At the North Star Trail crossing, the snowmobile cut to the right, toward the river. Cork stayed with it fifty yards back. He wasn’t wearing goggles, and he crouched low behind the windshield to keep the bitter wind out of his eyes, so that he could see. The fugitive snowmobile slid onto the frozen surface of the White Iron River, shot east, and blew past the place where Hancock’s cabin stood among the trees on the shoreline. A few seconds later, Cork did the same. He didn’t see any sign of Deputy Bronson, who was supposed to be watching for Frogg. He couldn’t even guess what Azevedo and the others were thinking. If he’d had the time, he would have called on his cell to apprise them, but there wasn’t a moment to spare.
The Arctic Cat’s age was evident. The engine lacked the pickup of a younger, newer model. Cork figured he was able to stay with Frogg—he was certain it was Frogg on the other machine—only because the river was narrow and negotiating its twists and turns required a slower speed and demanded the man’s full attention. Maybe Frogg didn’t even realize that he was being followed. Two miles east, the river emptied into Iron Lake. Cork was trying to think of all the places where Frogg might leave the frozen riverway. There were cabins here and there, mostly seasonal, but the only major access was at the old bridge where County 7 crossed. Cork hoped Frogg would take that exit, because if he reached the wide-open expanse of Iron Lake, he could give his machine full throttle and Cork wouldn’t have a prayer of keeping up.
At the bridge, Frogg kept to the river. Cork had fallen back a bit because the Arctic Cat had begun to sputter. He didn’t want the engine to die completely, and he eased up on the gas. The lights of the other sled crept farther and farther ahead. Over the sound of his own machine and the wind whipping past, Cork heard the faint ring of his cell phone. He didn’t answer, couldn’t answer.
A couple of minutes away from Iron Lake he was still trying to come up with some plan that would keep Frogg within range. He wished that he carried a firearm but knew that it wouldn’t have made a difference. Although he was almost certain it was Frogg he pursued, when a gun was involved, “almost” wasn’t good enough. Then he considered what he’d do if he caught up with Frogg, who was probably armed. Cork didn’t even have Anne’s baseball bat with him. He decided he’d worry about that later.
As both machines approached the mouth of the White Iron River, Cork saw something ahead that gave him a moment of hope. Incredibly, from the ice in the middle of the opening onto Iron Lake came the flash of emergency lights atop an Interceptor Explorer, one of the Tamarack County Sheriff’s Department vehicles. Marsha, God bless her, had called in the cavalry.
The snowmobile ahead slowed. Cork came up on him rapidly. He saw the driver twist on the seat and eye him out of the oval of the hood of his parka. Then the driver turned back toward the emergency lights and gave his machine all the gas he could. The Polaris—Cork could see that the make of the snowmobile was the same as the one Hancock claimed Frogg had borrowed—shot directly at the Explorer. Cork heard a barked “Halt!” Deputy Reese Weber, who must have been called back on duty, loomed in the headlights of the Polaris. He stood at the rear of the Explorer, weapon held with a two-handed grip and aimed at Frogg. The Polaris bore down relentlessly, and Weber fired a single shot, well over Frogg’s head as a warning. The sled was on him before he had a chance to fire again. He leaped to the side and slammed his body against the rear bumper of the SUV. The Polaris veered sharply to the right and shot through the small gap between the vehicle and the shoreline. In the headlights of Cork’s Arctic Cat, Weber rolled and tried to stand, but it was clear the man was injured. Cork stopped where Weber sat in the snow, back against his vehicle.
Weber furiously waved him off. “Go! Go! I’m okay!”
Cork sped on, but he’d lost precious moments. The storm had swallowed Frogg, and Cork could no longer see the headlights of the Polaris. He killed the Arctic Cat’s engine and listened. He’d expected Frogg to flee into the great open of the lake. He was surprised when he heard the mosquito buzz of the engine heading south down the shoreline toward Aurora. He fired up the Arctic Cat and turned again in pursuit.
Frogg had made what Cork hoped would prove to be a fatal error, the error of a man who didn’t know Iron Lake as intimately as a native would. Even in the coldest of winters, Iron Lake didn’t freeze over completely. There were a couple of places where open water remained. Half-Mile Creek near Crow Point was one. The other was a kidney-shaped area adjacent to the old BearPaw Brewery. In the years the brewery had operated, the runoff had kept the water near the shoreline free from ice. The result was that waterfowl sometimes wintered there. When the brewery finally closed its doors, a vocal group of citizenry had succeeded in persuading the city of Aurora to aerate that small section of shoreline to keep the water open for the benefit of the waterfowl. It was an area clearly marked with barricades, and anyone familiar with the lake in winter stayed clear of it. Frogg must not have known the lake, because he was heading straight for the open water. If the storm hampered his visibility enough, the man might just fly right off the ice into the grip of Iron Lake, and Cork would have him.
Cork shot past the North Arm peninsula, barely able to see the lights of the big houses there because of the thick snowfall. Although Aurora lay along the shoreline ahead, all he could see were a million flakes blasting at him as he pursued Frogg. He couldn’t tell distances well and had no clear idea of how far he was from the open water. Once again, he halted his Arctic Cat, turned off the engine, and listened. He heard the Polaris up ahead. Then suddenly the sound changed to a kind of gargle and ceased. Frogg, Cork knew, had hit the water.
He moved the Arctic Cat cautiously forward. In a minute, in the headlights, he spotted an orange barricade on which was mounted a warning sign that read “Caution—Open Water.” He neared the edge where white ice met black water and where the tracks of Frogg’s Polaris ended. He stopped his own machine well away from the open water and directed the headlights at the place where Frogg’s trajectory and momentum would have taken the snowmobile. He knew the little machine would have skipped a bit, like a stone over the water’s surface, but it couldn’t have taken Frogg all the way across. He saw no sign of the snowmobile or Frogg. He thought that could have been simply from the cloaking of the heavy snowfall, so he slowly circled the big kidney of water. It was an area maybe fifty yards wide and seventy yards long. When he reached the far side, he spotted lights deep in the water, the headlights of the snowmobile still shining at the bottom of the lake. There was no sign of Frogg. Even if the man had managed to disentangle himself from the Polaris, in that ice-cold water, in heavy clothing that would have soaked up moisture like a thirsty sponge, his chances were pretty slim. Cork scanned the edge of the ice for any sign that Frogg had swum there and had tried to climb out. He found nothing.
He turned off the Arctic Cat’s engine and pulled his cell phone from its belt holster. He punched in the number for Dross’s cell.
“Cork, where are you?” she answered without preliminaries.
“I caught up with Frogg.”
“Where?”
“The open water by the old brewery. He went in.”
“Is he still in, or have you pulled him out?”
“I can’t see him. His snowmobile’s on the bottom of the lake. I think he’s down there with it.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
“We’re already on our way.”
“Weber is injured.”
“We know. We’ll take care of it. You just wait there.”
Cork put his cell phone away and sat on the Arctic Cat while the snow went on falling in a storm that seemed oblivious to the human drama within it.
CHAPTER 45
Cork didn’t stick around to watch the divers go into Iron Lake to retrieve Frogg’s body. He was bone tired and would have loved nothing better than to lie down and sleep for a week. But Stephen lay in a hospital bed eighty miles away, and Cork wanted to be with his son during the ordeal of
recovery still ahead. Frogg had done a lot of damage in Tamarack County, and a lot of healing would be necessary. Meloux could help with some of that. Maybe time would help with the rest.
Cork called home and told Jenny what had occurred. He could hear the relief in her voice as she relayed the news to Anne. She asked, “Will you be home soon?”
“In a while,” he replied wearily. “And then I’m driving to Duluth to be with Stephen.”
Marsha Dross gave him a lift back to his Land Rover, which was still parked on the North Star Trail, hubcap deep in drifted snow. She said, “Come in any time tomorrow, and we’ll get your statement. There’s no hurry. You want to know when we’ve pulled the body from the lake?”
Cork shook his head, but then thought a moment and said, “Yeah. Maybe I’ll be able to sleep nights again.”
“Good luck with Stephen. I’ll wait here until I know you’ve got your Land Rover out of that drift.”
“Thanks.”
He climbed out and waded through the snow. He cleared the exhaust pipe on his vehicle, got in, and fired up the engine. He backed out onto Becker Road, grateful for the Land Rover’s big tires and all-wheel drive. He waited while Dross made a U-turn, and then he followed her into town. As he neared the shoreline of the lake, he could see the illumination from the big floodlights which the fire department had set around the open water. A hundred or so yards south was Sam’s Place. The old Quonset hut should have been dark, but Cork saw that the windows were squares of light. Someone was inside. When he came to the access road across the narrow, open meadow, he turned in.
The Land Rover climbed over the raised railbed of the BNSF tracks, and Cork pulled into the parking lot, where he kept a small area plowed for those days when he worked out of his office in the back of Sam’s Place. Jenny’s Forester sat there. He found Anne inside the Quonset hut, sitting at the table he used for both business and dining. Trixie lay on the floor at her feet. His daughter held a mug of coffee and was clearly startled when he came in the door. Trixie bounded up, barking, then saw who it was and trotted to him.
“Everything okay?” he asked from the doorway, reluctant to barge in.
“I just dropped Skye off at the Four Seasons,” she said. “And Trixie needed to be walked.”
“And you wanted to be alone for a little while?”
She shrugged, gave a little nod. “A lot on my mind.”
“I’ll leave.”
“No, that’s okay.” Her eyes swung to the north window, where the floodlights were glaring on the ice down the shoreline. “Ever since you called and told us what happened, I’ve been thinking about Walter Frogg.”
“Thinking what?”
“That the people who behave the worst are the ones we ought to pray for the most.”
“You’ve been praying for Frogg?”
“That he’s found peace now.”
“And Stephen and the other people he damaged or killed?”
“I pray for them, too. Prayers are something I seem never to run out of.” She sipped her coffee, holding the mug in both hands as if it were heavy.
“Mind if I steal a cup?” Cork asked.
“Your coffee. I just put it together.”
Cork pulled a mug from the cupboard, poured some brew from the pot Anne had made, and sat down at the table with her. She was staring out the window toward the floodlights, which were hazy through the falling snow. Although he could tell from the dim silhouettes crossing the lights that there were a lot of people around the open water, he was pretty sure the divers hadn’t gone in yet.
“We haven’t had much chance to talk,” he said.
She sipped her coffee. “You’ve been busy.”
“How’re you doing?”
“Confused,” she said.
“Saving any of those prayers for yourself?”
When she spoke next, she sounded old beyond her years. “I’ve never been in a spot before where no matter what I do it’s going to hurt.”
“I wish I could help, sweetheart. Whatever you decide, I’m right there with you. We all are.” She didn’t reply, and he offered, “Strange that it’s so hard to know your own heart sometimes.”
“I feel like it’s being torn in two.”
“That’s love for you.”
“Then I’m not sure I want it.”
He watched a tear crawl over the lower lid of her eye.
“That’s all there is,” he said. “For someone like you.”
She looked at him, and it was clear she didn’t understand.
“I believe we come into the world who we are, and all we do after that is struggle to accept it. You were always all about love, right from the beginning. I’ve seen you get passionate about a softball game or in defense of someone or something you care about. But I’ve never seen you act out of anger, Annie. It’s always amazed me, your capacity for calm, for forgiveness, for being able to open your arms to everything and everyone. It’s a gift.”
The tear went on crawling, leaving a wet, crooked line down her cheek.
Cork took a final swig of his coffee and stood up. “I’m going home and shower and see if I can wake myself up enough to drive to Duluth. You want to come with me?”
“I’ll be along in a bit,” she replied. “I’d like to be alone a little longer, if it’s okay.”
“Want me to take Trixie?”
“I haven’t really walked her yet.”
“All right. See you at home.”
He kissed the top of her head, put the mug in the sink, and left the Quonset hut.
At home, he found Ken Mercer in the living room, watching television. The deputy stood up when Cork walked in. Mercer explained that Dross had contacted him, told him that as soon as Cork showed up he was to join the others at the open water on Iron Lake. Town folk were gathering, and the sheriff needed some crowd control. Cork thanked him for his help, and the deputy left with still a long night of duty ahead.
Jenny came down from upstairs, Waaboo in his pajamas in her arms. Cork’s grandson looked tired, his head against his mother’s shoulder. He didn’t say anything, just blinked sleepily at his grandfather.
“Is it really over?” Jenny asked.
Cork nodded. “Everything except the healing, and there’s a lot of that to be done.”
“Are you going back to Duluth tonight?”
“Yeah.”
“I need to stay here with Waaboo.”
“That’s okay.”
“Annie’ll go with you when she comes back. I thought she’d be here by now.”
“I ran into her at Sam’s Place. She wanted some time to herself.”
Waaboo yawned big and murmured, “Lie down.”
“I’m on it, kiddo,” Jenny told him. To her father, she said, “I’m going to put him back to bed. I may lie down, too. I’m pretty beat.”
“Go ahead. If there’s anything you need to know from the hospital, I’ll give you a call.”
“Thanks, Dad.” She leaned and kissed his cheek. “It’ll be all right, I know. Somehow, it’ll be all right.”
She headed back upstairs, and the telephone rang. Cork took it in the study down the hallway. He saw from the caller ID that it was Rainy. He closed the study door and answered.
“Cork,” Rainy said, sounding distressed. “I just heard about Stephen. I’m so sorry. How is he?”
“Alive. We don’t know yet if the damage is permanent.”
“What kind of damage?”
Cork explained.
“Oh, Cork, I wish I were there.”
“We’re doing all right, Rainy.”
“I’m sure, but . . . Ah, damn.”
“I know. Henry’s here, did you know that?”
“Yes. The one bright spot.”
“There’s another,” Cork said.
“What?”
“The man responsible for everything is dead.”
“So it’s over?”
“It’s over.”
She was quiet on her e
nd. Then she said, “I’ve heard some other things via the rez telegraph.”
“What have you heard?”
“Stella Daychild.”
“Could we talk about this later, Rainy? I’m pretty beat right now.”
“I just want you to know, Cork . . .”
He waited.
“We made no promises,” she said.
Was she giving him a way out? Did she want out?
He picked up a framed photograph of Rainy, which was one of two photos he kept on the desk. It was taken the previous summer. She was standing in the meadow on Crow Point, in brilliant sunlight, smiling beautifully amid wildflowers in full bloom. He’d snapped the picture himself, and he recalled that day well. He remembered how happy he’d been. He thought now how quickly life could change, how so much was beyond anyone’s control.
“Cork, are you there?”
“I’m here. Things are a little confusing right now, Rainy.”
“I’m sure.”
There was no note of anger or censure in her voice, just an acknowledgment of the truth of Cork’s situation, of the situation they were both in.
He stared at the woman in the meadow. “I’ll call, after I’ve had a chance to rest some.”
“I’ll be waiting,” she said. Then, just before she hung up, she added, “I love you, Cork.”
He should have echoed the words back to her. Instead, he said, “We’ll talk.”
He hung up. He sat down in the chair at the desk and looked at the other framed photograph he kept there. It was of his wife, Jo, standing beside a tandem bicycle on a trail in Itasca State Park. Another photograph that Cork had taken. In all the years they’d lived together in the house on Gooseberry Lane, Jo O’Connor had used the study as an office for her law practice. After she was killed, Cork had removed the law books from the shelves, but he hadn’t replaced them yet, and the room had an unfinished feel to it. He sometimes operated his own private investigation business from the study, had tried to make the room seem his, but it felt odd to him whenever he did so, a kind of trespass. Another confusing situation he’d have to think about eventually. Which brought him back to a consideration of the photograph of Rainy in the meadow on Crow Point. He’d already lost people he loved deeply. Did he want to lose more? He thought about Stella Daychild and tried to understand what, exactly, he’d shared with her and what, exactly, he wanted still to share. And he thought about Anne and her wonderment whether love was worth all the pain it caused. He didn’t have the answer to that one.
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