“We need to close the back door, make sure he stays there. That’s where Will comes in. And you, Howard. As soon as you can see enough to make your way through the woods, I want each of you to circle the lake from a different direction, post yourselves about two-thirds of the way around on either side, someplace where you have a clear view, a clear shot if Stone tries to leave. Dina, you’ll be seeing to the same thing from this side. That way, you’ll each have a third of the lake covered. As soon as we confirm that Stone’s on the island or as soon as any shooting starts, you’ll be responsible for radioing base, Dina, to get the critical response team out here right away.”
“What about you?” Dina said.
“I’ll be leaving very soon to paddle to the back side of the island.”
“I already told you, in the moonlight you’ll be a sitting duck.”
“The moon’s low enough that it casts a shadow of the trees onto the lake, see?” He pointed toward a black, ragged lip of deep shade that lay over the water all along the western shore. “If I stay in the dark there, keep to the shoreline, and circle carefully, Stone shouldn’t be able to see me.”
“You hope,” she said.
“Whatever we do, there’s risk. You and Meloux, you’ll have to make it look good, like we’re all still one happy family here at the campsite.”
Meloux nodded thoughtfully. “It is a good plan, Corcoran O’Connor. Worthy of a good hunter.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Henry. Let’s roll.”
The first thing he did was to contact base, explain the situation, and make sure that Larson had the CRT standing by. There were only three walkie-talkies. Cork took one and gave the other two to Morgan and Fineday. He tuned the radio to the same frequency so that initially Dina could communicate with the others, then change frequency when she needed to communicate with base. He checked his rifle, stuffed extra cartridges into his jacket pockets, and with Morgan’s help quietly set one of the canoes on the water.
“Half an hour to first light,” he said to Dina. “As soon as Howard and Will take off, get a fire going, start something cooking, anything.”
“How does peanut butter and jerky sound?”
“Awful. But see what you can do to make it smell good, okay?”
Meloux said, “I can think of a few tricks.”
“Thanks, Henry.”
“Good luck.” For the second time that morning, Dina gave his cheek a kiss.
Morgan said, “I wish you good luck, too, but don’t expect a kiss from me.”
Fineday offered his hand. “Thank you, Cork. I owe you.”
“All right, then.”
He stepped into the canoe, shoved off, and dipped the paddle. A few strokes out, he glanced back. In the dark among the trees, his companions had become nearly invisible. He glanced toward the islands and hoped the same was true of him.
Lamb Lake was an oval with a circumference that Cork roughly calculated to be about two miles. If he didn’t care about noise, he could easily make the trip to the backside of the islands in twenty minutes, but paddling quietly took more time. He was painfully conscious of the gurgle of water that accompanied each paddle stroke. Once, because he couldn’t see clearly in the shadow of the trees, the canoe bow scraped a rock with a disquieting rumble.
In a while the birds, those that had yet to migrate and those that never would, began to sing, to call, to argue, to declare territory. Cork hoped the noise would help mask his own sound and he bent harder to the paddle.
By the time he slid around the southern end of the lake, out of the protective shadow of the tree line into moonlight, a faint evanescence had crept into the eastern sky, the promise of morning. The Northwoods began to take shape like a photo tediously developing. Cork glanced toward the campsite. A yellow tongue of flame licked among the trees there, and he knew that Morgan and Fineday had begun their mission. They were spreading a net across Lamb Lake, and if they were lucky they would snag Stone in it. If they were very lucky, no one would be hurt. But Stone was well named, and Cork was a realist. He would be satisfied if Lizzie and all those who’d come with him to look for her made it out of the Boundary Waters safely. He tried not to think of himself beyond the point of his own mission, which was simply to find out if Stone was on one of the islands, waiting. The possibility that they might have anticipated correctly and actually surprise him fueled Cork’s tired body and brain. He felt remarkably ready.
A rat-gray light seeped over the lake. When Cork reached the shoreline almost directly opposite the campsite, the whole woods had emerged in particulars. Individual trees stood out, irregularities of the shoreline became obvious, distant hills were distinct. And everything had color. The green pine boughs over red-brown trunks, yellow meadow grass, silver reeds in the shallows. A breeze barely strong enough to ripple the water touched Cork’s face, and he smelled a campfire. Along with it came the aroma of frying fish. Meloux, he knew. God bless him.
He slipped his walkie-talkie from the holder on his belt. He had set the volume low so any noise that might slip out wouldn’t announce his presence. He spoke into it quietly.
“O’Connor, here. I’m in position on the eastern shore and just about to head to the big island. As soon as I know anything, I’ll report. Out.”
Cork had cautioned the others not to respond, not to risk any sound that might jeopardize him unless it was absolutely necessary.
Three hundred yards of water lay between him and the islands. Once he started toward them, he was, as Dina so aptly described it, a sitting duck, an easy target for even a lousy hunter, and Stone was a dead shot. But there was nothing else to be done now, and he dug his paddle into the water and shot forward.
Far across the lake, the first direct sunlight touched the tops of the aspens that enclosed the campsite, and the leaves glowed as if they were molten. Fish fed in the water all around Cork’s canoe, flashes of scale and fin that left rings spreading on the still surface.
Cork headed for the larger island, toward a small indentation surrounded by pines. The shoreline there appeared to be free of rocks, and he hoped he could land without bumping the canoe against anything that would cause a sound. The part of the island dominated by the jack pines was to his right, and the hill covered with sumac rose to his left. As he approached, he saw no sign of Stone or of a canoe that would have brought him there.
Ravens flapped about in the crowns of the pines, their caws grating harshly against the quiet that lay over the lake. As Cork neared them, the birds seemed to grow more agitated, hopping along the branches, shrilly protesting. He drew up to the island and back-paddled to slow his approach. The bow kissed land and he stowed his paddle. Lifting his rifle, he disembarked and eased the canoe farther onto solid ground to anchor it. He hunkered down and listened. In the treetops, the ravens had fallen suddenly and ominously silent, but they still followed him with their black eyes as he slipped along the edge of the tree line. He saw no indication of Stone or Lizzie, no evidence that any human had ever set foot there. The ground under the pines was thick with brush and he knew there was no way to move through silently. Instead, he hugged the shoreline, edging toward the rise where the blood-red sumac grew.
He’d half circled the island when the walkie-talkie on his belt crackled to life.
“I see her. I see Lizzie.”
Although Cork had turned the volume low, in the silence on the island Fineday’s voice exploded like a firecracker.
“She’s on the shore. Christ, I think she’s dancing.”
Cork fumbled with the knob and turned the walkie-talkie off completely. He did a quick calculation. If Fineday had set himself up as planned and could see her, it meant that Lizzie must be on the far side of the sumac-covered hill. That she was on the island didn’t necessarily mean that Stone was with her, but probably it did, so Cork no longer had a purpose in staying there. His mission had been accomplished. He could leave, make a judicious exit, but he couldn’t bring himself to do that.
Lizzie dancing? What was that all about? What did Stone have up his sleeve?
He bent to the ground and began to crawl up the slope on all fours, snaking his way among the woody stalks of the sumac. The leaves hid him, but they also blinded him. As he neared the top of the hill, Lizzie’s voice came to him, singing. Something about sunny days, clouds. Then he realized it was the Sesame Street song, the opening ditty his own children had grown up singing. Lizzie’s voice was sweet, almost innocent, a little distracted. Cork took a risk and stood a moment, lifting his head and shoulders above the sumac branches.
There she was, dancing in a large patch of dry grass that grew between the sumac and the pines. It was less a dance than a simple swaying as she sang. Her eyes were closed and she seemed to be moving inside her own small, safe world.
Safe? Cork wondered. Where the hell was Stone?
The rifle barrel that kissed the back of his neck was cold. Stone, in his coming, had been absolutely silent.
“If you move, O’Connor, if you even twitch, your head is gone.”
Cork felt a tug on the rifle in his hand.
“Let go nice and easy,” Stone said. “That’s right.”
The rifle slid from Cork’s grasp and he heard a soft rustle as Stone laid the barrel against a sumac bush.
Stone said, “You had me confused. I couldn’t figure why you’d stop for breakfast or risk tipping me off with a fire. So I put Lizzie out there, thinking you’d come for her. I didn’t realize you were already here until I heard that squawk box on your belt. By the way, I’ll take that, too.”
Cork handed it over his shoulder. “I’ve got people all around the lake, Stone. There’s no way you’re getting off this island.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
Lizzie looked up from her patch of yellow grass and smiled. The sun was not high enough yet to strike her face, but there was a kind of light dancing there nevertheless. She lifted her hand dreamily and waved.
“What’s she on?” Cork asked.
“What isn’t she? That girl’s a walking pharmacy.”
“You brought her along just to use her?”
“That’s what happens to the weak. They get used, preyed on, eaten. Basic law of nature.”
“So what now?”
“Now you die.”
“Why?”
“Are you afraid to die?” The question had a sneer to it.
“It might help if I knew why.”
“Why? Stupidest question you can ask. Never gets answered. Nobody ever told me why that son-of-a-bitch stepfather of mine beat me like a dirty rug. When they locked me up for killing him, nobody ever told me why. When my mother died alone and dirt-poor, nobody ever gave me a reason why. So I stopped asking a long time ago, and the question became how. How to survive.”
“What did I do to you?”
“You personally? Nothing.”
“But this is personal.”
“It is now.”
Now, Cork thought. But not at first?
“You have me,” he said. “You have what you want. Why not let Lizzie go?”
“So that your death will have meaning and purpose? I don’t think so. I like the idea of you dying for no good reason at all.”
“You want to know the only thing I regret, Stone? That I won’t see them shoot you down.”
“You mean like I’m going to shoot you? You think that’s what I’m going to do? Hey, man, I tried that once. I’m glad it didn’t work. Too removed from the kill.”
The rifle no longer pressed its deadly agenda into Cork’s neck. Behind him, he heard the ruffling of cloth. A moment later, Stone said, “Turn around.”
A sharp, blinding edge of sun now cut into the blue above the trees, and Cork blinked against the glare. Stone had removed his shirt and stood bare chested, his prison tattoos dark green on his tawny flesh. They reminded Cork of parasitic worms that grow unseen inside a man but eventually reveal themselves through the skin. In the grip of Stone’s right hand was a hunting knife, its seven-inch blade glinting with an icy light.
“When I was in Stillwater, I dreamed of the day I’d feel the twist of a blade in a cop’s heart. I’m going to like this. I’m going to like the look on your face when you feel it, too.”
He lunged. It was a feint, really, not a killing thrust. He was testing Cork’s reaction. Perhaps he had expected Cork to retreat, jump back. If so, he was surprised. Cork met Stone’s outstretched arm with a quick knife-hand blow that drove the weapon down and away and made Stone stumble. Cork followed with a kick to the man’s knee. Stone bent but he didn’t topple. It was enough for Cork. He turned and fled through the sumac, a desperate swimmer in a crimson sea. He heard Stone huffing at his back, crashing through the brush behind him. Cork raced across the grass where Lizzie danced and he headed for the lake. With a long arcing dive that took him beyond the rocks of the shoreline, he split the surface. The shallows dropped away quickly to a jumble of stone slabs that littered the lake bottom ten feet down. Cork swam deep, planted his feet on the gray stone, and turned to meet his adversary.
He’d done all this without thinking, but somewhere in his brain was the knowledge that water would equalize them, slow Stone’s hand as it wielded the knife, handicap them both equally in their need for air.
Stone came with a splash, trailing a wake of bubbles and white water. He swam straight for Cork, using both arms to propel himself. Cork watched the knife hand, and when it was drawn back at the end of a stroke, he thrust himself from the bottom and caught Stone before he could bring the blade into striking position. Without hesitation, he went for the man’s eyes, driving the fingers of his right hand into a socket. Even in the muffle of deep water, Stone’s bellow was a roar. He curled, kicked out, landed a boot in Cork’s ribs.
Once more, Cork used the opening to retreat. He clawed to the surface and stroked hard to shore. Hauling himself onto the island, he sprinted past Lizzie, who watched him fly by with her eyes wide, as if he were some mythic creature or spirit, a manidoo that had sprung from the lake. He hit the sumac and made for the hilltop and the rifles there. He didn’t look back to see if Stone was at his heels, but put all his energy into the race for a weapon. When he grabbed his rifle, he spun around.
Stone had not bothered to pursue him. He’d stopped where Lizzie, in her clouded state, had watched the struggle. His big bare left arm pinned her to him with an iron grip, and in his right hand the blade of the knife pressed against her throat. Her eyes were no longer dreamy but full of terror as she comprehended that her death was no farther away than a twitch of Stone’s hand.
“She’ll go first, O’Connor. You know I’ll do it. Drop the rifle.”
Cork did.
“Come down here. We still have business, you and me.”
Cork descended, brushing aside the blood-red sumac leaves. He stepped onto the grass.
Stone’s left eye socket was a raging red and already swollen nearly shut. “You try to run again, I’ll kill her.”
Anger like acid pulsed through Cork, rage that Stone would use the girl this way. The hell with all the reasons Stone was the man he was. He would be a better man dead.
“Turn her loose and let’s get to it, you son of a bitch,” Cork said.
Stone flung Lizzie aside. She tumbled to the ground with a small cry. Stone set his mouth in a line that showed teeth-a grin or grimace, Cork couldn’t say. Stone’s hard body tensed and the muscles swelled under his taut skin. His good right eye, the pupil dark as an empty grave, regarded Cork intensely. Cork readied himself. Stone let out a scream, a kind of war cry, and charged, galloping across the grass, his knife lifted high, gleaming in the morning sun as if white-hot.
Then his chest opened, a portal that spouted blood, and he fell, collapsing far short of where Cork stood. At the same instant, the crack of a rifle shot broke over the island. Cork looked toward the lake. In the bow of a canoe, paused midway between the campsite and the big island, sat Henry Meloux. In the stern knelt
Dina Willner, cradling a rifle and still squinting through the scope. In the heat of the battle, neither Cork nor Stone had seen them coming.
Blood wormed from the entry wound dead center between Stone’s shoulder blades. Cork turned him over. The exit wound in his chest was the size of a man’s fist, the edges ragged with fragments of white bone. His mouth hung open and his eyes looked stunned. It was illusion, for Stone felt nothing now, not surprise or bitterness or betrayal. He was dead. Simply dead.
Cork sat down, suddenly too weak to stand. He watched Meloux and Dina Willner paddle toward the island. Lizzie lay in the grass, crying softly. Cork thought he should go to her, offer comfort, but he couldn’t move. The canoe touched shore. Meloux climbed out and after him came Dina. The old Mide went to the girl and spoke to her in a low, gentle voice.
Dina sat down beside Cork.
“Thanks,” he said.
“I told you. It’s what I’m good at.”
The whack-whack-whack of chopper blades came from the distance. The critical response team.
Meloux left Lizzie, who’d ceased her weeping. He walked to the body, sat cross-legged beside it, and in his ancient, cracked voice began to sing, guiding Stone along the Path of Souls.
Cork was soaked and shivering now.
“Cold?” Dina asked.
“Freezing.”
“Here. Let me help.”
She put her arms around him, offering her warmth, for which he was grateful. He was even more grateful for the gift she’d already given him. His life.
42
First thing, Cork called Jo.
“Hey, gorgeous.”
“Cork!” she said, her voice full of joyous relief.
“Bos told me you’d talked to her.”
“Oh, Cork. Thank God. I was worried.”
“I knew you would be. That’s why I didn’t tell you I was going.”
“Did you get Lizzie?”
“She’s fine.”
“And Stone?”
“We brought him in. Not alive.”
“Does that mean it’s over?”
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