Purgatory Ridge

by William Kent Krueger

  “This is my fault,” Lindstrom said.

  “Don’t do that to yourself, Karl.”

  “It is my fault. I’ve been so worried about that damn mill and the great Lindstrom name that I let go of what was really important. I should have been here that night.”

  “Nobody could have known.”

  “Why is it you don’t think about taking care of what you love until it’s too late?”

  “It’s not too late, Karl. We’re going to get them back.”

  The man turned to him, and Cork thought he saw something spring to life again in the dark where Lindstrom’s tired eyes had tunneled. “I think I believe you.”

  The phone rang.

  “This is it,” Special Agent Kay said.

  Lindstrom walked quickly to the phone. He waited to pick up until Arnie Gooden gave him a thumbs-up. He put the call on the speaker.

  “Lindstrom here.”

  “Do you have it?” Once again, the true voice was hidden behind a grating electronic mask.

  “Yes.”

  There was a long pause. “You have it?”

  “I told you, yes.”

  “Son of a bitch.” Even the mask couldn’t hide the fact that the caller was chuckling.

  “What now?” Lindstrom asked.

  “The drop will be tonight. After dark. I’ll call at nine-thirty P.M. sharp with delivery instructions.”

  “Not delivery,” Lindstrom said. “Exchange.”

  “That will be arranged.”

  “I want proof my family is all right. And O’Connor’s.”

  “Or what?” the voice chided. “Until tonight, Mr. Lindstrom.” The line went dead.

  “Did you get it?” Cork snapped at Agent Arnie Gooden, who was in contact via cell phone with the telephone company.

  “Just a minute. Yes. It came from a public phone at 3414 Harbor Avenue…” His face clouded. “… Duluth.”

  “Duluth?” Lindstrom repeated.

  “Damn,” Kay said quietly. She turned to Arnie Gooden. “Give Duluth PD a call. Ask them to secure the phone booth until we can get an evidence team down there.” She looked at Agent David Earl. “That was smart.”

  “Yes. But… did you hear? He sounded surprised when Lindstrom indicated he had the ransom money. What do you make of that?”

  “I don’t know.” Kay rubbed her temple. “He’s put off the drop until after dark. That makes sense. Hoping to be invisible.”

  Schanno said, “Somebody needs to give a statement to the press out there.”

  “I’ll talk to them,” Lindstrom said, his voice at the edge of a threat.

  “I’d rather you didn’t,” Agent Kay said. “I’ll do it.” She turned to Agent Earl. “You’re welcome to accompany me out there. Represent the interest of the state.”

  “All right,” Earl said.

  Kay looked at Schanno. “We have some plans to make. I’ll need your help.”

  “Whatever it is, you’ve got it.”

  When Kay moved toward the front door, Cork said quietly to George LeDuc, “Meet me at the Bronco in a few minutes. I’ll give you a lift back to the rez.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To shake hands with the Devil.”

  Cork let himself out the back door as the reporters flowed to the front lawn in response to the appearance of the agents from the FBI and BCA. He slipped among the throng, which was focused on Kay and Earl. Kay stood on the front porch, the sun in her eyes, blinking at the upturned faces.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I appreciate your patience…” she began.

  Cork found Hell Hanover without any trouble. From behind, he leaned to the man’s ear and spoke softly. “Got an exclusive for you, Hell.”

  Hanover turned and his face showed genuine surprise. “O’Connor. What do you want?”

  “I’ve got a story for you. An exclusive.”

  “About your wife and boy being snatched?”

  “No. About your ass and keeping it out of jail. Meet me at Sam’s Place in an hour.” He slipped away before Hanover could object.

  Hell Hanover’s maroon Taurus wagon rumbled over the tracks near Sam’s Place and pulled to a stop in the empty parking area. Hell sat a moment looking things over. He opened the car door, swung his stiff artificial leg out, and stood up. His right hand shaded his face against the low morning sun, and once again, he carefully took in the lay of the land. He appeared wary of what he might be walking into, and with good reason. A year and a half earlier, he’d been careless in a confrontation with Cork, and that carelessness had nearly sent him to prison. He dropped his hand, limped to the door of the Quonset hut, and knocked. He saw the door was already slightly ajar, and he pushed it open fully with his artificial foot.

  “O’Connor?” he called inside.

  When he received no answer, he glanced behind him and to both sides. His left hand slipped under his wrinkled sports coat to the small of his back and came out with the butt of a small handgun nestled in his palm.

  “O’Connor?” he tried again. Then he made the mistake of stepping inside.

  Cork left the window of the serving area up front in Sam’s Place. He’d been watching Hanover through a small hole cut in the middle of a poster featuring Sam’s Big Deluxe Burger. He stepped silently to a position just inside the doorway that separated the living area of the Quonset hut from the serving area of Sam’s Place. He was holding a baseball bat, the Louisville Slugger he’d given Annie for her last birthday.

  The floor of the old Quonset creaked under the weight of Hell Hanover, and it was easy for Cork to track the man’s position. Hanover went straight to the place Cork wanted him and he stopped. Without needing to look, Cork knew Hell was staring at the photograph—mended with tape and hung over the kitchen sink—of Jo naked and making love to another man. Paper-clipped to the photo was a note on which Cork had written in big red letters, I DON’T GIVE A DAMN, HELL.

  The moment the floorboards ceased to call out Hanover’s progress, Cork made his move and rushed through the doorway. Before Hanover could react to the sound of footsteps, Cork swung Annie’s Louisville Slugger and connected with Hell’s left forearm. Hanover cried out in pain; his handgun clattered to the floor. Cork used the tip of the bat as a baton and lunged, catching Hanover square in the stomach. Hell went down to his knees, gasping for air. Cork kicked the handgun clear of the bald man’s reach.

  “You know,” Cork said, standing over him, breathing pretty hard himself, “for a guy who wants to lead an armed revolution, you’re a piss-poor strategist.”

  “I’ll have you… arrested,” Hell threatened between gasps.

  “And rely on the system you want to destroy? I don’t think so, Hell. Besides, you’d lose. You trespassed and pulled a gun. I’d take that to a jury any day.”

  Hanover had wrapped his good arm around his stomach and was struggling to look up at Cork. “What’s this all about?”

  With the toe of his shoe, Cork tapped the handgun that lay fallen on the floor. “A little thirty-two, Hell? A whole military arsenal to choose from and you pick a prissy weapon to carry.”

  “It’s licensed.”

  “Playing it safe, I see. Worried you might go to jail?”

  “What do you want, O’Connor?”

  “An exchange.”

  Hell slowly got to his feet. He stopped nursing his stomach and gingerly felt the forearm that had taken the full force of the Louisville Slugger. “Jesus, I think you broke it.”

  “It’s only the beginning of what I’ll break unless we strike a deal.”

  “You said exchange. What are you talking about?”

  “Jo, Stevie, Grace Fitzgerald, and her boy. In exchange for your stockpile of illegal arms.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Wrong answer.” Cork swung the bat again and connected with Hanover’s good leg just below the knee. Hell went down again, screaming.

  “You’re crazy, O’Connor.”

  “
Absolutely. Crazy enough to kill you right now, Hell. I want my family back.”

  “I don’t know anything about your family, God damn it. I didn’t have anything to do with this abduction thing.”

  “You tried to use that photograph to force me to back off investigating Eco-Warrior. Why?”

  Hanover tried to stand again, but his leg gave out and he ended up back on his knees. “Because it was a situation that could explode in the face of government at every level. Jesus, it was a dream and I wanted it to happen.” He felt his leg and grimaced. “Oh, shit.”

  “Two million dollars, Hell. That’s how much the ransom demand is. Two million could buy you a hell of an armory for that little militia of yours.”

  “I don’t have a little militia. You saw to that, remember?” He gave Cork a look more sour than painful. “Are you going to kill me, O’Connor? Then why don’t you just do it? Bash my brains out or whatever it is you have in mind.”

  Cork put the bat against Hanover’s head. “I haven’t slept in two days, Hell. My wife and my boy are in the hands of some madman. If you think for a minute that I wouldn’t kill you, think again.”

  “Look, what do you want from me? I didn’t take your family. Your wife and boy were abducted Saturday night, right? Saturday night I was covering the volunteer firefighters’ picnic over in Tower. A hundred people saw me there.”

  “Some of your militia, then.”

  “If I had a militia, O’Connor, consider the ranks. You think there’s anybody brilliant enough to carry off this kind of thing? Jesus, you beat the fuck out of me for nothing.”

  Cork stepped back, but he didn’t put the slugger down. “Not for nothing. We still have to deal with that photograph.”

  Hanover looked at the photo hanging above his head. “You’d kill me over that? I don’t think so.” He grinned, as if he had Cork beaten.

  “Blackmail for blackmail,” Cork said. “Little Sun Lake.”

  At those last words, Hanover’s face changed. The grin died, and his eyes took on a hunted look.

  “That’s right,” Cork said. “I found your cache of arms out at Little Sun Lake. And I moved it. Every crate of AK-47’s, every Skorpion submachine gun, every CS grenade, every round of ammunition, all of it. Now it’s my cache. But unless I’m sorely mistaken, your fingerprints are all over everything, and probably the prints from a lot of the rest of the Minnesota Civilian Brigade. ATF would have a field day with that. You’d go to prison for a very long time.”

  Hanover’s only reply was an unflinching glare.

  “And don’t think that taking me out sometime will solve your problems, Hell. I had a lot of help moving those weapons. If I’m ever harmed, the ATF will have the location of the cache within half an hour. You’re a free man only so long as no one else ever sees that photograph or any copies of it or any similar evidence of indiscretion you might have stashed somewhere. Understand?”

  Hanover took a few ragged breaths before he was able to reply. “Yeah, I understand.”

  “Good. Now get out.”

  Cork moved back, but Hanover didn’t rise. “I’m not sure I can walk.”

  “Here.” Cork handed him the Louisville Slugger. “Use it as a cane. But I’ll keep the thirty-two for now.” He lifted the handgun from the floor.

  Hell Hanover struggled to his feet, leaned heavily on the wooden bat, and slowly thumped his way outside. He eased into his Taurus, grunting painfully as he did so.

  “Leave the bat,” Cork called.

  Hanover dropped the Louisville Slugger on the ground, closed the door, and started the engine. Without glancing once in Cork’s direction, he left.

  Cork stood in the doorway of the Quonset hut, his body quivering as it dealt with all the adrenaline that had been pumped into it in the last fifteen minutes. He’d been ready to kill Hanover in cold blood if the man had given him any indication he had anything to do with the kidnapping of Jo and Stevie. Although he hated Hanover and everything he stood for, Cork believed that in this instance, he was innocent.

  He stared at the empty parking area. The grass at the edges was brown from drought. The grasshoppers were legion, feeding everywhere, the sound of their brittle wings buzzing in the heat. But Cork wasn’t seeing or hearing them. He was deep in thought, wondering desperately, If not Hell, then who?

  37

  WESLEY BRIDGER SHOWED UP LATE in the morning. He parked his van next to LePere’s small house and went inside.

  “What the hell happened, Chief?”

  John LePere sat at the little dining table, a cup of coffee in his hand. He was pretty tired, but he didn’t want to sleep, not until he’d dealt with Bridger. He leaned his elbows on the tabletop and gave the man a long, steady look. “Something in all your careful planning you never counted on,” he replied. “Fire. Nearly killed us all.”

  “The others? They’re okay?”

  “They’re okay.”

  “Well, hey, Chief, where’s the damage? You did a good job.” He walked to LePere and gave him a hearty slap on the back. “Mind if I pour me a cup of that java there? Been a long night for me, too.”

  “Where’ve you been?”

  “Preparing, Chief. Getting things ready. They’ve got the money.” Bridger poured himself some coffee and let out a rebel yell. “They’ve got the fucking money.”

  “The Fitzgerald woman wasn’t sure her husband could get it.”

  “Unless he’s lying his ass off, he’s got it. And we’ll have it tonight.” Bridger lifted his cup in a brief toast. “Time to start celebrating. Start imagining what it’s going to feel like being a millionaire.”

  LePere put his cup down. “There’s something we need to talk about.”

  Bridger pulled out a chair, turned it backward, and plopped himself down. He drank his coffee and addressed LePere over the chair back. “Yeah? And what’s that?”

  “I’m not taking any of the money.”

  Bridger laughed. “That’s a good one.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “I don’t want the money.”

  “You sure took a hell of a risk for nothing, then.”

  “They saw my face, Wes.”

  Bridger stared at him and blinked. Then he threw his cup against the wall. “Fuck me.” He stood up and kicked over the chair. “God damn it. How the hell—”

  “The fire. It happened while I was getting them away from the fire. It couldn’t be helped. It wasn’t their fault.”

  “Shit.” Bridger kicked the floral sofa. He closed his eyes and thought a moment, shaking his head angrily, as if all he could see were blind alleys. “So, how does this translate into you not taking any money?”

  “You take the money. I take the rap.”

  Bridger snorted ruefully. “You started drinking again?”

  “It’s the only way.”

  “No.” Bridger glared at him. “It’s not the only way.”

  LePere understood what he meant. “These people are going back to their families, Wes.”

  “They go to their families. You go to jail. And what about me? I just slip off into the sunset with two million dollars?”

  “That’s it.”

  “You think they’re going to let it go at that? These are rich people, Chief. You fuck with rich people and they have all the resources available to fuck you right back, and better. And the cops? You think they’re not going to make your life a living hell until you tell them about me?”

  “They’ll try. But I’ve been in hell a long time now. There’s nothing they can do that’ll make it any worse.”

  Bridger walked back to the table, leaned close to LePere, and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “There’s more to it than you’re telling me, am I right?”

  “They’ve promised to investigate the wreck, to find the truth.”

  Bridger stepped back in mock amazement. “And you believed them? Chief, you are one stupid half-breed.”

  “Don’t call me that.�
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  “Christ.” Bridger walked away in disgust. He headed to the door but didn’t go out. He just stood looking at the fish house. “I guess the die’s been cast, huh? You’ve crossed your own little Rubicon.” He took a breath and faced LePere. “But we go through with the drop tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. Your funeral.” He came back and offered his hand. “Sorry about the half-breed thing.”

  LePere didn’t take his hand. “One more thing. Until this is over, you stay away from them.”

  Bridger dropped his arm and gave LePere a quizzical look.

  “You hurt the Fitzgerald woman.”

  “I scared her a little.” Bridger shrugged, then smiled sheepishly. “All right, I scared her a lot. But, hey, she was trying to get away.”

  “Just leave them alone.”

  Bridger solemnly held up a hand. “You have my word.” He turned and started away. “I’ve got more arrangements to make for tonight. I’d best get moving.” He paused at the door. “You’re sure about all this?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Bridger made a gun of his thumb and forefinger and shot an imaginary round at LePere. “You’re some piece of work, you know that, Chief?” He stepped outside. A minute later, the van pulled away and headed up the narrow lane to the highway.

  John LePere felt good. The hardest part was over—dealing with Bridger. He left the table and went into the kitchen. He put some bananas in a sack and filled a plastic jug with cold tap water. Outside, the air was warm and carried the smell of smoke. LePere crossed to the fish house and unlocked the door. The women looked up as he entered. The boys were asleep, chins resting on their chests.

  “I thought you might be hungry, maybe could use a drink of water,” he said quietly. He put the sack on the floor. The jelly glasses were sitting on the table and he filled them. He offered a drink to Grace Fitzgerald. She nodded and he put the glass to her lips. “Your husband has the money,” he told her. A trickle ran down her chin and he wiped it away.

  “I can’t imagine where he got it,” she said.

  “If two million would have saved Billy, I’d have moved heaven and earth to get it.”

  “Scott needs another injection,” the Fitzgerald woman said.