the shoreline past Blueberry Creek and finally to his own dock. He stepped onto the old board and slipped out of his sneakers. In the cabin, he put the wet shoes beside the back door to dry, changed his clothes, and finally went to the kitchen where he broke the seal on a fifth of Cutty Sark. He poured three fingers of scotch into a glass and stared at it.

  John Sailor LePere had been sober for a long time. But he needed a drink now. Not to steady his nerves. Not to forget his losses. Not to escape his nightmares. He needed, that night, to be what Aurora, Minnesota, believed him to be. A drunken Indian who could no more manage a kidnapping than he could a raising of the dead.

  “To you, Billy.”

  He lifted his glass to the empty room and he filled his throat with fire.

  24

  CORK PARKED HIS BRONCO IN THE GARAGE at ten-thirty P.M. He was surprised to see that Jo’s Toyota wasn’t there. Inside the house, everything was quiet. Lights were still on in the living room, and he heard the television turned down low. He found Annie asleep on the couch.

  “Sweetheart.” He shook her gently. “Why don’t you go on up to bed.”

  She nodded, her eyes still dreamy.

  “Did your mom come home?”

  “Unh-uh.” She shook her head. “Aunt Rose went to bed a while ago. Jenny’s still out with Sean.”

  He watched her stumble up the stairs, then he sat on the sofa himself and stared at the television. MTV. A rap video. He wasn’t watching. He was thinking about the evening at the Quetico.

  He’d sat next to Karl Lindstrom during dinner. The man had barely touched his food. But he’d had a drink to his lips nearly the whole time. Although he seemed to attend to the conversation at the table, his eyes were clearly scanning the room, checking to see if Death had an invitation. Despite the air conditioning, he was sweating heavily as he rose to make his way to the podium. When he spoke, however, his voice and manner betrayed not at all his concern. He appeared relaxed, very much in control, and he delivered a pretty good speech about balancing the need for growth and profit against the absolute duty to ensure the integrity of the earth for future generations. The only allusion he made to his own recent brush with death was to say at the outset, “It is, indeed, a pleasure to be here this evening, appearing before you in living color.”

  Although he listened, Cork was carefully watching the large room. With Schanno’s men and the state patrol posted at every door, it would have been suicide for Eco-Warrior to try anything. Still, you never knew.

  Nothing happened. Lindstrom finished his address to huge applause, rejoined the men at his table, and proceeded to further calm his nerves with a couple more scotch and sodas. He’d had enough alcohol by the end that Schanno insisted on having a deputy escort him home. Lindstrom didn’t argue.

  Cork used the remote to kill the picture on the television. The house slid further into stillness. He looked at his watch. It was much too late. He went to the telephone table next to the stairs and pulled the address book from the drawer. Under Grace Fitzgerald, he found a number Jo had written. He reached for the phone and was startled when it rang just as he touched it.

  “Cork O’Connor,” he said into the receiver.

  “This is Wally Schanno.”

  “Yeah, Wally. What’s up?”

  “I’m at Karl Lindstrom’s place. Was Jo visiting Lindstrom’s wife this evening?”

  “As far as I know. Why?”

  “Cork,” Schanno said, his voice hesitant, guarded, “it appears that Grace Fitzgerald and her son have been kidnapped. They’re gone and somebody’s left a ransom note. Jo’s Toyota is still here, but there’s no sign of her.”

  Cork’s mouth went dry. “Stevie was with her,” he said. “I think you’d better get out here.”

  On the access, fifty yards from Lindstrom’s log home, a state trooper barred his way.

  “I’m Cork O’Connor,” he told the trooper.

  “Yes, sir. If you’d just park your Bronco to the side of the road here, I’ll see that you’re escorted in.”

  Law enforcement vehicles lined both sides of the road within twenty yards of the house. After that, there was nothing except one Tamarack County Sheriff’s Department cruiser and Jo’s Toyota parked in front of the garage. The doors of the Toyota stood open. In the glare from the yard light mounted above the garage, Cork could see that the car had already been dusted for prints. The trooper who’d been his escort turned him over to Deputy Marsha Dross, posted at the front door.

  “I’m so sorry, Cork.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Earl, the BCA agent. He’s asked that the whole scene be secured. He doesn’t want any more vehicles up here, or anyone inside the perimeter without his okay until he’s released the scene. The sheriff will be here in a minute. He can explain.” She wrote Cork’s name on a log sheet and noted the time.

  Schanno came to the front door and joined them outside.

  “What happened, Wally?”

  “I’ll tell you what we know, Cork. I asked Marsha here to drive Lindstrom home from the Quetico. She delivered him.” He looked to Dross for her to continue.

  “He’d sobered up quite a bit by then. He went inside. I called dispatch to let them know I was on my way back. Just as I was getting ready to head off, Mr. Lindstrom came running out the front door, waving a piece of paper. I read the note and called it in right away.”

  “And secured the scene,” Schanno added. “Did a good job.”

  “What did the note say, Wally?”

  “It was signed Eco-Warrior, said basically that he had Lindstrom’s wife and boy and if Lindstrom ever wanted to see them again, he’d follow instructions.”

  “What instructions?”

  “Lindstrom will be contacted.”

  “Anything about Jo and Stevie?”

  “No.” Schanno glanced at Dross.

  “What is it?” Cork asked.

  “The only other thing the note said was no police.”

  “I was already here.” Dross seemed to be apologizing.

  “Where did Lindstrom find the note?” />
  “On the coffee table in the living room,” Schanno said.

  “Just like that? He walks in, finds the note, and hollers at Marsha before she can pull away? He doesn’t go to the kitchen first for a glass of milk? Doesn’t go upstairs to find out if they’re sleeping maybe?”

  “Cork.” Schanno hesitated a moment. “There was indication of some violence. Pieces of a shattered lamp all over the floor. We already dug a slug out of the wall.”

  “Where’s Lindstrom now?”

  “Inside. Waiting by the phone. The note didn’t say when he’d be contacted with instructions.”

  Schanno seemed uncomfortable with his empty hands and he put them in his pockets. “Look, I’m thinking they were just in the wrong place at the wrong time and were taken along with Lindstrom’s family.”

  “Can I talk to Karl?”

  “Did you log him in?” Schanno asked Deputy Dross.

  “Yes.”

  “Come on, then.” Schanno led the way to the living room, speaking as he went. “Ed Larson’s in charge of the scene, but I asked Agents Earl and Owen if they’d help. They’ve got more experience with this kind of thing.”

  In the living room, Karl Lindstrom sat in a brown leather easy chair staring at the telephone on a small table next to him. Cork saw residue from the dusting for prints on the doorjambs and furniture.

  “This is the only area that’s been cleared,” Schanno told Cork. “We stay here until either Ed or Agent Earl releases the rest of the house.”

  Lindstrom looked up, looked bewildered. “Cork.”

  “Karl.”

  He’d sobered. The relief at not having encountered any violence during his address at the Quetico had been replaced by fear. And anger.

  “The son of a bitch,” Lindstrom said. “Our families, Cork. The bastard’s gone after our families.”

  Through the doorway that led to the kitchen, Cork saw the light go out, and another, a strong focused beam, began to sweep the floor.

  “Cork, you have any idea why Jo and Stevie were out here this evening?” Schanno asked.

  “Jo came because Grace Fitzgerald wanted to talk to her. Professionally. And Stevie? There was no one to watch him at home.”

  I should have been there, he thought, protecting my son instead of Lindstrom.

  “Professionally? Any idea what about?”

  “No.”

  “You, Karl?” Schanno asked.

  Lindstrom sat forward, his hands working angrily over one another. “She didn’t say anything to me about it. Does it matter?”

  “We don’t know what matters at this point,” Schanno said.

  Cork heard Owen’s voice in the kitchen. “There. And over there. At least two good prints. Let’s get some powder in here to enhance them and then get them photographed. We’ll try to lift them after that.”

  Lucky Knudsen appeared briefly, glanced at Cork, and gave him a look full of concern. He picked up a fingerprint box and stepped back into the kitchen. Agent David Earl came down the stairs from the second floor. Ed Larson was with him. Larson was writing in a small notebook.

  “Doesn’t look like anything was touched upstairs,” Earl said, “but let’s have the likely areas dusted for prints anyway.” He looked up when he reached the bottom of the stairs. “O’Connor,” he said. Then he said, “I’m sorry.”

  “How’d they get in?” Cork asked, skipping amenities that meant nothing to him at the moment.

  “Back door, Cork,” Ed Larson said. “No sign of forced entry.”

  “She never locked the doors before she went to bed,” Lindstrom said. “I told her whenever she was out here alone to keep the doors locked. She never did.”

  Agent Mark Owen stepped in from the kitchen, looking pleased. “We’ve got good footprints,” he announced. “Someone stepped in the spilled milk and tracked across the floor. Too big for the boys.”

  “All you need now,” Cork said bleakly, “is an idea where to find the shoe that fits it. Got one?”

  Owen calmly replied, “It’s a start, Mr. O’Connor.”

  “What do we do now?” Lindstrom looked to Earl for an answer.

  “I’ve called the FBI office in the Twin Cities,” Earl explained. “They’re sending up a team and the equipment to set up a trap and trace on the phone so that when contact is made, we’ll be ready. The ransom note is already on its way down to the lab in St. Paul. It’ll have priority. In the meantime, we finish processing the scene. We’ll talk to your neighbors and find out if anyone saw anything. Then we wait and see.”

  “Do Rose and the kids know?” Schanno asked Cork.

  “Rose. She’s waiting by the phone. I’ll have to call her.”

  “There’s a phone in my office,” Lindstrom said. “Down the hallway there. It’s a separate line.”

  “Okay if I go?” Cork asked Earl. “Want to process the room first?”

  “Go ahead. But just use the phone.”

  When he was sheriff, Cork had believed that in a frightening situation, the presence of law enforcement was a comforting influence. He looked around him as he headed away from the living room, looked at the people who were going about their jobs, following established procedures, but who, in reality, were just as ignorant as he. Any comfort they offered was at best an illusion. At worst, it was something akin to a prayer for the dead.

  25

  THEY WERE ON A LOGGING ROAD—an old one, seldom used. Jo knew it from the way the vehicle that transported them dipped and jumped and from how often and hard the man who drove it braked, then slowly maneuvered right or left. Jo imagined the headlights slicing into the dark, glancing off pine trunks, the far end of the beams swallowed by deep night and dense woods. She imagined well because she’d been trying for nearly an hour to track—blindly—where they were headed.

  In the runabout out of Grace Cove, she was almost certain they’d headed north. Not far. Ten minutes and the engine had been cut and the bow scraped bottom. The man in the ski mask pulled the tarp away and placed black cloth bags over the heads of Grace and Scott Fitzgerald. Then he took the two of them away. He’d come back immediately for Stevie. “I’ve got nothing to put over your head, boy. So close your eyes. If you open them, I’ll poke ‘em out with my knife.” He’d shown Stevie a vicious-looking blade, and Stevie had clamped his eyes shut tight as clamshells. The man had lifted Stevie and carried him away. When he returned for Jo, he pulled a crumpled red bandanna from his back pocket, snapped it once to clear the crust, folded it, and bound it over her eyes. “Mess with the blindfold and your kid’s history.”

  He didn’t immediately take her to the others. She stood for several minutes, listening as he smashed a hole in the hull of the boat, started the engine, set it at idle speed, and sent the runabout back onto the lake. She assumed that in a few minutes it would sink, deep and without a trace.

  He led her to a vehicle—a van, she guessed from the way he had her enter. He sat her on the edge, and she felt the rear bumper under her legs. He told her to slide back. After she scooted a couple of feet, she heard a double slam—two doors. He moved to the front, climbed in, and said, “Hold tight.” Which, with her hands bound behind her, was a cruel joke. As the van lurched forward and took a hard right, she tipped over, falling against a large prone form she guessed must have been Grace.

  At first, the road was smooth. Jo believed they were heading east. She lay on the floor of the van, which was covered with old shag carpet smelling of gasoline and dog. With the van traveling on the relative quiet of the paved road, she could hear Stevie whimpering, and she prayed he had his eyes shut. The van veered hard left—north—onto a road that, from the shudder of the undercarriage and the choke of dust, Jo figured was not paved. She tried to think what roads headed that way. There were several and all tunneled into the Superior National Forest. Fifteen minutes, and they turned again—east—and the ride became a torture of bumps that tossed her up off the carpet and brought her down hard. She tried to calculate miles but could
only guess at speeds. Still, her sense was that they were east of the Iron Lake Reservation and just south of the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness.

  They’d been in the van nearly an hour when it pulled to a stop. The man got out, came around to the back, and opened the doors.

  “End of the line,” he said.

  He grasped Jo by the ankles and pulled her to the edge.

  “Stand up,” he ordered.

  When she did, he grabbed her by the shoulders and positioned her to the side.

  “Stay right there, gorgeous.”

  Jo heard him bring the others out. To Stevie he said, “Keep those eyes closed.” Then there was a tearing of fabric and a moment later he said, “There, got your own blindfold now, kid. Everybody just hang tough.”

  Jo heard him walk away. She couldn’t tell if anyone was with him. She tried to say Stevie’s name, but the duct tape over her mouth made it impossible. He came back, then away, then back and away, then he returned a last time for Jo. He grasped her brusquely by the arm and led her along. They entered a structure—Jo could tell by the dank smell, the closeness of the air, the way the distant chirp of tree frogs was suddenly muffled. Under her feet, she felt brittle grass give way to dirt. He stopped her, put his hands on her shoulders, and shoved her back against a square post. His hands were large and powerful, and they forced her down so that her back slid along the splintered post. She cried out as slivers of wood needled through her shirt into her skin. Her butt hit dirt. He looped a rope tight about her and cinched her to the post so that her hands behind her were pinned between the small of her back and the wooden post. When he’d finished, he lingered near her. She could feel his breath on her cheek, and then his fingers at the top buttons of her blouse. His hand crept down her skin toward her breasts. He made a sound, as if contemplating a good meal. The rope that bound her to the post kept him from exploring further. Like a spider retreating, his hand withdrew.