Purgatory Ridge

by William Kent Krueger

  The geologists spoke about time as if it were an endless, incomprehensible quantity. To those who measured time in breaths and heartbeats, it wasn’t hard to grasp at all. And John LePere, as he led the others over the talus at the base of Purgatory Ridge, was afraid time was running out.

  When he guided the others toward the ridge, he’d thought he could find his way easily, could lead them swiftly and unseen over rock he’d known since childhood, along paths he and Billy had followed hundreds of times to the other side of the ridge. However, as a child he’d known enough to be well afraid when the waves rose up like raging giants and swept the cliffs clean of everything that was not rock, and he’d never dared to be there during a storm. As soon as he reached the base of the black cliffs, he knew he’d made a mistake. He would have to use the flashlight. If Bridger and his cohort were looking, they’d see the beam across the cove. He didn’t like it, but by then, he had no other choice.

  He moved ahead of the others a few yards, then turned back and lit the way for them to see. The Fitzgerald woman and her son were directly behind him. The boy Stevie and his mother brought up the rear. Those two held hands whenever possible. More often than not, however, they were forced to travel single file along narrow shelves and between huge rock fragments. Along the south side of the ridge that faced the cove, they made good progress. But as soon as they rounded the chest of the ridge, they were exposed fully to whatever the great lake threw at the shore. They slowed to a crawl. The crash of the waves became so loud, it was impossible to be heard. LePere directed them with hand gestures. Many times they had to grasp at a cold, wet face of rock for something to hold to as the lake threatened to sweep them away. LePere, who kept an eye to their backs, watching for any sign that Wesley Bridger was following, had seen a light dashing among the boulders far behind them—far enough, he thought, that if they kept moving, they would make it to the back side of the ridge safely ahead of Bridger.

  They traversed the worst of the shoreline without incident and began to cross a broad plate of rock that sloped sharply toward the water. Although the waves couldn’t reach them there, the driving rain made the rock slippery. Twice, LePere lost his footing, and it was only his powerful grip that kept him from sliding into the lake. He concentrated fully on his own crossing, then turned back to the others. They’d all stopped. LePere saw immediately why. The O’Connor boy was in the water. From her own precarious position, his mother tried to lean out to him, to grasp his hand as the swells lifted him and rolled him up the sloping plate. Without a moment of hesitation, LePere retraced his steps, handed the flashlight to Grace Fitzgerald, and went into the lake after Stevie.

  The water was ice cold, but LePere barely noticed. He grabbed the boy, who was bobbing in the wake of a swell, and put his right arm firmly around Stevie’s chest. When the next wave swept in, LePere felt the power of the lake lift them both as if they were nothing. He turned before he hit the rock, took the blow fully against his side and shoulder, sparing the boy. The lake tried to tear Stevie from his grasp, but LePere was damned if he’d lose the boy now. He threw his free arm out, groping for a firm hold. His hand grasped a ragged edge, and he clamped his fingers tight around it. He pulled himself up and pushed the boy ahead so that Jo O’Connor could reach him. As soon as Stevie left his arms, the next wave hit and scraped LePere across the rock, facedown. Two more waves manhandled him before he was able to pull himself from the water. He could feel a warm flow of blood down his face. He would have preferred to rest a moment, but even a moment was not something he wanted to waste. He waved them all to move ahead, and he followed.

  Grace Fitzgerald now lit the way. When they reached the other side of the ridge, LePere could see the lights from resort cabins along the shoreline a half mile distant. He looked back. The light behind had gained on them significantly. He knew they wouldn’t reach the cabins before Bridger caught up with them.

  “Go ahead,” he called to the others.

  “What about you?” Jo O’Connor called back.

  LePere pointed toward the approaching flashlight beam. “I’ll take care of him. Go on. Just go.”

  The women went ahead with their sons. LePere found a boulder that would hide him, and he crouched to spring. As the flashlight beam slid past, he leaped and took the man down. They wrestled briefly on the rock before a gunshot stopped them both. LePere, who lay pressed on top of the man with the flashlight, heard Bridger’s voice speaking at his back.

  “Let him up, John.”

  LePere stood up. He saw that Bridger held a pistol trained on the women and the boys.

  “He was waiting for us,” Jo O’Connor said.

  The man who’d followed them pushed up and used his flashlight a moment to search for his handgun. When he found it, he faced the others.

  “Karl?” Grace Fitzgerald’s voice was filled with bewilderment.

  “Hello, Grace. Hey there, Scott. Good work, Wes,” Lindstrom called to Bridger.

  “You know this man?” the woman asked her husband.

  “Know him? Hell, I hired him. Look, let’s all go back to LePere’s cozy little place and discuss this. Oh, and by the way, Jo, I’ve got a special surprise for you back there. And for you, too, Stevie. Would you like to see your daddy?”

  “Cork’s there?” Jo O’Connor asked.

  “He was when I left. And I’m sure he hasn’t gone anywhere.” He waved them off the ridge with his gun. “Let’s go. Time’s wasting.”

  48

  BRIDGER PUSHED OPEN the fish house door and turned on the light. He stepped aside, and Lindstrom ushered the others in.

  When Jo saw Cork, she let out a cry. He sat on the floor, propped against the wall, his shirt drenched with blood. “Oh Jesus, no.” She dropped to her knees beside him.

  His eyes fluttered open, and when he saw her, a faint smile came to his lips. “You’re alive.”

  They’d taped her wrists behind her again—taped all their wrists—so she couldn’t reach out to him, couldn’t help him in any way. She saw that he’d managed to unbutton his shirt and pull it aside. In his left hand was a folded, bloody handkerchief that he held pressed against his shoulder a few inches above his right nipple.

  “How bad?” she asked.

  “Just a hole,” Cork whispered. “One little hole.”

  Stevie stood near his father, blinking as he tried to comprehend all the blood and his father’s helplessness.

  “Hey, buddy,” Cork said. It was barely more than a mumble. He tried to lift his right arm toward his son, but the move made him groan, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the pain.

  “I don’t understand, Karl,” Grace Fitzgerald said. She stood against the wall with Scott beside her.

  “Sit down, all of you. Wes, see to the boats. Let me know when you’re ready. And that gun you have. I’ll take it.”

  “Why?” Bridger asked darkly.

  “Because it’s unregistered, and we’re going to wipe it clean of prints and leave it in Mr. LePere’s house. When they find it, they’ll do ballistics and discover that it’s the same gun that was fired in my home on Grace Cove. Further evidence of Mr. LePere’s guilt.” He held out his hand, and Bridger—a bit reluctantly, it seemed to Jo—yielded him the weapon.

  After Bridger made his exit, Lindstrom leaned casually against one of the tables where LePere’s father had cleaned fish. “You know, Grace, I loved you once, really loved you. I’d have died for you, you know that?” He stuffed the handgun Bridger had given him into the waist of his pants, but he kept the other pointed at his prisoners.

  “I don’t believe it,” she replied.

  He shrugged. “Fine. Whatever. I did kill for you once.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your beloved Edward. It wasn’t the lake that got him. It was Bridger. At my direction.”

  Grace stared in disbelief. “You… killed Edward?”

  “I thought that with him out of the way, I’d have a chance. But he still had you, even
dead.” Lindstrom waved it off, as if it were really nothing to him now. “The point is that when it became clear to me that you would never love me, it also became clear that someday you’d leave me. Now, that was a thing I couldn’t abide. For many reasons.”

  “You… planned all this?”

  “Meticulously, Grace.”

  “How’d you know Wes?” John LePere asked.

  “He told you a story once, I believe, about a covert operation he was involved in as a SEAL that sank a Libyan tanker. That was my operation. Wes impressed me as a man with many skills and few scruples. I tracked him down when I decided to get rid of Edward.”

  Cork coughed and groaned. Jo longed to hold him, to give him some comfort, to ease his pain. She glanced at Stevie and saw that his eyes were glazed. He stared at her as if he didn’t see her at all, as if he saw nothing anymore. She understood. How could so brief a life, so protected an existence, comprehend such horror as he’d been through?

  Bridger opened the door and stepped in dripping rain. “All set. Here’s the remote detonator.” He handed the device to Lindstrom.

  “We’re going for a boat ride,” Karl Lindstrom said to Jo and the others. “I’ll tell you up-front that you won’t be coming back. Now, I can kill you right here, or you can walk to the boats and have a few more precious minutes of life. I’d prefer not to have to carry you down to the dock, but the choice is yours.” He glanced at his watch. “You’d better decide fast. I have to get back to Grace Cove before I’m missed.”

  He waited. LePere finally stood up. So did Grace and Scott. Stevie, who’d never sat down, stood blank-faced and rigid.

  “You have to get up, Cork,” Jo whispered desperately. “Please get up.”

  Cork slowly worked his way to his hands and knees, then pulled himself up by holding on to one of the tables. He stood, wavering, leaning heavily against Jo.

  Karl Lindstrom said, “Give him a hand, Wes.”

  “He’s all bloody.”

  “So buy yourself a new shirt tomorrow. You’ll be able to afford it.”

  “Why don’t you help him?”

  “Somebody’s got to hold the gun.”

  “Shit.” Bridger worked his shoulder under Cork’s arm and walked him to the door.

  “Let’s go,” Lindstrom said, and he followed behind them.

  They stumbled into the storm, walking a muddy path to the dock. Even with her arms bound behind her back, Jo managed to grab hold of the front of Stevie’s shirt, and she pulled him along behind her. He followed like a zombie. Bridger had tied the stolen motor launch to the stern of the Anne Marie with a tow line. They all climbed aboard LePere’s boat. Bridger hauled Cork over the gunwale and let him drop in the cockpit.

  “That’s as far as I take him,” Bridger declared.

  Lindstrom herded the others out of the rain into the deckhouse of the Anne Marie, but he left Cork where he’d fallen. “Just get him out of the way so we don’t trip over him,” he instructed Bridger.

  Looking back, Jo saw Wesley Bridger roll Cork against the side of the cockpit, where he lay like a dead fish waiting to be gutted.

  Lindstrom directed them to the other end of the deckhouse where a companionway to the left of the helm station led below. At the bottom of the short flight of steps, they entered the small, forward cabin that had a V berth shaped to the bow. Lindstrom shoved LePere to the floor. Jo and the others crammed themselves onto the berth. Bridger stepped down and joined his cohort.

  “I’ll take her out. You keep them out of mischief,” Lindstrom said. He headed up to the wheel inside the deckhouse. Bridger closed the cabin door and stayed with the others belowdeck.

  The Anne Marie pulled away from the dock. On the relatively calm water of Purgatory Cove, the boat rocked gently. As soon as Karl Lindstrom headed it out beyond the protection of the rocks, the bow began to buck wildly. Stevie sat beside Jo, stiff as a plastic doll. Grace and Scott were in the bunk on the other side of the V berth. LePere sat on the floor with his back against a door marked storage.

  Bridger braced himself against the pitching of the boat and grinned at them. “Feels worse than it is. The waves are only three or four feet. Nothing, really. Relax and enjoy the ride.”

  “Where are you taking us?” Grace asked.

  “Not far. A mile or so out, just beyond where the lake bottom drops away. We want you deep.”

  Jo thought about the remote detonator Bridger had handed to Lindstrom. She considered the motor launch in tow, and she understood. They meant to sink the Anne Marie and use the launch to return to Purgatory Cove.

  Bridger seemed to discern her thought process. “We’re not going to blow you up,” he said. “We don’t want to attract attention with a big explosion and we don’t want any debris. No, I’ve rigged just enough of a charge to scuttle her. I figure it’ll take fifteen minutes, maybe twenty. Then you and the boat and all the evidence will be gone. But you won’t have to worry about that, because you’ll already be dead.”

  Jo asked, “How much has he promised you?”

  “What difference does it make to you? Thinking of trying a counter offer?” Bridger laughed.

  “I was just thinking about something you said today.”

  “Yeah? And what was that?”

  “The only way for two people to keep a secret is if one of them is dead. Your exact words, I believe.”

  “Lawyers,” Bridger scoffed.

  “Think about it. What more does Karl need from you? You gave him your gun and he has the detonator. Right now, all you are to him is a loose end. One of two people who share a secret.”

  “Shut up,” Bridger said. But Jo could tell he was thinking.

  The boat pitched hard to port, and Stevie nearly fell off the bunk. Jo threw her leg across him and eased him back. He didn’t seem to be aware of it at all. He didn’t even seem to be blinking. A part of Jo thought maybe that was best. If they were going to die, she’d rather her son were somewhere else in his consciousness, somewhere he couldn’t see death coming.

  “On the other hand,” Jo went on, once again addressing Bridger, “what’s he to you now but a loose end? You have two million dollars. How much more do you really need? The police will investigate him. They’ll start sifting and sorting and even though everything points another way, they’ll consider Karl Lindstrom seriously. The Fitzgerald fortune is such a magnificent motive. Has he really covered all his tracks? Think about it for a moment, Mr. Bridger. If they nail him and he wants to cut a deal, what does he have to offer them except you?”

  She saw a look in his eyes, the kind she’d often seen in the jury box when she knew she’d put well into their minds the question of reasonable doubt. Bridger reached down and lifted his right pant leg. Strapped to his calf was a sheathed knife. He unsnapped the leather guard that secured the hilt.

  “You all just sit tight,” he said. He winked at Jo. “Could’ve used you in the SEALs.” Once more he braced himself in the companionway and waited. When the motor cut out, he tensed.

  Lindstrom pulled the cabin door open. He had the gun in his hand. He said to Bridger, “Topside, Wes. We need to confer.”

  “Confer,” Bridger said. “Right.”

  Lindstrom stepped back on deck and Bridger followed warily. The door closed. The waves thumped the side of the boat, and the hull creaked and groaned. Jo slid quickly from the bunk. “Move away from there,” she said to LePere.

  He scooted from the storage compartment, and Jo tried desperately to open the door, hoping there would be something inside—a knife, anything—that might free them. Her taped hands were little help. She was still struggling when something slammed hard against the cabin door. A guttural cry of pain followed. Jo kept working at the latch as the sound of a fight in the deckhouse carried down to them. The crack of a pistol shot, followed almost immediately by another, brought the scuffle to an abrupt end.

  They all stared at the cabin door.

  When it opened, Karl Lindstrom stepped down. He looked
drawn, and Jo saw a red stain on his right side above his belt line.

  “He had a knife strapped to his leg,” Jo said.

  “Yesterday’s news,” Lindstrom replied.

  “We were hoping he’d kill you.”

  “You were hoping we’d kill each other. Bad luck for you. Just a nick.”

  “How will you explain it in the morning? You cut yourself shaving?”

  “I’ll think of something,” Lindstrom said. “I always have.”

  He held the gun in his right hand and the detonator in the other. Jo knew they’d reached the end. Would he shoot them first?

  She didn’t wonder long. Nor did it ultimately matter.

  Lindstrom stumbled suddenly down the steps. A look of astonishment stretched all the features of his face. He opened his mouth, and Jo thought he might speak, but all that came out was a brief, hard grunt. He dropped the gun and reached backward as if trying to grasp something behind him. He dropped to his knees in the middle of the cabin, then fell forward, facedown. In three places, the back of his shirt was stained with widening patterns of blood.